The love of dirt is among the earliest of passions, as it is the latest.  Mud-pies gratify one of our first and best instincts.  So long as we are dirty, we are pure.  Fondness for the ground comes back to a man after he has run the round of pleasure and business, eaten dirt, and sown wild-oats, drifted about the world, and taken the wind of all its moods.  The love of digging in the ground (or of looking on while he pays another to dig) is as sure to come back to him as he is sure, at last, to go under the ground, and stay there.  To own a bit of ground, to scratch it with a hoe, to plant seeds and watch, their renewal of life, this is the commonest delight of the race, the most satisfactory thing a man can do.  When Cicero writes of the pleasures of old age, that of agriculture is chief among them: 

“Venio nunc ad voluptates agricolarum, quibus ego incredibiliter delector:  quae nec ulla impediuntur senectute, et mihi ad sapientis vitam proxime videntur accedere.” (I am driven to Latin because New York editors have exhausted the English language in the praising of spring, and especially of the month of May.)

Let us celebrate the soil.  Most men toil that they may own a piece of it; they measure their success in life by their ability to buy it.  It is alike the passion of the parvenu and the pride of the aristocrat.  Broad acres are a patent of nobility; and no man but feels more, of a man in the world if he have a bit of ground that he can call his own.  However small it is on the surface, it is four thousand miles deep; and that is a very handsome property.  And there is a great pleasure in working in the soil, apart from the ownership of it.  The man who has planted a garden feels that he has done something for the good of the World.  He belongs to the producers.  It is a pleasure to eat of the fruit of one’s toil, if it be nothing more than a head of lettuce or an ear of corn.  One cultivates a lawn even with great satisfaction; for there is nothing more beautiful than grass and turf in our latitude.  The tropics may have their delights, but they have not turf:  and the world without turf is a dreary desert.  The original Garden of Eden could not have had such turf as one sees in England.  The Teutonic races all love turf:  they emigrate in the line of its growth.

To dig in the mellow soil-to dig moderately, for all pleasure should be taken sparingly—­is a great thing.  One gets strength out of the ground as often as one really touches it with a hoe.  Antaeus (this is a classical article) was no doubt an agriculturist; and such a prize-fighter as Hercules could n’t do anything with him till he got him to lay down his spade, and quit the soil.  It is not simply beets and potatoes and corn and string-beans that one raises in his well-hoed garden:  it is the average of human life.  There is life in the ground; it goes into the seeds; and it also, when it is stirred up, goes into the man who stirs it.  The hot sun on his back as he bends to his shovel