APPLE ORCHARD IN FULL BLOOM 95 
then crossed it: we bounded up the hill, and 
looked down on a pool of wild crabs, eagering 
to be at flower. The motor sniffed the apple 
breath and hurried up and we turned from the 
main road with a whir and went laughing up a 
lane amidst all sorts of kindly trees, promiscu- 
ously planted and jostling each other as if God 
had planted them; and apple trees crowd up 
close as if inquisitive to see the faces of these 
callers and the master of the motor, as he steered 
us lightly, to a query of mine, “Does this man 
know how beautiful this is?” rejoined, “He is 
something of a poet, in a way.” Ah, yes, some- 
thing of a poet in a way, in God’s way, I found 
him. 
His house was well back from the road. The 
road could not see his house nor could his house 
see the road. It was embowered in quiet and 
the hush of happy winds and bees drooning, 
and trees crowded together in a veritable city 
of music. We might have been in Edmund 
Spenser’s Faerie Land where all things mystical 
and dreamful could happen effortlessly as a star- 
rise. We are intruders on a poet’s premises. I 
watched to see him. Honestly, I am curious, 
though no woman am I, yet curiosity always 
seizes me when I am in a neighborhood of poetry. 
I want to guess the looks of poets and rectify 
my conclusions by facing the facts. We ran 
up a ravine intruded on by the inquisitive apple 
trees which came close to peer at us like kindly 
