128 HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS. 
Only an hour’s ride on the cars from the city is such 
an orchard which I frequently visit. When there I 
partake of the hospitality both of the orchard and its 
proprietor, and divide with them my time and affection. 
The owner of this orchard has lived there nearly seventy 
years; the orchard was planted ten years earlier, and 
the picturesque log house that ornaments the grounds 
was built the year before the trees were planted, or 
eighty-one years ago. The low but roomy house was 
built upon honor and of good material, as well as upon 
a pleasant site; there was no shoddy in the timber or 
in its construction. The straight logs were from the 
trimmest red beech and rock maple, and they were so 
nicely fitted to one another by the axe of the deft chop- 
pers that when plastered on the outside where they 
came together no rain nor damp could penetrate the 
chinks; and the house to-day, after an exposure to sun 
and rain of more than man’s allotted age, stands as firm 
and sound and as snug and warm as it was when the 
bride came to live in it so many years ago. It is robed 
in vines, which are so dense that they have to be put 
away like curtains from the square windows to let in 
more light. 
The courteous old gentleman is justly proud of this old 
house, and would not see it replaced by any modern 
frame or brick building that the most famous architect 
could plan. He is also proud of the cellar, always filled 
with apples and barrels of cider, but prouder still of the 
mammoth trees in the orchard. He frequently calls 
attention to the one that overhangs the back piazza, 
