George looked in silence on the wide wilderness of fruit. He marked the busy humming bees, and heard the gay notes of birds; then, lifting his eyes filled with shining moisture, to his father, he softly said, “Well, Pa, only forgive me this time, and see if I ever be so stingy any more.” * * * * * When George was about six years old he was made the wealthy master of a _hatchet_, of which, like most little boys, he was immoderately fond; and was constantly going about chopping everything that came in his way. One day, in the garden, where he often amused himself hacking his mother’s pea-sticks, he unluckily tried the edge of his hatchet on the body of a beautiful young English cherry tree, which he barked so terribly that I don’t believe the tree ever got the better of it. The next morning, the old gentleman, finding out what had befallen his tree, which, by the by, was a great favorite, came into the house; and with much warmth asked for the mischievous author, declaring at the same time that he would not have taken five guineas for his tree. Nobody could tell him anything about it. Presently George and his hatchet made their appearance. “George,” said his father, “do you know who killed that beautiful little cherry tree yonder in the garden?” This was a tough question, and George staggered under it for a moment; but quickly recovered himself, and looking at his father, with the sweet face of youth brightened with the inexpressible charm of all-conquering truth, he bravely cried out, “I can’t tell a lie, Pa, you know I can’t tell a lie. I did cut it with my hatchet.” “Run to my arms, you dearest boy,” cried his father; “such an act in my son is worth more than a thousand trees, though blossomed with silver, and their fruits of purest gold.” * * * * * To startle George into a lively sense of his Maker, his father fell upon the following very curious but impressive expedient: One day he went into the garden and prepared a little bed of finely pulverized earth, on which he wrote George’s name at full, in large letters, then strewing in plenty of cabbage seed, he covered them up, and smoothed all over nicely with the roller. This bed he purposely prepared close alongside a gooseberry walk, which happening at this time to be well hung with ripe fruit, he knew would be honored with George’s visits pretty regularly every day. Not many mornings had passed away before in came George, with eyes wild rolling and his little cheeks ready to burst with great news. “Oh, Pa! come here, come here!” “What’s the matter, my son? What’s the matter?” “Oh, come here, I tell you, Pa: come here, and I’ll show you such a sight as you never saw in all your lifetime!”