TREES 257 



out in the rolling Middlesex fields, we crested a hill 

 by a long, straight road which ran mournfully into the 

 gathering November twilight, like some road in Hardy's 

 novels. At the crest we had a glimpse on the far hori- 

 zon of the last red banner of the defeated day, and 

 running down the slope toward it was a leafless apple 

 orchard. The trees were gray, the ground beneath 

 them was a smoky brown, and in their gray tracery of 

 branches the sunset had hung a veil, a veil of softest 

 amethyst, the mysterious veil of Astarte. To this 

 day I can recall our consciousness that this orchard 

 was alive, that it was a personality, or a group of per- 

 sonalities, whom we were passing. We seemed to 

 leave it behind whispering strange things, as the 

 mournful November wind came over the upland. 



Did you ever look carefully at an old, neglected 

 apple tree in Winter? An old, neglected apple tree, of 

 course, always makes the arms of the true agriculturist 

 yearn for a pruning saw, as Grizel's arms rocked for a 

 sponge and water when she saw a dirty baby. But, 

 forgetting farmers' bulletins for a moment, did you ever 

 pause to admire the veritable spray of "suckers" such 

 a tree will have sent up, like a shower-bath nozzle 

 turned upside down? The pattern they make is 

 tangled and formless, but what a testimony they are 

 to the vitality of the tree, what eloquent witnesses of 

 its will to live! A dead limb-end may have rotted 

 back to make a flicker's or a bluebird's nest, the trunk 



