John Buchan noted that the charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of what is elusive but attainable, a perpetual series of occasions for hope.

I am not charmed, but do have lots of hope because while I have fished, I have yet to catch.

There have been no morning or evening trips to the derby weigh station in Edgartown, and my pin remains resolutely upside-down (indicating my embarrassing fishless status).

You have to crawl before you learn to fly if you are a tussock moth.

Don’t have a hairy fit if you find one of these creepy, crawly, furry caterpillars. In the Island world of caterpillars, finding a tussock moth caterpillar should not ruin your day. At least, it isn’t a winter moth caterpillar and won’t be raining insect debris on your head during a jaunt in the woods or in your yard.

It is too much to hope for that my work and my words will be relevant and useful in 300 years. Perhaps it is egotistical to even pose the question, but on the anniversary of a wordsmithing botanist’s birth, I am thinking about persistence.

Not, as often is the case in this column, the persistence (and pestilence) of invasive species (but I digress), rather the longevity of scientific nomenclature and the durability of a classification system.