210 HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS. 
considerable havoc among the apples. Along the garden 
fence is an extensive row of red and white roses, just at 
their best ; and such roses! How it gladdens one’s heart 
to look at them! If they were hidden from sight, their 
heavy fragrance would betray their presence. 
I wish I could paint the picture that lies about me; 
the old orchard that has dropped its apples for three 
generations, the bank of roses flanking the lawn, the 
cosy log house almost covered with vines, the waving 
fields of wheat stretching away in the distance, with 
fine maple woods in the background. It would not be 
complete without a sketch of the fine-faced old gentle- 
man in his arm chair on the lawn, with his two faithful 
dogs lying at his feet; and then a pitcher of the well- 
preserved cider from the cellar would give tone to the 
picture. On the end of a log atthe corner of the house 
was a robin’s nest with four eggs. We were admiring 
it yesterday, but this morning both nest and eggs had 
disappeared. A little frouzy-headed boy that they call 
“Pat” was hanging about the premises, and I asked 
him about the nest. “TI took it, sir, for they are bad 
craturs with the cherries.” To the question of what he 
did with the eggs, he answered promptly, “Sure, and 
T ated ’em.” 
To-morrow we go to Honeoye Falls. 
