lead. He took them out at the back, past the
plashy town-place, past a commotion of chickens, and up a rocky lane,
whose high, mossy banks were blue with dog-violets and twinkling white
with adders' eyes. The perambulator bumped over the loose stones, but
young Frank, sleeping admirably, never stirred; while his rosy cheeks
danced with ripples of light shaken down through the young-leafed elms.
Not too far up they came to a rickety gate, which Granfa dragged open to
admit his guests; and almost before they knew where they were, they
stood buried in the apple-blossoms of a small secluded orchard cut off
from the fields around by thick hedges of hawthorn.

"What a glorious place!" Jenny cried enthusiastically. "Oh, I do think
this is nice."

Mr. Champion, his hair looking snowy white in the rosy flush of blossom,
explained the fairylike existence of the close.

"This old orchard was never scat up with the others. They burnt they up
in a frizz of repenitence. The Band of Hope come and scat them all
abroad with great axes, shouting Hallelujah and screaming and roaring so
as anyone was ashamed to be a human creature. Darn 'ee, I was so mad
when I heard tell of it, I lived on nothing but cider almost for weeks,
though 'tis a drink as do turn me sour all over."

"Idiots," said Jenny. "But why didn't they pull this to pieces? There
must be lots of apples here."

"It got avoided somehow, and Zachary he just left it go; but 'tis a
handsome place, sure enough. You'll dearly love sitting here come
summertime."

"Rather!" Jenny and May agreed.

Already in isolated petals the blossom was beginning to flutter down;
but still the deserted orchard was in the perfection of its beauty. Down
in the cool grass, fortified against insects and dampness by many rugs,
Jenny and May and young Frank used to lie outstretched. They could see
through the pink and white lace of blossom deep, distant skies, where
for unknown landscapes the cuckoos struck their notes on space like
dulcimers; they could hear the goldfinch whistle to his nest in the
lichened fork above and wind-blown in treetops the copperfinch's burst
of song. They could listen to the greenfinch calling sweetly from the
hawthorn hedge, while tree-creepers ran like mice up the gray bark and
woodpeckers flirted in the grass. The narcissus bloomed here very
fragrant, contending wild-eyed with daisies and buttercups. There was
mistletoe--marvelous in the reality of its growth, but at