162 MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN. 



force against shooting birds and small boys, 

 the gardener may sow in tears and reap in 

 vain. 



The power of a boy is, to me, something 

 fearful. Consider what he can do. You buy 

 and set out a choice pear-tree ; you enrich the 

 earth for it ; you train and trim it, and van- 

 quish the borer, and watch its slow growth. 

 At length it rewards your care by producing 

 two or three pears, which you cut up and divide 

 in the family, declaring the flavor of the bit 

 you eat to be something extraordinary. The 

 next year, the little tree blossoms full, and sets 

 well ; and in the autumn has on its slender, 

 drooping limbs half a bushel of fruit, daily 

 growing more delicious in the sun. You show 

 it to your friends, reading to them the French 

 name, which you can never remember, on the 

 label ; and you take an honest pride in the 

 successful fruit of long care. That night your 



