well neighbor, let me welcome es tu le jardin, home to the sweat of my brow. the rows of the garden stretch out in front and behind us, much as the muscles my ancestors used while they labored diligently with blood and toil to provide us a fertile bed for the seed of ideas to be sown. these ideas once planted in the spring of our nation, by people of passion did require much care with mulch and hoe, to prevent those unwanted tares from overtaking the tiny young crop. as time and experience turned our field of stones from brown to green to red preparations for those predatory creatures, who enter the field in darkness, to root and glut on the tender young shoots, were not successful and much of the crop was lost. as the march of the seasons continued the summer encompassed all, where the heat oppressed our passions, and we were dependent upon the reign of foolishness to nourish that which has been planted. through patience and faithfulness we continue on with our struggle until the leaves of fall adjust their hue in preparation of colder days. the end finally near, i will gather my gloves, pull up my boots, and sharpen my tools, for the harvest is almost at hand. i cannot offer you much more than sore muscles, and little sleep, but if you will join me, we will harvest the sweet fruit of freedom, and offer it to those who desire it.
"Contemplate the mangled bodies of your countrymen, and then say "what should be the reward of such sacrifices?" Bid us and our posterity bow the knee, supplicate the friendship and plough, and sow, and reap, to glut the avarice of the men who have let loose on us the dogs of war to riot in our blood and hunt us from the face of the earth? If ye love wealth better than liberty, the tranquility of servitude than the animated contest of freedom — go home from us in peace. We ask not your counsels or arms. Crouch down and lick the hands which feed you. May your chains sit lightly upon you, and may posterity forget that you were our countrymen"! Sam adams 1776
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