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BACK TO NATURE 
A writer recently stated that more than ten million people in this 
country were hobby riding. No doubt the number who cultivate hobbies of 
one sort or another is far in excess of this figure. Very seldom do we meet 
one who does not enjoy a particular pet pursuit. We have the stamp 
collector, coin collector, c irio collector art collector, the rent collector, 
and various and sundry collectors ad infinitum. Mark Twain, the humorist, 
collected echoes. Not to be outdone Bill Nve collected knotholes and many 
are those who collect what-nots. Thus pastimes differ as do human make¬ 
ups. These safety valves are in reality the spice of life. 
The man in the shop longs for the evening whistle that he may bring 
his garden tools into play. He dreams of the time when he will be free to 
devote his entire efforts to his little acreage. The miner with pick and 
shovel digs and scratches away in quest of hidden treasure which lures 
him. Thus through man’s natural affinity for the soil he finds relief from 
the monotony of the daily grind. 
Natures pastime of digging in the dirt aptly applies to all stages of 
man’s development. From the time when as a little shaver he sneaked his 
mother’s spoons to carve dugouts or mix mud pies he has been wont to dig 
in the dirt. As a child it was play, as a grown-up his efforts are directed 
at producing from his diggings something of real worth; minerals, farm 
crops, vegetables, flowers. 
This eternal gamble with the soil and the elements constitutes the very 
essence of mining, of agriculture, or horticulture and floriculture. Thus we 
have in man’s oldest and most natural hobby that combination of outdoor 
exercise and nature study which has lengthened his span of life. Through 
this close relationship he is goaded on by that innate desire to produce 
something better, to grow superior grains, hardier shrubs, more luscious 
fruits, lovelier flowers. 
For nature’s gifts we daily yearn, 
They beckon us at every turn. 
The following lines of the great Naturalist, John Burroughs, and the 
incidents relative to his abundant life fittingly illustrate man’s inseparable 
relationship to nature. 
“MY OWN SHALL COME TO ME” 
Way back in Civil War days a young man named Burroughs wrote 
some stanzas he called “Waiting.” It was his first and only attempt at 
poetry. Having finished these verses, he read them to his friend, Walt 
Whitman. Had Whitman not liked them, the chances are that Burroughs 
would have torn them up, but thanks to Whitman we have one of the most 
beautiful, simple poems in the English language. 
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