For all the insularity of the old guard, Pittsburgh was always an open and democratic town.

It has always been a happy thought to me that the creek runs on all night, new every minute, whether I wish it or know it or care, as a closed book on a shelf continues to whisper to itself its own inexhaustible tale. So many things have been shown so to me on these banks, so much light has illumined me by reflection here where the water comes down, that I can hardly believe that this grace never flags, that the pouring from ever-renewable sources is endless, impartial, and free.

Time is the warp and matter the weft of the woven texture of beauty in space, and death is the hurling shuttle.

Nature's silence is its one remark, and every flake of world is a chip off that old mute and immutable block.

Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery, like the idle curved tunnels of leaf miners on the face of a leaf. We must somehow take a wider view, look at the whole landscape, really see it, and describe what's going on here. Then we can at least wail the right question into the swaddling band of darkness, or, if it comes to that, choir the proper praise.

We are here on the planet only once, and might as well get a feel for the place.

How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. What we do with this hour and with that one, is what we are doing.