The soil, too--let others pen-and-ink the sea, the air, (as I sometimes
try)--but now I feel to choose the common soil for theme--naught else.
The brown soil here, (just between winter-close and opening spring
and vegetation)--the rain-shower at night, and the fresh smell next
morning--the red worms wriggling out of the ground--the dead leaves,
the incipient grass, and the latent life underneath--the effort to start
something--already in shelter'd spots some little flowers--the distant
emerald show of winter wheat and the rye-fields--the yet naked trees,
with clear insterstices, giving prospects hidden in summer--the tough
fallow and the plow-team, and the stout boy whistling to his horses for
encouragement--and there the dark fat earth in long slanting stripes
upturn'd.