Sift Each Of Us Through The Great

People In General Are Totally Unable To Detach The Personality Of A Writer From The Products Of His Thinking.

Now He Understood. This Was Death. Death Was A Silence That Gave Back No Answer.

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.

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.

They Were All Too Tightly Bound Together, Men And Women, Creatures Wild And Tame, Flowers, Fruits And Leaves, To Ask That Any One Be Spared. As Long As The Whole Continued, The Earth Could Go About Its Business.