160 MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN. 



The boy goes on his way, to Congress, 

 or to State Prison : in either place he 

 will be accused of stealing, perhaps 

 wrongfully. You learn, in time, that it 

 is better to have had pears and lost 

 them, than not to have had pears at all. 

 You come to know that the least (and 

 rarest) part of the pleasure of raising 

 fruit is the vulgar eating it. You 

 recall your delight in conversing with 

 the nurseryman, and looking at his il 

 lustrated catalogues, where all the pears 

 are drawn perfect in form, and of extra 

 size, and at that exact moment between 

 ripeness and decay which it is so impos 

 sible to hit in practice. Fruit cannot be 

 raised on this earth to taste as you 

 imagine those pears would taste. For 

 years you have this pleasure, unalloyed 

 by any disenchanting reality. How you 

 watch the tender twigs in spring, and 

 the freshly-forming bark, hovering about 



