the back of the orchard, looking out over the
little swamp, all a-twinkle with fireflies. Jonathan had been up the
lane, prowling about, as he often does at nightfall, "to take a look at
the farm." I heard his step in the lane, and he jumped over the bars at
the far end of the orchard. There was a pause, then a vehement
exclamation--too vehement to print. Jonathan's remarks do not usually
need editing, and I listened to these in the dusk in some degree of
wonder, if not of positive enjoyment.

Finally I called out, "What's the matter?"

"Oh! You there?" He strode over. "Matter! Come and see what that fool
hobo did."

"You called him something besides that a moment ago," I remarked.

"I hope so. Whatever I called him, he's it. Come over."

He led me to the orchard edge, and there in the half light I saw a line
of stubs and a pile of brush.

"Not your quince bushes!" I gasped.

"Just that," he said, grimly, and then burst into further unprintable
phrases descriptive of the city-bred loafer. "If I ever give work to a
hobo again, I'll be--"

"Sh-h-h," I said; and I could not forbear adding, "Now you know how I
have felt about those huckleberry bushes and birches and things, only I
hadn't the language to express it."

"You have language enough," said Jonathan.

Undoubtedly Jonathan was depressed. I had been depressed for some time
on account of the grooming of my berry patches and fence lines, but now
I found myself growing suddenly cheerful. I do not habitually batten on
the sorrow of others, but this was a special case. For how could I be
blind to the fact that chance had thrust a weapon into my hand? I knew
that hereafter, at critical moments, I need only murmur "quince bushes"
and discussion would die out. It made me feel very gentle towards
Jonathan, to be thus armed against him. Gentle, but also cheerful.

"Jonathan," I said, "it's no use standing here. Come back to the log
where I was sitting."

He came, with heavy tread. We sat down, and looked out over the
twinkling swamp. The hay had just been cut, and the air was richly
fragrant. The hush of night encompassed us, yet the darkness was full of
life. Crickets chirruped steadily in the orchard behind us. From a
distant meadow the purring whistle of the whip-poor-will sounded in
continuous cadence, like a monotonous and gentle lullaby. The woods
beyond the open swamp, a shadowy blur against the sky, were still,
except for a sleepy note now and then from