"Did we cultivate more assiduously our backyard gardens, those of us whose daily grind chains us fast to a bell or whistle or even an office clock, there would be fewer nervous breakdowns. It is curious how our cares drop away from our poor fagged minds when we get in touch with the good brown earth. It must be a deep-seated trouble, indeed, which will not lift ever so little when the robin's song is in the air and the sweet, moist smell of the soil comes up after a rain. To possess the land and till it is the primal heritage of man. To delight in the work of his hands, the reward which beckons him."
Just the thought of that brown earth waiting under that huge pile of leaves, resting until spring takes me out there with the pick, shovel, hoe, and rake again, sniffing and digging and planting, fills me with joy. And relief that there are a few months when we can rest.
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