2 An American Fruit-Farm 



outburst of new life in springtime seems obliter- 

 ative of any thought of age. Year after year we 

 follow the season: time builds roots and sprouts 

 into vineyards and orchards; the barren, lonely 

 field becomes whispering trees, swinging vines 

 white with blossom, green and red and purple with 

 fruit. The fruit-farm grows before our eyes, yet 

 never can we see or hear one leaf or one twig grow. 

 The miracle of Nature unfolds before us and we feel 

 the indescribable joy and power of creation. The 

 infants come on together, in cradle and in field, 

 and we measure orchard and vineyard by the years 

 of our first-born. But dates are a foreign fruit. 

 In the Valley, who can truly tell, after a dozen years, 

 the age of vine or tree? We only know that with 

 the years come fruit and more fruit, as with child- 

 hood come youth and manhood. 



We do not expect a child to do a man's work, 

 nor a young tree or vine to do the work of an old 

 one. Time bids the fruit grow and makes the 

 fruit-farm. Yesterday we marked off the land, 

 and set out the little trees and vines; to-day the 

 children on ladders are picking the red cherries; 

 the trees are fifteen years high. Two thousand 

 bushels? And we ourselves cleared away the 

 primeval forest and planted the orchard. It seems 

 like being present at creation. Did we plant two 

 thousand bushels of scarlet cherries when we set 

 those whip-stocks? Incredible. To-day the pur- 

 ple grapes in the children's baskets. Four tons 

 on the acre? Did we plant four tons of grapes 



