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Puke of NatureBY BILL GRAZIANONature has always (wen something of wonderment and enjoyment.Even as a grade student I would play bookie from school in the spring when every thing was new. For five cents I could board a streetcar totheend of the line, from there I walked five miles to the nearest woodland where a shadowed river twisted it's way southward.To leave the house with a fishing pole would make my plans too obvious. It was under my cap that I carried my fishing tools. A small bream hook, a length of store wrapping string and a core from a medicine bottle. Worms were no problem. There were plenty of night crawlers in the dew covered grass.There I put in a tobacco bag with afew spoons full of dirt.With a kiss on my forehead frommy mother, I was off to school with my books under my arm. I would race around the corner and would hide them under the porch steps of one of the neighbors (my Mother should have slugged me instead of giving me a kiss but then a mothers love knows no bounds. If she had lifted off my cap and tanned my tail section I might have been a doctor, lawyer or politician instead of an electrician, this I new forsure that some way or another Dad and Mother would learn of my hooky playing which netted me a good soundwhaling.But my adventurous Mood ran thick and fast through my valns. I guess it still does, for I never tire of seeing the wonders of nature, to smell the tingling freshness of a gentle wind that rustles the leaves in the trees, and to hear the birds singing their songs.Nor do I tire of studying the Jeweled stars of the night sky and wonder of their distance. The flashing of lighting and the bogging flashing light of the firefly addsbeauty to the night.I can not take all this beauty for granted. All this is a gift that we should not tarnish. I guess it is all this which makes me bitter tolrards those who will deliberately defile such beauty.Nature has a marvelous healing power for the body, a bewildered confused mind. Turn to her for solace. She will speak to you in the wind, and in* the rippling laughter of the happy brook.The birds will sing the songs that will sooth you.The beauty which we have inherited does not belong to us. but must be passed on toothers. Guard it well.
Newspaper Details
Hammond Sunday Star
Hammond, Louisiana, US
Sun, Jul 24, 1977
Page 14
Full Page
Clipped by
Anonymous
USA 19 Jan 2023
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