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of excitement. Then I fetch a compass far around 

 toward home, and wherever I find the sumac in 

 blossom, whether a hundred clustered bushes, or a 

 single panicle of flowers hidden deep in the woods, 

 there I find my golden bees. I wonder if, in all their 

 range, they let waste one drop of this heavy golden 

 sumac honey ? 



Do you know the flowers in your range as well as 

 the bees know them in theirs ? And, what is more, 

 are you getting the honey ? Do you know your dead 

 trees and stone piles, and the folk who dwell in them ? 

 Could you take me, silent and soft of foot, from hole 

 to hole, from nest to nest, from hedgerow to thicket, 

 to cripple, to meadow, making me acquainted with 

 your neighbors ? 



This is what Gilbert White could have done had 

 you visited him at Selborne. This is what John 

 Burroughs still does when the college girls go out 

 to Slabsides. 



Owning a farm is not necessary for all of this. 

 Only the parish house and the yard belonged to the 

 old naturalist of Selborne. Sometimes, indeed, I am 

 quite convinced that, for pure and lasting joy in the 

 fields, you should not be possessed even of a garden 



213 



