APPLE ORCHARD IN FULL FRUIT 109 
If, now, stung by the splendor of this 
autumnal glow and the riot of the hills and this 
apple orchard in bewilderment of fruit not passed 
into dull prosaicality by the act of fruitage but 
redolent with poetry of the spring wonder of 
spring blossom, I essay this other landscape and 
fruited loveliness, I shall exonerate myself as 
being incompetent to keep silence in the presence 
of summer which luxuriated in growth and panted 
toward this plenty which covered the valleys 
and overran the hills. 
I ran across this particular apple orchard after 
a goodly manner. A gracious woman dared me, 
and who was I, possessed as I am of a stock of 
man-bravery, to let a woman’s dare go unaccepted? 
The day of the challenge was serious with Indian 
summer haze and far-off mist which portended 
no rain. It simply said in entrancing words that 
Indian summer was come to pitch her tent a 
few days amongst us. I was preaching-bound. 
What so becomes any regalest day of a man’s 
life as lifting his voice about the good God who, 
loving the race of man with a love that baffles 
human understanding, thought it no trouble to 
die for men, when the preacher himself is one 
of those died for? I will preach on every great 
day of the soul, for in so doing I attempt my 
wildest attempt to strike wings with the winged 
blood-washed immortals who have a residence in 
heaven. So, amidst tumult of autumnal splendor 
among Pennsylvania mountains, I was en route 
