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.

Some people are like ants. Give them a warm day and a piece of ground and they start digging. There the similarity ends. Ants keepon digging. Most people don't. They establish contact with the soil, absorb so much vernal vigor that they can't stay in one place, and desert the fork or spade to see how the rhubarb is coming and whether the asparagus is yet in sight.

Each new season grows from the leftovers from the past. That is the essence of change, and change is the basic law.

Summer is a promissory note signed in June, its long days spent and gone before you know it, and due to be repaid next January.

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.

For all his learning or sophistication, man still instinctively reaches towards that force beyond. Only arrogance can deny its existence, and the denial falters in the face of evidence on every hand. In every tuft of grass, in every bird, in every opening bud, there it is.

Any river is really the summation of a whole valley. It shapes not only the land but the life and even the culture of that valley. To think of any river as nothing but water is to ignore the greater part of it.