Junk 15. 
THE COTTAGE GARDENER. 
207 
A GARDEN OVERRUN WITH WEEDS. 
“ Father, I don’t like to go to school,” said Harry 
Williams, one morning. “ I wish you would let me always 
stay at home. Charles Parker’s father don’t make him go 
to school.” 
Mr. Williams took his little boy hy the hand, and said 
kindly to him, “ Come, my son, I want to show you some¬ 
thing in the garden.” 
Harry walked into the garden with his father, who led 
him along until they came to a bed in which peas were 
growing, the vines supported hy thin branches that had 
been placed in the ground. Not a weed was to be seen 
about their roots, nor even disfiguring the walk around the 
bed in which they had been planted. 
“ See, how beautifully these peas are growing, my son,” 
said Mr. Williams. “ How clean and healthy the vines 
look ! We shall have an abundant crop. Now let me show 
you the vines in Mr. Parker’s garden. We can look at 
them through a great hole in the fence.” 
Mr. Williams then led Harry through the garden-gate 
and across the road, to look at Mr. Parker’s pea-vines 1 
through a hole in the fence. The bed in which they were 
growing was near to the road; so they had no difficulty in 
seeing it. After looking into the garden for a few moments, 
Mr. Williams said— 
“Well, my son, what do you think of Mr. rarker’s pea- 
vines ? ” 
“Oh, father!” replied the little hoy, “I neyer saw such j 
f poor looking peas in my life! There are no sticks for 
| them to run upon, and the weeds are nearly as high as the 
I peas themselves. There won’t be half a crop ! ” 
I “Why are they so much worse than ours, Harry ?” 
“Because they have been left to grow as they pleased. I 
suppose Mr. Parker just planted them, and never took any 
care of them afterward. He has neither taken out the 
weeds, nor helped them to grow right.” 
“ Yes, that is just the truth, my son. A garden will soon 
be overrun with w'eeds and briers, if it is not cultivated with 
the greatest care. And just so it is with the human garden. 
This precious garden must be trained and watered, and i 
kept free from weeds, or it will run to waste. Children's 
minds are like garden-beds; and they must be as earefnlly 
tended, and even more carefully, than the choicest plants. 
If yon, my son, were never to go to school, nor have good 
seeds of knowledge planted in your mind, it would, when 
yon become a man, resemble the weed-covered, neglected 
bed we have just been looking at, instead of the beautiful 
one in my garden. Would you think me right to neglect 
my garden as Mr. Parker neglects his?” 
“ Oh, no, father; your garden is a good garden, but Mr. 
Parker’s is all overrun with weeds and briers. It won’t 
yield half as much as yours will.” 
“ Or, my son, do you think I would be right, if I neglected 
my son as Mr. Parker neglects his son, allowing him to run 
wild, and his mind uncultivated, to be overgrown with 
weeds?” 
Little Harry made no reply; but he understood pretty 
clearly what his father meant. 
“I send you to school,” Mr. Williams continued, “in 
order that the garden of your mind may have good seeds 
sown in it, and that these seeds may spring up and grow, 
and produce plentifully. Now, which would you prefer, to 
stay at home from school, and so let the garden of your 
mind be overrun with w'eeds, or go to school, and have this 
garden cultivated ? " 
“ I would rather go to school,” said Harry. “ But, father, 
is Charles Talker’s mind overrun with weeds?" 
“I am afraid that it is, If not, it certainly will be, if 
his father does not send him to school. For a little boy not 
to be sent to school, is a great misfortune, and I hope you 
| will think the privilege of going to school a very great one 
indeed.” 
Harry Williams listened to all his father said, and, what 
was better, thought about it, too. He never again asked to 
1 stay home from school.— (The American Country Gentleman.) 
WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. 
This delightful ballad is one of the happy poetical efforts 
of Gen. George P. Morris. In a collection of poems lately 
published, the author gives the following interesting account 
of the origin of this song :— 
“ Riding out of town a few days since, in company with a 
friend, who was once the expectant heir of the largest estate 
in America, but over whose worldly prospects a blight has 
recently come, he invited me to turn down a little romantic 
woodland pass not far from Bloomingdale. 
“ Your object ?” inquired I. “ Merely to look once more 
at an old tree planted by my grandfather, near a cottage 
that was my father’s.” “ The place is yours, then !” said I. 
“ No, my poor mother sold it;” and I observed a slight 
quiver of the lip at the recollection of that circumstance. 
“ Dear mother !” resumed my companion, “ we passed many 
happy, happy days in that old cottage ; but it is nothing to 
me now—father, mother, sisters, cottage—all are gone!”— 
and a paleness overspread his fine countenance, and a 
moisture came to his eyes as he spoke. After a moment’s 
pause, he added : “ Don’t think me foolish. I don’t know¬ 
how it is, I never ride out but I turn down this lane to look 
at that old tree. I have a thousand recollections about it, 
and I always greet it as a familiar and well-remembered 
friend. In the by-gone summer time it was a friend indeed. 
Under its branches I often listened to the good counsel of my 
parents, and had such gambols with my sisters. Its leaves 
are all off now ; so you wont see it to advantage, for it is a 
glorious old fellow in summer, but I like it full as well in 
winter time.” 
“ These w-ords were scarcely uttered, when my companion 
cried out, “ There it is !” Near tlie tree stood an old man 
with his coat off, sharpening an axe. He was the occupant 
of the cottage. “ What do you intend doing ?” asked my 
friend with great anxiety. “ What is that to you ?” was the 
blunt reply, “You are not going to cut that tree dow-u, 
surely ?” “ Yes, hut I am though,” said the w-oodman. 
“What for?” inquired my companion, almost choked with 
emotion. “What for! Why because I think proper to do 
so. What for ? I like that. Well, I’ll tell you what for. 
This tree makes my dwelling unhealthy : it stands too near 
the house : prevents the moisture from exhaling, and ren¬ 
ders us liable to fever and ague.” “Who told you that?” 
“ Dr. S-.” “ Have you any other reason for wishing to 
cut it down ?” “ Yes, I am getting old ; the woods are a 
great way off, and this tree is of some value to me to burn.” 
He was soon convinced, however, that the story about the 
fever and ague was a mere fiction, for there never had been 
a case of that disease in the neighbourhood; and then was 
asked what that tree was worth for firewood. “Why when 
it is down, about ten dollars.” “ Suppose I make you a pre¬ 
sent of that amount, will you let it stand ?” “ Yes.” “ You 
are sure of that ?” “Positive.” “ Then give me a bond to 
that effect.” I drew it up; it was witnessed by his daughter ; 
the money was paid, and we left the place with an assurance 
from the young girl, who looked as smiling and beautiful as 
a Hebe, that the tree should stand as long as she lived. 
We returned to the road and pursued our ride. These cir¬ 
cumstances made a strong impression upon my mind, and 
furnished me with materials for the song I send you.” 
WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE ! 
Woodman, spare that tree ! 
Touch not a single bough ! 
In youth it sheltered me, 
And I’ll protect it now. 
’Twas my forefather's hand 
That placed it near his cot: 
There woodman, let it stand, 
Thy axe shall harm it not! 
That old familiar tree, 
Whose glory and renown 
Are spread o’er land and sea— 
And would’st thou hew it down ? 
Woodman, forbear thy stroke ! 
Cut not its earth-bound ties ; 
Oh spare that aged oak, 
Now towering to the skies ! 
When but an idle boy, 
I sought its grateful shade ; 
In all their gushing joy, 
Here, too, my sisters played. 
