Langford is a little boy only four years old. All of his friends say he is just like a little bird, he is so sweet and cheery. When he awakes in the morning he begins to sing, and chirps away to himself in his sweet, little, high-pitched voice, and it sounds just like the little birds when they first wake up, on bright Spring mornings, in the woods. Have you ever heard them? Perhaps there is a little brook running along merrily near them, and a lot of little birds hop down to the brook-side to take their morning bath; and they chirp away so cheerily as they dip their little heads in the stream, then lift them out with a quick movement that sends bright, sparkling drops of water all about them, chirping all the while so sweetly and happily.
We read the story in the Journal about the little boy and his garden to him, and explained that every disobedient or wrong thought was a weed, and must be pulled out immediately. Soon after he came running into "tea" and cried out, "Grandma, I want my tea right away, I'm hungry!" "Oh but you can't have it yet, darling, you must wait a bit," was the answer. "I won't wait!" he declared, in quite a determined voice. "Oh Langford there's a weed!" said his grandmamma. He went across the room and curled up in the big chair looking very thoughtful for a few moments; then he looked up and said so sweetly and lovingly, "I will wait grandma." It was said in a most irresistible and captivating way, and then he settled down in the chair to wait so contentedly and patiently.
At another time he was with me, and I was very pre-occupied and busy writing some letters. He asked me some questions which I answered in mono-syllables, scarcely knowing what I was saying. "Don't bother your aunt, Langford, she's busy," said his nurse. "Now I will Ellen, and you can't tell me I mustn't!" he answered, with just a shade of petulancy in his tones. "Why! is that the sweet spirit of my little boy?" asked his mamma. He stopped in his play and looked up at her, then he ran over to the fire and made movements with his hands as though throwing something into it. "What are you doing?" I asked him. "I'm throwing all those naughty weeds in the fire to be burnt up!" and then he came running over to me, threw his loving, little arms about my neck and kissed me. It was so comical, the way in which he had pulled out his weeds; and yet it was too sweet to laugh at, so I gave him a tight hug and an audible, emphatic "you darling!" I told him to always weed his garden out as instantaneously as he had that morning.
