172 Windfalls 



was ruined by too elaborate carving. My 

 rough, stout walking-stick helps me in many 

 ways, for it is long and light, and I like to 

 probe the tangles before I tread on them, 

 and many a four-footed creature has bounded 

 away at my prodding that I might not 

 otherwise have seen. A basket is an abomi- 

 nation, a bag or bundle the climax of hor- 

 rors, but a well-chosen stick is a worthy 

 companion that clogs neither my steps nor 

 thinking. 



The best orchard, to my taste, within easy 

 reach is the oldest ; now so very old its his- 

 tory is forgotten. Every trunk is hollow, 

 every branch lichen coated. Dilapidated as 

 is every one of the ninety-odd trees, the 

 days of their fruition is not yet over. Sap 

 crowds up their wrinkled trunks and stirs 

 the crooked branches to flowering every 

 April, just as it did in the heyday of their 

 youthful vigor almost a century ago; and 

 much of the fruit kindly matures though the 

 farmer does not attempt to stay the ravages 

 of insefts beyond protecting the birds that 

 come and go and live the summer long happy 

 lives wandering up and down the orchard's 

 long, leafy aisles. There is still, as there 



