102 THE MOUNTAINS 



now useless and pathetic. No, no, no. 

 The old olive tree stands there under the 

 sky, harvest-producing, harvest-crested, 

 harvest-promising, a splendid hint of end- 

 less vitality — death swallowed up in ever- 

 lasting life! 



At this point I need help. Take the 

 finest old apple orchard you ever saw and 

 carry it to the shore of the sea ; then hold 

 it back from the edge of the water far 

 enough to allow a narrow town to crawl 

 in between, then lift up the grove about 

 eight hundred feet, then build for it an 

 amphitheater of hills and mountains, then 

 bathe it with an atmosphere of most bril- 

 liant translucence, then arch it over with 

 a sky often as delicately blue as a robin's 

 egg, then tone down the almost over- 

 powering situation by the ringing of 

 church bells, by the calling of a shepherd 

 among his sheep, by the cracking of a 

 driver's whip, by the shrill voice of a 

 street vender, by the pell-mell happiness 

 of children just out of school and by the 



