IN THE WREN ORCHARD. 



ONE of the fairest spots known to me in the 

 neighborhood of Cambridge is the " Wren 

 Orchard." Thither on the morning of this Sun- 

 day, May 24, I took my little covey of butter- 

 cup hunters. The orchard was set out several 

 generations ago, and not only the unknown 

 hand which planted it but the house that shel- 

 tered him and his have passed away forever. 

 The ground where the orchard stands is a hill- 

 side facing the south. Summer and winter 

 the sun watches over it and only gentle winds 

 sweep across it. North and east of this sunny 

 Eden are elms which shut it out from inquisitive 

 distance. Westward it is guarded by dark 

 cedars, and along its southern edge rise rank 

 upon rank of great oaks and chestnuts, in whose 

 midst is a small swamp overhung by an- 

 cient willows. The swamp is made by a gentle 

 brook which begins life in the elm grove north 

 of the orchard, spends all its days murmuring 

 over a pebbly bed among forget-me-nots and 

 violets, and which crosses the orchard at its 

 middle. The orchard and its borders contain 



