148 MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN. 



fence. I begin to find that the problem of 

 raising fruit is nothing to that of getting it 

 after it has matured. So long as the law, 

 just in many respects, is in 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 en- 

 rich the earth for it ; you train and trim it, 

 and vanquish 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 ex^ 

 traordinary. The next year the little tree 

 blossoms full, and sets well ; and in the au- 

 tumn has on its slender, drooping limbs half 

 a bushel of fruit, daily growing more deli- 

 cious in the sun. You show it to your 

 friends, reading to them the French name, 

 which you can never remember, on the la- 

 bel; and you take an honest pride in the 

 successful fruit of long care. That night 



