The earth turns, and the seasons, and for all his pride and power man cannot temper the winds or change their course. They are the unseen tides that shape our days and our years.

The owl, that bird of onomatopoetic name, is a repetitious question wrapped in feathery insulation especially for Winter delivery.

The hush comes with the deepening of Autumn; but it comes gradually. Our ears are attuned to it, day by quieter day. But even now, if one awakens in the deep darkness of the small hours, one can hear it, a foretaste of Winter silence. It’s a little painful now, and a little lonely because it is so strange.

A frontier is never a place; it is a time and a way of life.

Time after time ... today's crisis shrinks to next week's footnote to a newly headline disaster.

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.

No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn.