To own a bit of ground, to scratch it with a hoe, to plant seeds and watch their renewal of life — this is the commonest delight of the race, the most satisfactory thing a man can do.
—Charles Dudley Warner
Humans — despite their artistic pretensions, their sophistication, and their many accomplishments — owe their existence to a six-inch layer of topsoil and the fact that it rains.
The town where I grew up has a zip code of E-I-E-I-O.
Strangely enough, they have a mind to till the soil, and the love of possessions is a disease in them.