people find things in old trees, which were put upon them when they were young.”
“How big things?” said Rollo.
“O, I don’t know exactly how big. The tree will make an effort to enclose any thing small or large. Only, if it is very large, it will take a great while to enclose it, and it might be so large that it never could enclose it.”
“Well, father, how large must it be so that the tree never could enclose it?”
“O, I don’t know, exactly. Once I saw a tree that was growing very near a rock. After a time it came in contact with it, and it grew and pressed against it, until the rock crowded into the wood. Then the bark began to protrude in every direction along the rock, as if it was making an effort to spread out and take the rock all in. But I don’t think it will ever succeed; for the rock was part of a ledge in a pretty large hill.”
“What a silly tree!” said Rollo.
“Father, I believe I will try the experiment some time,” continued Rollo, after a pause.
“Very well,” said his father.
“What shall I put into the tree?” asked Rollo.
“You might put in a cent,” said his father, “and then, if it should get fairly enclosed, I presume the tree will keep it safe for you a good many years.”
Rollo determined to do it. “Then,” said he, “I shall never be out of money, and that will be excellent.” His father told him that he must make a small cleft in the bark and wood, with a chisel and mallet, and then drive the cent in, edgewise, a little way.
So Rollo got his chisel and mallet, and inserted the cent according to his father’s directions, and by that time there were a good many branches and twigs on the ground, which his father had taken off from the trees, and so he began to pick them up, and put them into his wheelbarrow.
They went on working together for some time, and talking while they worked. Rollo was continually asking his father questions, and his father sometimes answered them, and sometimes did not, but was silent and thoughtful, as if he was thinking of something else. But whether he got answers or not, Rollo went on talking.
“Father,” said Rollo, at length, after a short pause, during which he had been busily at work putting twigs into his wheelbarrow, “Henry has got a very interesting book.”
His father did not answer.
“I think it is a very interesting book indeed. Should not you like to read it, father?”
His father was just then reaching up very high to saw off a pretty large limb, and he paid no attention to what Rollo was saying. So Rollo went on talking half to himself—
“One story is about Aladdin and his lamp. If he rubbed his lamp, he could have whatever he wished; something would come, I have forgotten what its name was, and bring him whatever he asked for.”
Just then, down came the great branch which his father had been sawing off, falling from its place on the tree to the ground.
Rollo looked at it a moment, and then, when his father began sawing again, he said,
“Should not you like such a lamp, father?”
“Such a lamp as what, my son?” said his father.
“Why, such a one as Aladdin’s.”
“Aladdin’s! why, what do you know of Aladdin’s lamp?”
“Why, I read about it in Henry’s story book,” said Rollo. “I just told you, father.”
“Did you?” said his father. “Won’t you just hand me up the paint brush?”
“Well, father,” said Rollo, as he handed him the brush, “don’t you wish you had an Aladdin’s lamp?”
“No, not particularly,” said his father.
“O father!” exclaimed Rollo, with surprise, “I am sure I do. Don’t you wish I had such a lamp, father?”
“No,” said his father.
“Why, father, I really think I could do some good with it. For instance, I could just rub my lamp, and then have all your trees pruned for you, at once, without any further trouble.”
“But that would not be worth while; for you might have a much larger and better garden than this made at once, with thousands of trees, bearing delicious fruit; and ponds, and waterfalls, and beautiful groves.”
“O, so I could,” said Rollo.
“And, then, how soon do you think you should get tired of it, and want another?”
“O, perhaps, I should want another pretty soon; but then I could have another, you know.”
“Yes, and how long do you think you could find happiness, in calling beautiful gardens into existence, one after another?”
“O, I don’t know;—a good while.”
“A day?”
“O, yes, father.”
“A week?”
“Why, perhaps, I should be tired in a week.”
“Then all your power of receiving enjoyment from gardens would be run out and exhausted in a week; whereas mine, without any Aladdin’s lamp, lasts me year after year, pleasantly increasing all the time without ever reaching satiety.”
“What is satiety, father?”
“The feeling we experience when we have had so much of a good thing that we are completely tired and sick of it. If I should give a little child as much honey as he could eat, or let him play all the time, or buy him a vast collection of pictures, he would soon get tired of these things.”
“O father, I never should get tired of looking at pictures.”
“I think you would,” said his father.
Here the conversation stopped a few minutes, while Rollo went to wheel away a load of his sticks. Before he returned, he had prepared himself to renew his argument. He said,
“Father, even if I did get tired of making beautiful gardens, I could then do something else with the lamp, and that would give me new pleasure.”
“Yes, but the new pleasure would be run out and exhausted just as soon as the pleasure of having a garden would have been; so that you would, in a short time, be satiated with every thing, and become completely wretched and miserable.”
“But, father,” said Rollo, after being silent a little while, “I don’t think I should get tired of my beautiful gardens very soon: I don’t think I should get tired even of looking at pictures of them.”
“Should you like to try the experiment?”
“Yes, sir,” said Rollo, very eagerly.
Rollo’s father had a great many books of pictures and engravings of various kinds in his library; and sometimes he used to allow the children
