The Orchard 



The birds have reared their families success- 

 fully, and they no longer sing of love, but rather 

 of pride in their achievement. They sing the song 

 of domestic happiness, and they, too, pretend that 

 it will last for ever, though in their heart of hearts 

 they know that, when the sun begins to be dragged 

 lower and lower in the sky, a restless fever will 

 overtake them, and they will hear the call of the 

 south, and only one word will be in their minds 

 and hearts : 



" Go." 



And so they go and forget all the romance of 

 spring, and all the summer's joy and pride, and 

 next year it will again be more wonderful than 

 ever before. It will again be like the first-coming 

 of love, and He will say to Her : " This time I 

 know. This is the love of my life." 



All the same, I wish the birds would 

 not eat my cherries. They have ninety-nine 

 hundredths of each year's crop, and leave me the 

 rest. The impudence of them is beyond words : 

 blackbirds, thrushes, and, above all, jays. They 

 laugh at scarecrows, and a gun is a joke to them. 

 You may stand under the tree and clap your hands 

 and they will not budge. Whether it is that they 

 think : " First come, first served " is good enough 

 morality for man and beast, or whether they have 



7i 



