VIII 



HE whole farm at Overlea might The orchard 

 well be called an orchard, for /%'^ the 

 it abounds in Apple and Pear 

 trees, which are scattered about 

 it, from the point at the north to the foot 

 of the hill on the south. 



Tall, fuzzy old settlers they are, with 

 mossy trunks and gaunt branches ; but, 

 like the ancient New England human 

 stock, they die game, and are useful to 

 the end. The weather-beaten old Seckels, 

 which look perfectly hopeless, still produce 

 stout, brown, rosy little pears, as sweet as 

 honey, if not much bigger than an over- 

 grown bumble-bee, and the venerable 

 Bartletts, which we threaten every year to 

 cut down, because they look so shabby 

 and disreputable in their torn and mossy 

 old jackets, put off the evil day by molli- 

 fying us every September with a crop, 

 87 



