APPLE ORCHARD IN FULL BLOOM _ 99 
less know full well it is an edible to the soul. 
“Where is the poet-farmer?” inquire I of the 
questful mood. Whereupon the guide of the 
apple orchard in bloom bids me be patient and 
we shall find him somewhere in the happy miles 
of orchard. So on we move in quest of the poet 
who planted this farm to perfect flower and 
promissory fruit. We come on him at a turn 
in the road. 
He is ideal and satisfies my soul. He is un- 
shaven for a spell and his face is husky as no 
smooth-shaven face ever does look. We men 
look polite when smoothly shaven, but not 
neglectful enough to be part of the growing 
world. Closely trimmed lawns are neither rational 
nor esthetic. They have lost spontaneity. They 
are only well-bred and conventional. Grass 
grown by those who know how will be let alone; 
so must trees and whiskers. And a man clean- 
shaven each morning and talcumed looks polite 
enough but lacks patent power and the inde- 
fatigably robust, nor could he be pictured as a 
cowboy on the run nor a victorious soldier on the 
battle front. Our friend was unkempt enough 
to be a part of nature where things get their 
way and caper a little rather than go by dancing 
master’s rules. His hair and mustache were 
grizzled. This poet had been on this ground a 
good while, as testify the vines and shrubs and 
orchard he had planted and the snow flakes that 
refuse to melt from his pow and the lines that 
