CHAPTER III 



AN OLD APPLE TREE 



BEYOND the meadow, perhaps half a mile 

 from my window, stands an old apple tree, 

 the last of an ancient line that once marked 

 the boundary between the " upper " and the "lower" 

 pastures. It is a bent, broken, hoary old tree, grizzled 

 with suckers from feet to crown. No one has pruned 

 it for half a century ; no one ever gathers its gnarly 

 apples no one but the cattle who love to lie in its 

 shadow and munch its fruit. 



The cows know the tree. One of their winding 



o 



paths runs under its low-hung branches ; and as I 

 frequently travel the cow-paths, I also find my way 

 thither. Yet I do not go for apples, nor just be- 

 cause the cow-path takes me. That old apple tree is 

 hollow, hollow all over, trunk and branches, as hol- 

 low as a lodging-house ; and I have never known it 

 when it was not " putting up " some wayfaring vis- 

 itor or some permanent lodger. So I go over, when- 

 ever 1 have a chance, to call upon my friends or pay 

 my respects to the distinguished guests. 



This old tree is on the neighboring farm. It does 

 not belong to me, and I am glad ; for if it did, then 

 I should have to trim it, and scrape it, and plaster 



