14 



THE SPRING OF THE YEAR 



^ up its holes, and put a burlap petticoat on it, all be- 

 i. v cause of the gruesome gypsy moths that infest my 

 trees. Oh, yes, that would make it bear better ap- 

 ples, but what then would become of its birds and* 

 beasts? Everybody ought to have one apple tree 

 that bears birds and beasts and Baldwin apples, - 

 too, of course, if the three sorts of fruit can be. 

 made to grow on the same tree. But only the birds . 



/ and beasts grow well on the untrimmed, unscraped, 

 unplastered, unpetticoated old tree yonder between " 

 the pastures. His heart is wide open to every small- 

 traveler passing by. 



Whenever I look over toward the old tree, I think 



7" of the old vine-covered, weather-beaten house in 

 which my grandfather lived, where many a traveler 

 put up over night to get a plate of grand mother's 

 buckwheat cakes, I think, and a taste of her keen 

 wit. The old house sat in under a grove of pin oak 

 and pine, " Underwood " we called it, a shel- 

 tered, sheltering spot ; with a peddler's stall in the 

 barn, a peddler's place at the table, a peddler's bed 

 in the herby garret, a boundless, fathomless feather- 

 bed, of a piece with the house and the hospitality. 

 There were larger houses and newer, in the neigh- 

 borhood ; but no other house in all the region, not 



> even the tavern, two miles farther down the pike, 

 was half so central, or so homelike, or so full of 

 . x sweet and juicy gossip. The old apple tree yonder 

 between the woods and the meadow is as central, as 





