Prologue 



One day late in July I walked through my garden to the spot where 

 an old apple tree has been standing for more than half a century. This 

 tree has always seemed a little aloof, a little proud, somewhat different 

 and special, as if it had been planted by Johnny Appleseed himself. 

 But on that gray day the tree was bare of blossoms, its branches twisted 

 and misshapen, its trunk scarred and deformed and full of holes, its 

 gnarled roots showing. 



Along came a man with an axe. 



"Let me chop that tree down for you," he said. "You can burn the 

 pieces in your fireplace. And you can plant a new, young, straight tree 

 in its place." 



"But a new, young, straight tree wouldn't be this one," I told him. 

 "This is a very special tree." 



"What's so special about it?" he wanted to know. "It's ugly. It's out 

 of shape and full of holes. It's dying, and its apples are probably sour. 

 What's it good for, then?" 



"Oh, a great many things," I replied. "That old apple tree is a honey 

 factory, a birds' hotel, a summer cafeteria, a winter pantry, a concert 

 stage, an egg hatchery, a nursery, a shelter, a floral exhibit. It's even 

 more it's the center of a patch of green earth where daisies, butter- 

 cups, goldenrod and evening primroses grow. Where " 



But I was talking to unbelieving ears. The man with the axe walked 

 away, shaking his head. 



I looked at my apple tree, the oldest apple tree on my land, and 

 thought about all it had survived during fifty or more long years. It has 

 been buffeted by hurricanes, blasted by blizzards, invaded by beetles. 

 Yet it has stood defiantly against all attacks; it has weathered every 

 storm. Each spring it sends up new sap to defeat the insect invaders, 

 and then in May those weatherbeaten old limbs sprout a display of pink 



