“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 and hoe, or contemplatively rakes the warm and fragrant loam, is better than much medicine.  The buds are coming out on the bushes round about; the blossoms of the fruit trees begin to show; the blood is running up the grapevines in streams; you can smell the Wild flowers on the near bank; and the birds are flying and glancing and singing everywhere.  To the open kitchen door comes the busy housewife to shake a white something, and stands a moment to look, quite transfixed by the delightful sights and sounds.  Hoeing in the garden on a bright, soft May day, when you are not obliged to, is nearly equal to the delight of going trouting.