There it is, fog, atmospheric moisture still uncertain in destination, not quite weather and not altogether mood, yet partaking of both.

Here and there one sees the blush of wild rose haws or the warmth of orange fruit on the bittersweet, and back in the woods is the occasional twinkle of partridgeberries. But they are the gem stones, the rare decorations which make the grays, the browns and the greens seem even more quiet, more completely at rest.

There are no limits to either time or distance, except as man himself may make them. I have but to touch the wind to know these things.

If the voice of the brook was not the first song of celebration, it must have been at least an obbligato for that event.

To see a hillside white with dogwood bloom is to know a particular ecstasy of beauty, but to walk the gray Winter woods and find the buds which will resurrect that beauty in another May is to partake of continuity.

No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn.

April is a promise that May is bound to keep.