If you would know strength and patience, welcome the company of trees.

March is a tomboy with tousled hair, a mischievous smile, mud on her shoes and a laugh in her voice.

Nothing in nature is as simple as it sometimes seems when reduced to words.

Autumn is the eternal corrective. It is ripeness and color and a time of maturity; but it is also breadth, and depth, and distance. What man can stand with autumn on a hilltop and fail to see the span of his world and the meaning of the rolling hills that reach to the far horizon?

All man has to do is cooperate with the big forces, the sun, the rain, the growing urge. Seeds sprout, stems grow, leaves spread in the sunlight. Man plants, weeds, cultivates and harvests. It sounds simple, and it is simple, with the simplicity of great truths.

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.

For the Fall of the year is more than three months bounded by an equinox and a solstice. It is a summing up without the finality of year's end.