108 THROUGH LIBRARY WINDOWS 



its orchard, in many instances the house has 

 perished but the orchard lives on. It was a 

 necessity and was always early planned and 

 planted. It was the sign and symbol of civili- 

 zation, it humanized the country. It banished 

 the wilderness idea and proclaimed the home. 

 The very ground of an old orchard seems to 

 be nearer and dearer to men than any adjoining 

 field — as if in some way the old fruit-bearing 

 trees had touched the spot into a genial deli- 

 cacy, altogether human. There is something 

 deep and rich of heart in the sight of one of 

 these homestead orchards that has in it yet a 

 few old maternal apple trees that have lived 

 on through decades of summers and winters, 

 through countless storms and frosts, and some- 

 how have made the very atmosphere all about 

 them sweeter than elsewhere ; then, too, through 

 all these countless summers have nourished 

 robins and sparrows and wrens and finches and 

 bluebirds and woodpeckers so that they have a 

 tender, brooding look — maternal trees indeed! 

 The orchard has its clustering memories as 

 well as the house. It always seemed to us in 

 our boyhood like the outlying part of the house. 

 We were daily in it, climbing its trees, ate its 

 fruit, read our books up in its branches, talked 

 our plans and plays — and now the sight of one 



