Living Was No Longer The Grief Behind

Somewhere Beyond The Sink-hole, Past The Magnolia, Under The Live Oaks, A Boy And A Yearling Ran Side By Side, And Were Gone Forever.

Madness Is Only A Variety Of Mental Nonconformity And We Are All Individualists Here.

Men Had Reached Into The Scrub And Along Its Boundaries, Had Snatched What They Could Get And Had Gone Away, Uneasy In That Vast Indifferent Peace; For A Man Was Nothing, Crawling Ant-like Among The Myrtle Bushes Under The Pines. Now They Were Gone, It Was As Though They Had Never Been. The Silence Of The Scrub Was Primordial. The Wood-thrush Crying Across It Might Have Been The First Bird In The World-or The Last.

Two Elements Enter Into Successful And Happy Gatherings At Table. The Food, Whether Simple Or Elaborate, Must Be Carefully Prepared; Willingly Prepared; Imaginatively Prepared. And The Guests - Friends, Family Or Strangers - Must Be Conscious Of Their Welcome.

Cross Creek Belongs To The Wind And The Rain, To The Sun And The Seasons, To The Cosmic Secrecy Of Seed, And Beyond All, To Time.