When The Bird And The Book Disagree,

There Is The Morass, Wherein You Plunge Up To Your Knees, Or The Walking Over The Stubborn, Dwarfish Shrubbery, Whereby One Treads Down The Forests Of Labrador; And The Unexpected Bunting Or Sylvia Which Perchance, And Indeed As If By Chance Alone, You Now And Then See Flying Before You, Or Hear Singing From The Ground Creeping Plant.

During All These Years There Existed Within Me A Tendency To Follow Nature In Her Walks.

I Can Scarcely Manage To Scribble A Tolerable English Letter. I Know That I Am Not A Scholar, But Meantime I Am Aware That No Man Living Knows Better Than I Do The Habits Of Our Birds.

How Could I Make A Little Book, When I Have Seen Enough To Make A Dozen Large Books?

The Best Recommendation I Can Have Is My Own Talents, And The Fruits Of My Own Labors, And What Others Will Not Do For Me, I Will Try And Do For Myself.