Music of the Wild 



hens would mother broods there, the turkeys slip 

 around warily, and the guineas clatter in the 

 grass. Martins and swallows homing under the 

 barn eaves would sail above the trees, and black- 

 birds from the creek would build on high branches. 

 But no dream could encompass all the music that 

 would swell there throughout the summer. 



Any lover of sunshine, bird song, and orchard 

 pictures almost could see the old man who finished 

 his day's work and then rested himself with music, 

 sitting beneath his trees, worshiping God in na- 

 ture. I have known many men like him, and all 

 of them had bodies as strong as their trees, music 

 in their hearts if the birds failed to sing, and faces 

 serene as summer skies. 



The garden lies on one side of the dooryard, the 

 barn lot on the other. The garden is a quaint 

 An Old- commingling of use and beauty. There are rasp- 

 ashionod ^gj.^ currant, and gooseberry bushes along the 

 sides and across the foot, but on either hand at the 

 front gate are flowers. Large clusters of white 

 lilies grow by each post, and cinnamon pink, lark- 

 spur, ragged robin, and many sweet, old-fashioned 

 blooms overflow the beds. Straight down the cen- 

 ter is another big flower-bed, and at each side of it 

 squares of radishes, onions, lettuce, salsify, spinach, 

 strawberries, everything edible, and all flower- 

 bordered. In each corner is a peach tree, and there 

 are others scattered here and there. 

 242 



