So begins Chapter Two of “Tom Sawyer,” in which Tom cons other neighborhood boys into whitewashing Aunt Polly’s fence.

By chapter’s end, Tom has learned that “work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do, and …play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do.”

Spring is a great time for outdoor work. Up and down the block, people are weeding, raking and hanging out laundry. To some it’s hard labor and to others it’s child’s play.

As I was gardening yesterday, passersby kept lingering to chat. People love to watch other people work.

I was lugging sod and stones for a rock garden when a teacher out for a lunch-hour stroll expressed envy that I got to play while she had to go back to work.

It was true: She was obliged to teach school, and I was under no obligation to plant more flowers.

“When summer comes, I’ll be gardening all the time,” she said.

“I see Biff slapped a coat of paint on his deck,” a neighbor remarked a while later.

Have you ever noticed it’s always someone else who slaps on a coat of paint? Never oneself. If I were doing it, it would be edging, trim, finish work, or simply painting. There would be no mention of slapping it on.

Years ago, my younger brother, Al, had rather complicated ecological reasons for not raking. He would like to rake the leaves, he explained to our parents, but felt it was sounder practice to allow them to decompose in a more natural manner.

I would have raked the leaves myself, but unfortunately I was generally unavailable on Saturday mornings, as I made it a rule to hide when chores were dispensed. My sister, Molly, probably did rake. She also actually did her homework. I carried my books quite a distance to and from school every day, and figured that was enough.

Al was no stranger to books either. He went through a phase of opening his school books and placing them, text-side down, on his head. It was common in my home in those days to hear a gentle snoring sound issuing from the library, where Al could be found napping in a chair, book on head. His theory was that in this manner he could absorb the reading matter directly into his brain.

If you are obliged to rake, there is nothing like reading a book, or taking a nap.

A young man who lives over on the next street stopped to watch me dig and informed me that he has made a discovery: Raking is number one on his list of most-hated jobs. There is just no way to get comfortable raking, he explained. One day he shoveled dirt in the rain, and even that was preferable. He has been doing raking jobs for two weeks now. Before that it was painting.

“I thought painting was your most-hated job,” I said.

“No,” he replied thoughtfully. “It’s raking.”

I’ve dug the new flower bed. I will plant the seedlings I’ve been tending under my grow light when, as it says on the seed packets, “all danger of frost is past.” If you take it literally, in the Adirondacks this means “when Hell freezes over.” I’ll wait until after Memorial Day, anyway.

I also have seedlings on my south-facing windowsills. One of them, a Kniola’s Heirloom morning glory from the Fedco Seed Company, is the most vigorous seedling I have ever seen. It’s the Incredible Hulk of seedlings. It’s kind of scary.

Just now, as I was typing, I thought I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. It was Kniola’s Heirloom, trying to break through the window. Or did I imagine it?

As I watched, a tendril actually jumped, scouting along the wall in search of of an anchor to climb on. That’s how strong the life force is this time of year. They say that in Iowa after a rain you can sit in the fields and listen to the corn grow. I believe it.

Kniola’s Heirloom has twined itself around the cord to my keyboard. It probably suspects that I’m writing about it. No doubt it thinks there’s nothing to writing a column. It probably tells the other plants that I’m just slapping the thing together. I’d better get it into the garden soon.

Have a good week.