cattle yards, with their two long ponds, and
over a wide stretch of stubble which they
told me was a rye-field in summer.

At some distance behind the house were an
ash grove and two orchards; a cherry orchard,
with gooseberry and currant bushes between
the rows, and an apple orchard, sheltered by a
high hedge from the hot winds. The older chil-
dren turned back when we reached the hedge,
but Jan and Nina and Lucie crept through
it by a hole known only to themselves and
hid under the low-branching mulberry bushes.

As we walked through the apple orchard,
grown up in tall bluegrass, Antonia kept stop-
ping to tell me about one tree and another. "I
love them as if they were people," she said, rub-
bing her hand over the bark. "There wasn't
a tree here when we first came. We planted
every one, and used to carry water for them,
too -- after we'd been working in the fields all
day. Anton, he was a city man, and he used to
get discouraged. But I couldn't feel so tired
that I wouldn't fret about these trees when
there was a dry time. They were on my mind
like children. Many a night after he was
asleep I've got up and come out and carried
water to the poor things. And now, you see,

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