12 
SEED-TIME AID HARVEST. 
Rob’s Fruit Farm. 
Like an oasis in a desert, so Rob’s fruit 
farm looked to me when I first saw it one 
noonday in summer, near the “Nation” line. 
Great fields of corn and plentiful harvests 
of wheat I had seen until the eye tired of 
them, but this—Rob’s fruit farm—was a 
rare sight in the new prairie settlement. 
“Yes,” said my guide, “this farm attracts 
the attention of everybody; it’s the work of 
a boy. If it was not for Rob’s fruit his folks 
would be badly off, as his father’s shiftless- 
But we'll lariat the ponies and stop here a 
bit; Rob’s from the East, too.” 
Rob’s mother was a brisk, cheerful little 
woman who had her hands full caring for 
her large family of boys. 
Rob, came in to ,welcome us, a slim, 
active boy of not more than fifteen. 
“Will you walk out and see Rob’s or¬ 
chards and berry patches?” asked the 
mother, as Rob respectfully led the way. 
| i Trees, flowers, and small fruits all about 
the yard, and these were luxuries in this 
new land. 
Never did orchards and fruits delight me 
as these. Great russet pears, blood-red and 
pink-cheeked peaches, apples yellow, red 
and striped, glowed like bright jewels 
through the green foliage. 
“There isn’t another like it in all this 
country,” said the father, who had followed 
us out. 
“When Rob was a little boy of seven, he 
had a great desire to plant things, and when 
we made up our minds to come West, he 
began to save up seeds of flowers and 
fruits. Why, he had a flour sack filled, and 
many a fine cherry, peach and apricot stone 
went into that bag, and the neighbors all 
helped him fill it. I must say it bothered 
me at the time, an’ I says what’s the good 
o’ such foolishness? Those who planted 
fruit trees, especially cherry, plum, and 
peach stones, will not live to see them bear. 
But Rob hung on to his seed and slips 
through thick and thin. It was early spring 
when we got here, an' things looked pretty 
blue for a poor man with a big family an’ 
no money, an’ unbroken prairie isn’t the 
most encouragin' sight in the world under 
such circumstances. I managed to break 
the sod and paid no attention to Rob’s 
plantin’ and diggin’ and tendin’. I had all 
I could do to keep starvation away. The 
times grew worse for us, but I had to stay, 
as I could not raise money enough to get 
back. The first thing I knew, Rob’s straw¬ 
berries, currant and gooseberries and rasp¬ 
berries were bearin’ an’ Rob was walkin’ to 
town eight miles to sell ’em, which he did 
an’ at high prices. My Rob is a good boy,” 
and the sallow features glowed with fath¬ 
erly pride as he looked after the lad who 
had been called to another part of the or¬ 
chard. 
We had dinner under the shade of those 
trees, and only those in a new and prarie 
country can appreciate the luxury real 
trees are to the tired traveler in midsum¬ 
mer. 
Evidences of thrift were on every side, 
strong-armed women were canning and 
stirring into marmalade peaches and early 
apples. All fruits grew and fruited abun¬ 
dantly in the rich soil. 
“One has only to give them half a chance 
to grow, for it’s a grand country for fruit,” 
said Rob. 
From a desire “to plant things” great 
good came to an impoverished family. 
When the little Rob planted his bread and 
butter, hoping to grow enongh for the 
other hungry mouths that were too numer¬ 
ous for comfort in the poor home, the laugh 
at his expense and failure of his “crop” did 
not crush his planting mania. 
He has planted pruned, tended and reap¬ 
ed wisely and well, as fortunately brave 
and generous workers cannot "prosper 
without uplifting others less strong than 
themselves. 
One peculiarity of all prairie orchards 
is that the trees lean and in the same direc¬ 
tion, and never grow large. The nursery¬ 
men in planting trees (orchards) do not in¬ 
cline them, the prairie wind would soon 
blow them crooked. In time, these un¬ 
broken prairies will boast fine orchards and 
shade trees, but at this period a fine old 
oak or beech would make glad many who 
loved the trees in the old home.— Ella 
Guernsey, in New York Tribune. 
Fear. The worst fear is that of doing more than 
our duty. 
