Silent Spring—I – The New Yorker

Read and weep.  I did, at age 9, in the year 1962.  That was when Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring was placed into my hands by my father: something to read as I recovered from one of my frequent bouts of pneumonia.  It explained why, in that year, all the robin’s eggs that I found were either broken already, rotting in their nests (I spent a lot of my childhood in trees), or crumbled under the gentle touch of my finger.

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