Behind the house was a grove of fir and spruce, a dim, cool place
where the winds were fond of purring and where there was always a
resinous, woodsy odour. On the further side of it was a thick
plantation of slender silver birches and whispering poplars; and
beyond it was Uncle Roger's house.

Right before us, girt about with its trim spruce hedge, was the
famous King orchard, the history of which was woven into our
earliest recollections. We knew all about it, from father's
descriptions, and in fancy we had roamed in it many a time and
oft.

It was now nearly sixty years since it had had its beginning,
when Grandfather King brought his bride home. Before the wedding
he had fenced off the big south meadow that sloped to the sun; it
was the finest, most fertile field on the farm, and the
neighbours told young Abraham King that he would raise many a
fine crop of wheat in that meadow. Abraham King smiled and,
being a man of few words, said nothing; but in his mind he had a
vision of the years to be, and in that vision he saw, not
rippling acres of harvest gold, but great, leafy avenues of
wide-spreading trees laden with fruit to gladden the eyes of
children and grandchildren yet unborn.

It was a vision to develop slowly into fulfilment. Grandfather
King was in no hurry. He did not set his whole orchard out at
once, for he wished it to grow with his life and history, and be
bound up with all of good and joy that should come to his
household. So the morning after he had brought his young wife
home they went together to the south meadow and planted their