388 
THE COTTAGE GARDENER. 
[SEPTEMBER 18. 
MISCELLANEOUS INFORMATION. 
OUR VILLAGERS. 
By the Authoress of “ My Flowers," ic. 
There is a pour man in our parish who has interested us 
a good deal, in various ways, and whose little history may, 
as far as it goes, be instructive to some who are naturally 
anxious to do the best they can for themselves and their 
families, hut who do not always find the plan they adopt 
the best. 
William Dyer was a young labourer, with a rising family, 
; and was sometimes employed by a gentleman’s gamekeeper 
j to assist him in his duties, which made him rather handy 
and useful in that way; so that at last he was induced to 
! undertake the care of a manor, and was engaged by a 
gentleman in the neighbourhood. He was a quiet, indus¬ 
trious young man, and proved a steady, careful keeper; and 
it pleased God to put it into his master’s heart to be a friend 
to him and his little blind boy. 
Poor Dyer was not a strong man in constitution—and, 
indeed, there are very few constitutions that can stand up 
against the work he had to do. He was obliged to be up 
and out in the woods during the bitter winter nights, exposed 
to wet and frost; either lying down on the cold, wet ground, 
or standing concealed for hours together, to watch for 
poachers, who abounded in the neighbourhood. He went 
home chilled, and stiff, and shivering; and in this way 
passed night after night, and winter after winter, until the 
occasional cold and cough settled into something that the 
warmth and rest of summer did not remove; and it was 
evident that something serious was the matter. We used to 
meet him in the copses, staggering about in a great-coat, 
with a handkerchief over his mouth, and his gun seeming a 
burden too heavy for him; but he would not give up till the 
last minute, and never spared his strength. At last he was 
obliged to put himself into the doctor’s hands; was fre¬ 
quently unable to rise from his bed; and his poor, pale, 
sunken cheeks, and clear bright eyes, told of disease that 
man’s skill could not turn aside. 
The gentleman who employed Dyer was a truly kind and 
feeling man, and did everything he could for him; but he 
could not restore his health, nor could he prevent his taking 
severe colds in the exercise of his duties. The wages he 
received as keeper were too good to allow Dyer to give up 
his work as long as he could possibly hold it; and although 
his master spared him to the utmost, and allowed him to lay 
by, sometimes for weeks together, yet without dismissing 
him altogether, he could not prevent his doing what, in his 
state of health, was hurrying him fast to the grave. His 
whole business was to get wet, and cold, and weary—and 
there was no help for it. 
England is a free country, and no man can be made to do 
that which he does not like; yet temptations are sometimes 
put in people’s way that are too good to be lightly given up; 
j and when these are offered for the sake of our personal 
pleasures only, there is something not quite pleasant to our 
feelings when we reflect on the matter. A poor man, with 
a family, is caught by the offer of fifteen shillings, or a 
j guinea a-week, to take charge of a manor, shuts his eyes to 
the mischiefs of it, or hopes his health will be able to resist 
it. There is something attractive, too, in going lounging 
about with a gun over his shoulder, and a dog at his heels, 
and he forgets that months of fatigue and suffering are to 
be set against a few weeks’ comparative ease and amuse¬ 
ment. If a man is stout and healthy, perhaps all may be 
well; but if not, the consequences are serious, and very 
probably lasting. Ought not every one to feel himself, in a 
certain sense, his “brother’s keeper,” and where selfish 
interests and pleasures are concerned, to reflect before 
placing a snare in his brother’s way ? It is, indeed, very dif¬ 
ficult to avoid “straining at gnats, and swallowing camels;” 
still, if we resolutely weighed every action in “ the balance 
! of the sanctuary,” we should make fewer mistakes than we 
do now. 
There is something inclining to savage in many game- 
keepers, but Dyer was a very merciful man in his vocation. 
We never heard of unnecessary, pain given to people about 
their dogs and cats as long as poor Dyer was in command ; 
but when he was obliged to give it up, his successor was 
very cruel, and no one could keep their cats a moment in 
the cottages around. One quiet, respectable man was re¬ 
turning from his work with a morsel of a dog, so small that, 
during his work, he tied it with a bit of string to his coat 
on the ground, and yet, because it happened to be snuffling 
about just off the pathway, the keeper, who fell in with them, 
pulled it out of its master’s arms, who had caught it up, 
and shot it dead on the spot. Dyer was not a man of this 
mettle, and all were sorry when he was at length obliged to 
give his work entirely up, and apply for parish relief. He 
could now only sit coughing distressingly in his cottage, or 
creep out, when the sun shone warm, into the sheltered 
lane. He had an uncomfortable “partner,” and his home 
did not appear to be one of unruffled peace, but he staid in 
it as long as he could, and his master was very kind to 
him. 
Rest and quiet somewhat restored Dyer’s health, after a 
time, or at least it relieved him in a measure, but he could 
not do an hour’s work, and the parish pay did not enable 
him to pay rent, as well as live, therefore he felt at last 
obliged to try the union. He remained there all one winter, 
but he could not endure it longer, and left it with all his 
family when spring returned. A man without work, and a 
young family round him, is an object of real pity. Poor 
Dyer squeezed them into a small cottage, and rejoiced, no 
doubt, at first, at having them again with him; but the 
struggle for life is severe and trying to men in his state; 
young enough to work for them all, but unable to use a hand 
in their service. 
Had this poor man been contented to remain as he was, a 
day-labourer, his health might have continued good; but 
striving for much, he has lost all. It needs much grace to 
walk wisely and prudently in our path through life. We act 
in our own strength—in our own wisdom—instead of taking 
counsel of God, and waiting upon Him for direction and 
help. “Woe to the rebellious children,” saith the Lord, 
“ that take counsel, but not of me.” What a reproof to us 
all! High and low, rich and poor, do we not all take 
counsel, but not of God ? It is this that so often brings us 
into rough and slippery places—into circumstances of peril, 
affliction, and regret. 
Let us all cease to take counsel of our own hearts, and 
take it of God only. He may keep us low. He may lead us 
very quietly along the path we tread. He may, perchance, 
lead us over a stony road—but it will end well; we shall be 
guided right, and be in peace. 
PLANTING. 
{Continued from page 374.) 
Ip you can help it, never disturb a bad subsoil when you 
prepare to plant a fruit-tree; exceeding two feet deep you j 
need not farther go. If the surface soil lay only a foot deep J 
over the subsoil, procure so much of the compost that I 
will presently speak of, and let it be raised above the natural 
level of the soil to the required thickness ; it is far better to 
do this than to work up a mean wet subsoil in order to 
obtain depth. The farther the roots, and the means you 
adopt to prevent them entering these description of subsoils, 
or, in fact, any subsoil whatever, so much the better; and 
the surest means, and most generally come-at-able, is to place 
a layer of stone, or something imperishable of that sort, so 
thick, and in such a degree of compactness, upon the sub¬ 
soil, that you may thereby guarantee a horizontal direction 
to the roots as soon as they come in contact with it, and so 
porous, that a still farther utility may be gained by its 
acting as a means of drainage to the tree. 
It does not require a man, when he seeks the texture and 
quality of a soil in which to plant his trees, to perform all 
the minutiae of a chemical analysis of it—to separate the 
gases from the liquids, the organic from the inorganic—for 
