APPLE ORCHARD IN FULL BLOOM 107 
But the master of the revels was here and gave 
them leave. They used it. It was funny to see 
them saw the branches with a jack-knife. But 
for politeness, I should have smiled. It is a 
grim thing to be polite. But they broke and 
sawed and laughed out loud in chorus and the 
poet orchard-master bade them be generous in 
their taking, and some such words to us men, 
and when we were too polite to mutilate his 
majestical bouquets of a whole tree at unanimous 
flower, he took his huge pruning knife and cut 
off young trees blossom-laden and made us bear 
them as his contribution to the dedicatory service 
of the church on the morrow. 
And so thither the flowers came on that good 
to-morrow when the chimes rained out holy hymns, 
and the people sang out like the voice of many 
waters and I, poor slipshod that I was, in that 
high function, tried to preach. But the apple 
blossoms outpreached, outsang, outchimed us all. 
When God’s flowers turn minister then truly 
is there a saintly sermon. “Bloom ye,” said the 
Sunday apple blossoms. “Bloom ye, ye folk of 
God, even as bloom we, God’s apple orchard. 
As we, so ye, yield bloom and fruit to the glory 
of God the Father, and the Son, and the Holy 
Ghost. Amen.” 
