A PPLE-BL OS SO MS. \ 3 3 



DURING the whole of April, the old apple- 

 trees in the lane are closely watched, and not 

 without a deal of impatience, too. " Will they 

 blossom freely?" is asked almost daily, and 

 what a world of anticipation hinges upon this 

 wondrous wealth of bloom ! 



To linger in the lane when the old trees 

 are flower-laden ; when the air is heavy with 

 a honeyed scent ; when the bees' low hum fills 

 the long, leafy arch, and every summer bird is 

 happiest this is an experience too valued to be 

 lost ; one that sweetens life until spring shall 

 come again. 



The trees are old. They have more than 

 rounded a full half-century, and now bend with 

 the weight of many winters. They are ragged 

 rather than rugged ; yet, game to the last, are 

 again sturdily upholding to the bright sunshine 

 of merry May mornings a marvelous wealth of 

 bloom. 



As seen from the crests of the rolling hills 

 beyond, this double row of trees recalls a huge 

 snow-bank, such as has often filled the lane in 

 winter recalls such as I have seen at sunrise, 

 when they were tinged with a rosy light. In 

 winter, I have often thought of the blossoming 



