But I have almost forgotten the walk we were taking. The sunlight glinted through the leaves over our path, and made mosaics on the crisp leaves under foot. From the orchards came the odor of ripening apples, and rich cider, and the old farm days come back in mind with them. Strange, is it not, that nothing should so quickly recall the simple joys of youth as the suggestions of appetite. In one place, the whole family were in the orchard under the apple trees gathering apples; the stalwart farmer and his healthy-looking wife, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked as her children almost—a happy picture of contented toil, of the homes which make men and Americans.
Walk on An Indian Summer Day