ure none certainly can be
greater.

15. I come now to the pleasures of the farmer, in which I take amazing
delight. These are not hindered by any extent of old age, and seem to
me to approach nearest to' the ideal wise man's life. For he has to deal
with the earth, which never refuses its obedience, nor ever returns
what it has received without usury; sometimes, indeed, with less, but
generally with greater interest. For my part, however, it is not merely
the thing produced, but the earth's own force and natural productiveness
that delight me. For received in its bosom the seed scattered broadcast
upon it, softened and broken up, she first keeps it concealed therein
(hence the harrowing which accomplishes this gets its name from a word
meaning "to hide"); next, when it has been warmed by her heat and close
pressure, she splits it open and draws from it the greenery of the
blade. This, supported by the fibres of the root, little by little grows
up, and held upright by its jointed stalk is enclosed in sheaths, as
being still immature. When it has emerged from them it produces an ear
of corn arranged in order, and is defended against the pecking of the
smaller birds by a regular palisade of spikes.

Need I mention the starting, planting, and growth of vines? I can never
have too much of this pleasure--to let you into the secret of what gives
my old age repose and amusement. For I say nothing here of the natural
force which all things propagated from the earth possess--the earth
which from that tiny grain in a fig, or the grape-stone in a grape, or
the most minute seeds of the other cereals and plants, produces such
huge trunks and boughs. Mallet-shoots, slips, cuttings, quicksets,
layers--are they not enough to fill anyone with delight and
astonishment? The vine by nature is apt to fall, and unless supported
drops down to the earth; yet in order to keep itself upright it embraces
whatever it reaches with its tendrils as though they were hands. Then
as it creeps on, spreading itself in intricate and wild profusion, the
dresser's art prunes it with the knife and prevents it growing a forest
of shoots and expanding to excess in every direction. Accordingly at the
beginning of spring in the shoots which have been left there protrudes
at each of the joints what is termed an From this the grape emerges and
shows itself; which, swollen by the juice of the earth and the heat
of the sun, is at first very bitter to the taste, but a