Jefferies Response

I felt like the two writers were similar in their subject matter. Basically both addressed the mixing of nature with man. I felt as though both were struggling with their place and nature and the way that people interact.

In "Out of Doors in February" I liked the fact that he pointed out all the little things that begin to come back to life after a dormant winter. He notices all these little things and appreciates them. It reminded me of Lisa's story in class about her friend who says that when the birds migrate back its like her friends have come home.

I enjoyed "Absence of Design in Nature" the most of all three readings. I just liked his thoughts on everyday objects in the house and how there is really no place for them in nature. Nature has no objects that it needs in order to do its daily tasks. I thought a lot about the "beauty" of things. He says in his writing that "...the grass of my golden meadow has no design, and no purpose: it is beautiful, and more; it is divine."Sometimes I think that as humans we can only see man made things as art. We put high value on things that are made by man. But what about the things in nature? Aren't they just as amazing as a great picture of a flower or a painting of a landscape? Now I'm not saying that we need to put a price on nature, but maybe focus on what is already there instead of what we do not have.

This particular part of the writing also made me thing of Frost and Whitman. Obviously Whitman's "Leaves of Grass" came to mind. Frost's poem, "Design" also popped into my head because it has always been one of my favorites of his. He basically is talking about something very similar to Jefferies. Questioning the reason for the spider to be where it is and the reasoning for the moth. He makes comparisons to "things" in order to describe the moth and the spider, but at the same time keeps them separate from man made objects.

Here is "Design"

I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,

On a white heal-all, holding up a moth

Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth—

Assorted characters of death and blight

Mixed ready to begin their morning right,

Like the ingredients of a witches' broth—

A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,

And dead wings carried like a paper kite.

What had that flower to do with being white,

The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?

What brought the kindred spider to that height,

Then steered the white moth thither in the night?

What but design of darkness to appall—

If design govern in a thing so small.