For One Species To Mourn

One Of The Penalties Of An Ecological Education Is That One Lives Alone In A World Of Wounds. Much Of The Damage Inflicted On Land Is Quite Invisible To Laymen. An Ecologist Must Either Harden His Shell And Make Believe That The Consequences Of Science Are None Of His Business, Or He Must Be The Doctor Who Sees The Marks Of Death In A Community That Believes Itself Well And Does Not Want To Be Told Otherwise.

Conservationists Have, I Fear, Adopted The Pedagogical Method Of The Prophets: We Mutter Darkly About Impending Doom If People Don't Mend Their Ways. The Doom Is Impending, All Right; No One Can Be An Ecologist, Even An Amateur One, Without Seeing It. But Do People Mend Their Ways For Fear Of Calamity? I Doubt It. They Are More Likely To Do It Out Of Pure Curiosity And Interest.

Agricultural Science Is Largely A Race Between The Emergence Of New Pests And The Emergence Of New Techniques For Their Control.

No One Would Rather Hunt Woodcock In October Than I, But Since Learning Of The Sky Dance I Find Myself Calling One Or Two Birds Enough. I Must Be Sure That, Come April, There Be No Dearth Of Dancers In The Sunset Sky.

It Must Be Poor Life That Achieves Freedom From Fear.