Natural! It is the most unnatural thing in existence.

Do the birds worry?
The beasts of the field?
The clouds?
The winds?
The sun, moon, stars, and comets?
The trees?
The flowers?
The rain-drops?
How Bryant rebukes the worrier in his wonderful poem "_To a Water Fowl_," and Celia Thaxter in her "_Sandpiper_." The former sings of the fowl winging its solitary way where "rocking billows rise and sink on the chafed ocean-side," yet though "lone wandering" it is not lost.

And from its protection he deduces the lesson: He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone Will lead my steps aright.
And so Celia Thaxter sang of the sandpiper: He has no thought of any wrong, He scans me with a fearless eye.
And her faith expressed itself in a later verse: I do not fear for thee, though wroth The tempest rushes through the sky: For are we not God's children both, Thou, little sandpiper, and I?
There is no worry in Nature.

It is man alone that worries.

Nature goes on her appointed way each day unperturbed, unvexed, care-free, doing her allotted tasks and resting absolutely in the almighty sustaining power behind her.