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“Thrice blest are they whose early years are spent in the
country-side. The flowering and withering of the seasons
and every exquisite sight and sound – and every lane,
and pasture and green corners and gnarled hollows everywhere
make them affluent with a treasure which neither
change nor chance can steal away. They drink out
of a full cup. And if they know and love an orchard
- that casket of all good and comely opulence then indeed
has been given to them the favor of the Gods, for
an apple-tree in itself holds all the sharp, throbbing
ecstatic aches of growth: it is packed with experiences.
It whitens in spring, reddens on summer, turns naked
in autumn, and gust-wracked in winter; the rain
beats upon it, it proves its relationship to us and
therefore to the robust and whirling drama of
life. “Are there wars and rumors of wars?” said
the orchard to me “They shall cease. Are you
young? You shall grow old. Are you sad. distracted,
hurrying each and west at the beck of
every wind wind that whistles? You shall rest. Are
you old? You shall renew your youth. The
tree falls; the house is pulled down. Cousins
and doctors and gypsy folk go,” said the
orchard to me “but the pattern of them,
the thing that means loveliness, or loyalty,
or romance, forever endures.

"A Victorian Village”
Lizette Woodworth Reese