I go out for a walk on the Catskills; I look off, I see the view, the trees, the June aspect. But there is a scientist who walks by my side. He points out to me the little scratches in the rock, and tells me it is the path of the glacier, that here where I am walking the glacier in the centuries long gone by made its march, and that there were higher mountains here then than now, and there was a sea in the valley below, and here are the marks, the footprints of it. He takes his hammer, breaks a rock, and points out to me a trilobite. He tells me that all these rocks are rich in the remains of animal life, they are filled with the remains of those animals which have disappeared. He is seeing what I did not see, what I did not know, he has learned to use his eyes, he is teaching me that I am as one who, having eyes, sees not. One does not need great apparatus to become in some small measure at least, a scientific observer. I was brought up as a boy to think, whether my teacher’s fault or my own I do not know, that the only use of my eyes was to read books, and I read them. But the great book in the midst of which I was living I never read. I know of some boys in my home who have furnished themselves with some naturalists’ pins, some cork, one of those boxes of drawers made to hold spools such as you see in any dry goods store, and which you can get for a “thank you;” they have provided themselves with a pole and a net, and now, when they go out into the woods, it is not for frolic, or waste of time. They see a bug or butterfly, they out with the pole and catch it. They are filling a museum. When they catch their butterfly, they come home with more questions about him, where he comes from, than I can answer. Whether their museum comes to much or not I do not care. They are learning to read that literature that comes before all books, the literature that God has written in the clouds, in the rocks, in the mountains, and in the flying things. But science teaches us more than that. It teaches us not merely to observe with our eyes, but with our inward nature. We do not simply see works. “The earth is the Lord’s, and the fullness thereof.” You do not know a library because you know the names of the books that are printed on the backs of them, and you have not begun to know science because you have begun to gather a few isolated facts out of the heaven above, or the rocks beneath, or the trees. Not until you have learned what is in the books do you know literature; not until you know what is the truth that lies behind nature and palpitates within it, do you know science.