No Winter lasts forever, no Spring skips its turn. April is a promise that May is bound to keep, and we know it.

All our yesterdays are summarized in our now, and all the tomorrows are ours to shape.

Year's end is neither an end nor a beginning but a going on, with all the wisdom that experience can instill in us.

Green, the color of growth, or surgent life, enwraps the land. New green, still as individual as the plants themselves. Cool green, which will merge as the weeks pass, the Summer comes, into a canopy of shade of busy chlorophyll.

Strip the hills, drain the boglands, and you create flood conditions inevitably. Yet that is what we have been doing for years.

There are no idealists in the plant world and no compassion. The rose and the morning glory know no mercy. Bindweed, the morning glory, will quickly choke its competitors to death, and the fencerow rose will just as quietly crowd out any other plant that tried to share its roothold. Idealism and mercy are human terms and human concepts.

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.