On the other side of the grass-track up which we are walking lies that orchard that you guessed at from the road—orderly row upon row of apple-trees: Pearmains, Nonpareils, Irish peaches, Bess Poules, Pippins, stone and orange, great Purities, and a whole host more. What charming names apple-trees have: not like those of the poor roses and sweet peas, all William This, and Mrs. That, and Adolphus Ebenezer the Other:—and what a charming sight this apple-orchard is! all a delicious froth of fresh white and pale pink, and new, shy green; and, expanding beneath it, hidden in the new-sprung grass, I know what green fans, what soon-to-be-white wide flowers! for that is Peter’s strawberry bed. And, between us and the race, look at Catherine’s broad flower-border—herb-garden, too; where the wallflowers, primroses, and polyanthus now, the stocks and lavender, tiger-lilies and Seven Sisters roses in the hot days coming, mingle kindly with grey sage and marjoram, with mint that steps down into the water, and thyme that spreads a fragrant cushion beside the path.
A little further, and here, beneath the apple-trees, are the coops of the Leghorns in sight. Cheep, cheep—only look at all the little ones! Catherine must hear the voice of Fortune calling to her quite clearly now, whenever she comes this way. All of them in coops? Ah, yes—for a certain reason which you have but to look up in order to see for yourself. How beautifully hawks do fly, don’t they? sailing round and round with scarcely a movement of those splendid wings. But for all that, Mr. Hawk, not a white Leghorn for dinner, if you please! Go and dine, if dine on tender chick
