THE ORCHARD. 



"The apple-boughs entwine 

 And make a network fine, 

 Through which the morning vapours pass. 

 That rise from off the dewy grass. 



"And when the spring-warmth shoots 

 Along the apple roots, 

 The gnarled old boughs grow full of buds 

 That gleam and leaf in multitudes. 



"And then, first cold and white. 

 Soon flushing with delight. 

 The blossom-heads come out and blow. 

 And mimic sunset-tinted snow." 



—Edmund Gosse. 



"Nay, you shall see my orchard, where, in an 

 arbor, we will eat a last year's pippin of my own graf- 

 ting, with a dish of caraways and so forth ; — come, 

 Cousin Silence." 



—2 Henry IV. 



Y the orchard we generally mean an 

 apple orchard, and one toward de- 

 cay; for somehow, with their great 

 extending limbs, flaked with stragghng 

 bark and mottled with lichens, the old- 

 time apple-trees are the most poetic. They 

 were planted years ago by our forefathers, 

 and have the picturesque look of age. A 

 newer orchard may be neater, and means per- 

 haps more money, but it takes one of the 

 old-time orchards, with its immense boughs and tall 

 masses of branches and sprays, rich and luscious with 

 old-time apples, to arouse sentiment. 



The old-time varieties, too, were the best, and can 

 not always now be reduplicated — the big yellow Bell- 



241 



APPLE BLOSSOMS. 



