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

Knowing trees, I understand the meaning of patience. Knowing grass, I can appreciate persistence.

Summer ends, and Autumn comes, and he who would have it otherwise would have high tide always and a full moon every night.

Man is wise and constantly in quest of more wisdom; but 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 forth faith rather than reason.

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

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

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

If the voice of the brook was not the first song of celebration, it must have been at least an obbligato for that event.

Here comes February, a little girl with her first valentine, a red bow in her windblown hair, a kiss waiting on her lips, a tantrum just back of her laughter.

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