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From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 9, 1913.
 By Edgar A. Guest.

 I hold that gardening’s splendid fun.
     I am the chap that some think odd.
 I like to rise and greet the sun
     To turn and break the stubborn clod.
 It’s great to spend an hour or two
     Some care unto the back yard giving;
 But this I will admit to you:
     I’d hate to do it for a living.
 There is no toil that quite compares
     To delving daily with a spade
 And with a hoe cut down the tares
     Or bring a front lawn up to grade.
 With joy it makes the pulses throb
     And starts the heart beating gaily;
 ’Tis true I glory in the job
     But I would hate to do it daily.
 Take it from me, you sluggish men
     Whose arteries may someday harden
 For lack of work. ’Tis truth I pen;
     You ought to labor in a garden.
 Go bend your backs above a spade
     And strain your muscles with a hoe;
 There is no more delightful trade
     Unless that way you earn your dough.
 I glory in the stubborn ground
     And conquer it with fertilizer
 Now every morning I am found
     A bright and smiling early riser.
 It’s fun to haul in loads of dirt
     And lug out chunks of solid clay;
 In confidence, though, I’ll assert:
     I’d hate to do it by the day.
 Think you I mind this aching back
     Or care because my muscles twinge
 Or that my bones, with each attack
     Remind me of a rusty hinge?
 No! Gardening is wholly joy
     A source of pleasure unalloyed;
 But, confidentially, my boy,
     I’m glad I’m otherwise employed.

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