16 MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN. 



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 med- 

 icine. The buds are coming out on the 

 bushes round about; the blossoms of the 

 fruit-trees begin to show ; the blood is run- 

 ning up the grape-vines in streams ; you can 

 smell the wild-flowers on the near bank ; and 

 the birds are flying and glancing and sing- 

 ing 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 trout- 

 ing. 



Blessed be agriculture !-*- if one does not 

 have too much of it. All literature is fra- 

 grant with it, in a gentlemanly way. At the 



