George Buttrick, an imaginative preacher, wrote poignantly, "We die with half our
music in us." How sad, not that we die, but that we leave so much unsung, not having
exhausted our melody.
Marv and Nancy Hiles
I have met with but one or two persons in the course of
my life who understood the art of Walking, that is, of taking
walks, — who has a genius, so to speak, for sauntering:
which word is beautifully derived "from idle people who
roved about the country, in the Middle Ages, and asked
charity, under pretence of going á la Sainte Terre," to the
Holy Land, till the children exclaimed, "There goes a
Sainter-Terrer," a Saunterer, — a Holy Lander...
Of course it is of no use to direct our steps to the woods,
if they do not carry us thither. I am alarmed when it
happens that I have walked a mile into the woods bodily,
without getting there in spirit... The thought of some work
will run in my head, and I am not where my body is — I
am out of my senses. In my walks I would fain return to my senses…