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.