THE ORCHARD. 



" The apple-boughs entwine 

 And make a network fine. 

 Through which the morning vapours pass. 

 That rise from off the dewy grass. 



" And when the spring-warmth shoots 



Along the apple roots. 



The gnarled old boughs grow full of buds 

 That gleam and leaf in multitudes. 



" And then, first cold and white. 



Soon flushing with delight. 

 The blossom-heads come out and blow. 

 And mimic sunset-tinted snow." 



Edmund Gosse. 



" Nay, you shall see my orchard, where, in an 

 arbor, we will eat a last year's pippin of my own nr.it- 

 fing, with a dish of caraways and so forth ; come. 

 Cousin Silence." 



2 Henry IV. 



Y the orchard we generally mean an 

 apple orchard, and one toward de- 

 cay; for somehow, with their great 

 extending limbs, flaked with straggling 

 bark and mottled with lichens, the old- 

 time apple-trees are the most poetic. They 

 were planted years ago by our forefathers, 

 and have the picturesque look of age. A 

 newer orchard may be neater, and means per- 

 APPI.H BLOSSOMS. hapg mQK money> but it takes one of the 



old-time orchards, with its immense boughs and tall 

 masses of branches and sprays, rich and luscious with 

 old-time apples, to arouse sentiment. 



The old-time varieties, too, were the best, and can 

 not always now be reduplicated the big yellow Bell- 



241 



