AN OLD ROAD. 53 



point, for aught I can tell, the brook may 

 entertain some private doubts. 



Just beyond the bridge is an ancient ap- 

 ple orchard. This was already falling into 

 decay when I was a boy, and the many 

 years that have elapsed since then have 

 nearly completed its demolition ; although 

 I dare say the present generation of school- 

 boys still find it worth while to clamber 

 over the wall, as they journey back and 

 forth. Probably it will be no surprise to 

 the owner of the place if I tell him that 

 before I was twelve years old I knew the 

 taste of all his apples. In fact, the orchard 

 was so sequestered, so remote from any 

 house, especially from its proprietor's, 

 that it hardly seemed a sin to rob it. It 

 was not so much an orchard as a bit of 

 woodland ; and besides, we never shook the 

 trees, but only helped ourselves to windfalls ; 

 and it must be a severe moralist who calls 

 that stealing. Why should the fruit drop 

 off, if not to be picked up ? In my time, at 

 all events, such appropriations were never 

 accounted robbery, though the providential 

 absence of the owner was unquestionably a 

 thing to be thankful for. He would never 



