OLD STONE WALLS 63 



an orchard of gnarled and ancient apple trees which 

 great grandfather planted when he looked out on 

 life with sunny eyes a hundred years before. This 

 orchard had always blooms in May and always 

 there were apples from August until the last hard 

 winter fruit was gathered in. There were Ox ap- 

 ples and Peggy Sweets and Hooks and Goodyear 

 Pippins and Long Stems, and other sorts unknown 

 to any pomologist save the farm boy, and their 

 flavor and their fragrance will never pass. Be- 

 yond the orchard is a lane with stone walls on 

 either side and walnut trees and wild beasts of 

 the forest — chipmunks and chattering red squirrels 

 and even woodchucks seeking shelter with shrill 

 whistles of fright. And then at the end of the lane 

 is yet another enchanted land — a grove of pine 

 trees which dropped down pungent scented cones 

 and whispered and sobbed even on quiet sunny 

 days, and which, on windy evenings, when I was 

 late with the cows, made a great solemn sound like 

 the sea surf trampling on the sand. 



Nor is this all, for beyond the pine grove are 

 more walnut trees and great umbrella elms and 

 maples from which to make sugar in the spring. 

 There is a stream which is bright and clear and 

 makes a pleasant babble in May and early June, 

 but grows lazy and feeble as the summer wanes. 

 If you lie prone on the little plank bridge (as I do 

 still) and gaze steadfastly into the pool beneath, 

 you may see darting minnows and dace and even 



