The harvest moon has no innocence, like the slim quarter moon of a spring twilight, nor has it the silver penny brilliance of the moon that looks down upon the resorts of summer time. Wise, ripe, and portly, like an old Bacchus, it waxes night after night.

After all, time is not money. It is an opportunity to live before you die.

The last fling of winter is over ... The earth, the soil itself, has a dreaming quality about it. It is warm now to the touch it has come alive it hides secrets that in a moment, in a little while, it will tell.

All the great naturalists have been habitual walkers, for no laboratory, no book, car, train or plane takes the place of honest footwork for this calling, be it amateur's or professional's.

The Grand Canyon is carven deep by the master hand it is the gulf of silence, widened in the desert it is all time inscribing the naked rock it is the book of earth.

What is a weed? I have heard it said that there are sixty definitions. For me, a weed is a plant out of place.

There are always some of us, not a few, in every generation, who go over wholly to the green flag. It is such a passionless fealty, so reticent a love, that neither do trumpets sound for it nor quarrels arise from it. Only, you will find that those who have pledged allegiance are happy about it in quiet.

Time is not money time is an opportunity to live before you die. So a man who walks, and lives and sees and thinks as he walks, has lengthened his life.