322 An American Fruit-Farm 



and the winds and the weather had painted them a 

 soft gray. An ancient grapevine ran the whole 

 house around, close to the eaves, and tiger-lilies, 

 snowballs, pinks, and lilacs were a wilderness. 

 The bubbling spring near the door was partly cov- 

 ered by a broad, flat stone, and a well-trodden 

 path led to it. Within doors the great beams stood 

 exposed; the wide floors were uneven and the win- 

 dows had diamond panes and were overshadowed 

 by the vine. There was a cavernous woodshed, 

 and the swallows twittering in and out; and some 

 were diving into the throat of the huge chimney at 

 the gable. Under the rude cornice ran the irregular 

 line of mud nests, and the roofs were green with 

 moss. Thither the pioneer had come in his youth 

 and made his home. Here he had brought his 

 bride, and here the children were bom. They had 

 all gone out into the world, leaving the old folks 

 alone. On Thanksgiving Day some of them would 

 come back to the family reunion, and then the 

 long waiting till another Thanksgiving Day. The 

 burial of the pioneer was on a peaceful June day, 

 not rare in the Valley. All the world was in bloom. 

 It had been a peaceful ending of a peaceful life. 

 There was the touch of silence in the orchards, the 

 hint of loneliness in the air; so silent that, as we 

 stood among the lilacs and the pinks, we could hear 

 the ticking of the tall clock in the great kitchen, 

 near the settle. We were for a moment in an age 

 that has passed away. The whistle of the distant 

 train seemed a painful, a wanton intrusion. Troops 



