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Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard! Heap high the golden corn! No richer gist has Autumn poured From out her lavish horn!

But let the good old corn adorn The hills our fathers trod; Still let us, for his golden corn, Send up our thanks to God!

When tillage begins, other arts follow. The farmers, therefore, are the founders of human civilization.

The farmers are the founders of civilization.

I know of no pursuit in which more real and important services can be rendered to any country than by improving its agriculture, its breed of useful animals, and other branches of a husbandman's cares.

Blessed be agriculture! if one does not have too much of it.

To see rich land eaten away by erosion, to stand by as continual cultivation on sloping fields wears away the best soil, is enough to make a good farmer sick at heart.

Praise a large domain, cultivate a small state. [Lat., Exiguum colito.]

E'en in mid-harvest, while the jocund swain Pluck'd from the brittle stalk the golden grain, Oft have I seen the war of winds contend, And prone on earth th' infuriate storm descend, Waste far and wide, and by the roots uptorn, The heavy harvest sweep through ether borne, As light straw and rapid stubble fly In dark'ning whirlwinds round the wintry sky.

Command large fields, but cultivate small ones.