To The Scientist Nature Is A Storehouse

I Am In Love With This World . . . I Have Climbed Its Mountains, Roamed Its Forests, Sailed Its Waters, Crossed Its Deserts, Felt The Sting Of Its Frosts, The Oppression Of Its Heats, The Drench Of Its Rains, The Fury Of Its Winds, And Always Have Beauty And Joy Waited Upon My Goings And Comings.

In What Bold Relief Stand Out The Lives Of All Walkers Of The Snow! The Snow Is A Great Tell-tale, And Blabs As Effectually As It Obliterates. I Go Into The Woods, And Know All That Has Happened. I Cross The Fields, And If Only A Mouse Has Visited His Neighbor, The Fact Is Chronicled.

One Summer Day, While I Was Walking Along The Country Road On The Farm Where I Was Born, A Section Of The Stone Wall Opposite Me, And Not More Than Three Or Four Yards Distant, Suddenly Fell Down. Amid The General Stillness And Immobility About Me The Effect Was Quite Startling. ... It Was The Sudden Summing Up Of Half A Century Or More Of Atomic Changes In The Material Of The Wall. A Grain Or Two Of Sand Yielded To The Pressure Of Long Years, And Gravity Did The Rest.

That Which Distinguishes This Day From All Others Is That Then Both Orators And Artillerymen Shoot Blank Cartridges.

The Sunbeams Are Welcome Now. They Seem Like Pure Electricity—like Friendly And Recuperating Lightning. Are We Led To Think Electricity Abounds Only In Summer, When We See In The Storm-clouds As It Were, The Veins And Ore-beds Of It? I Imagine It Is Equally Abundant In Winter, And More Equable And Better Tempered. Who Ever Breasted A Snowstorm Without Being Excited And Exhilarated, As If This Meteor Had Come Charged With Latent Auroræ Of The North, As Doubtless It Has? It Is Like Being Pelted With Sparks From A Battery.