IN THE ORCHARD 275 



labors of the season are over, and the }'Oung, 

 now full grown, are cheerful fellow-travelers, 

 even outnumbering the parent birds. These 

 wise little bodies foretell the coming of the bleak 

 winter with wonderful certaint}', for long before 

 the first visit of Jack Frost, even while the 

 sway of summer is yet undisputed, they leave 

 their nesting grounds to take up the first stages 

 of the southward journey. 



But even when the last summer visitor has 

 departed and the chill blasts of winter are again 

 sweeping the desolate landscape, the orchard 

 still has its feathered folk; for several hardy 

 pilgrims of the snow here find favorable feeding 

 grounds, and many other winter wanderers make 

 occasional calls. 



Our little valley in Maine is bordered to the 

 west by a long low hill, standing modestly back 

 from the road and river, facing eastward. Along 

 its southern slope and reaching well up over the 

 brow is such an orchard, w4th trees gnarled and 

 twisted by the storms of many winters, yet 

 vigorous and fruitful despite their advanced 

 age and many deformities. 



The wide-spreading trees join their branches 

 in friendly clasp, forming in summer a roof of 

 green so dense that only here and there the sun- 

 light strikes through. As a result, the moist soil 

 beneath is scantily clothed with fine grass and 

 earthworms abound, much to the happiness of 

 many birds. The orchard is enclosed on all 

 sides by a high moss-grown stone wall, broken 

 and irregular, upon which have been piled for 

 many years the superfluous branches pruned 



