When The Bird And The Book Disagree,

The Nature Of The Place...whether High Or Low, Moist Or Dry, Whether Sloping North Or South, Or Bearing Tall Trees Or Low Shrubs...generally Gives Hint As To Its Inhabitants.

But The Moment A Bird Was Dead, No Matter How Beautiful It Had Been In Life, The Pleasure Of Possession Became Blunted For Me.

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.

Never Give Up Listening To The Sounds Of Birds.

I Wish I Had Eight Pairs Of Hands, And Another Body To Shoot The Specimens.