A FEW autumns since, I was staying at a friend's house, which had a fruitful garden attached to it. This plot of ground, bearing its wealthy supply of vegetables and different fruits, was the pride of the faithful servant, my friend's gardener. The man was one of the old-fashioned type of servants who loved his master and his master's work.
At the close of my visit, I went into the garden to bid the man good-bye.
“Before you leave, sir," said he, "you must come and see my master's pear-tree."
"What is there special about it?” I asked, as we stood together on the graveled walk in front of a young pyramid tree, rich in noble pears.
"Why, sir," the gardener said, in a most interested tone, while his eye kindled with delight, " this tree has never borne before, and last autumn the master said, Come, B., we must have that tree down,' but I said,
Let me have one more try with it, and then if it bears no fruit—' and now see what a fine tree it is; why, there are no pears in all the garden such as these," and he handled one of them with that appreciative fondness which is peculiar to gardeners.
As poor B. spoke, my heart was moved; I listened to each word eagerly; but it was not his interest in the tree that interested me, but himself—his soul, his undying soul, for like the pear-tree, barren in his Christian master's garden, B. had borne no fruit for God.
"Well, B.," said I, "and what did you do to bring about this wonderful change?"
“Ah! Wonderful change, sir, indeed it is," he went on, still handling the tree; "my master would not part with his pear-tree now."
“But what did you do?"
"The tap-root, the tap-root."
“Yes, but what did you do?”
“Why, got under the root, dug right under the tree, and cut the tap-root."
"Then I suppose all its strength had gone into the earth?"
“Yes," he said, “that is just how it was. So I lifted it right up and cut the tap-root."
"B.," said I, “I came into the garden to hear this story, not for the tree's sake, I am sure, but for yours." He looked at me very strangely, wondering what I meant. “You are like that tree when it bore no fruit; all your life goes into the earth. You are still unsaved—no fruit for God, all for this world. Your tap-root has not been cut. I have been lifted out of the earth by trial and sorrow, as you know," and when I said this B.'s kindly face betokened true sympathy. "You are still fixed in the world. If you continue as you are, God will say of you, 'Cut him down; he bears no fruit.' Must it be that you will still hold out till some dreadful sorrow comes, or will you die as you are, and perish?"
So we parted; but B. is still, I fear, unsaved. How is it with you, dear reader? If you have reached middle age, you have learned to suffer. Oh! live not for this world; come to Christ; seek His salvation. God is merciful; He will be merciful to you a sinner. Tell Him what a sinner you are. He will save you, and being saved, seek to bear fruit for God.