272 IN BERKSHIRE FIELDS 



trees, too close together for ideal fruit, but forming 

 a roof of shade right up to the dining-porch, a roof 

 groined with interesting, gnarled ribs. Then, best 

 of all, not ten feet from the porch, in a kind of 

 corner between it and a one-story wing of the house, 

 were three big pines. Their roots got the water 

 from a gutter-spout, and they had made a fine 

 growth, so that as you sat on the porch you saw 

 only three straight brown columns rising up from a 

 dense woodland carpet of red-brown needles and 

 green ferns. You looked between these columns, as 

 well as under the shade of the apple-trees, out to 

 the sun-soaked, color-filled garden beyond. Above 

 the dining-porch was a second-story porch for sleep- 

 ing, and into this porch the pines almost thrust their 

 first whispering branches, and against it the apple- 

 trees in May dusted their perfume. The roof of 

 the little ell, under the pines, was green with moss 

 in which falling needles caught. I well remember 

 our amusement once (a little mixed with chagrin!) 

 when the editor of a certain garden magazine came 

 to visit us and could not be persuaded to give more 

 than casual inspection to the garden, because he 

 was so taken with the charm of those mossy shingles, 

 the brown columns of the pines, and the tiny surf of 

 needles, as it were, lapping against the edge of the 

 unrailed porch. But not only were these trees a 

 delightful feature of the prospect from the porch, 

 and in summer a cooling refreshment, in winter a 

 wind-break; from the garden they effectively con- 

 cealed the bad lines of the house, disclosing only 

 a chimney, a pitch of roof, a bit of red wall, a porch 

 pillar, and a chair with a bright cushion on it. 



