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

You can't be suspicious of a tree, or accuse a bird or a squirrel of subversion or challenge the ideology of a violet.

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, and we know it.

The ultimate wisdom which deals with beginnings, remains locked in a seed. There it lies, the simplest fact of the universe and at the same time the one which calls faith rather than reason.

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

For anyone who lives in the oak-and-maple area of New England, there is a perennial temptation to plunge into a purple sea of adjectives about October.