Early in May, when the orchard is still gray and dreary, suddenly we notice that the upper branches of the cherry tree look as though a light snow had fallen. It seems as if the lovely blossoms had burst forth in an hour. One’s heart gives a joyful jump. Summer is really coming. The flowers of May promise the fruit of June. But when we find the blossoms of the wild cherry, it is several weeks later. Some of the little wood flowers have already come and gone. The trees are thick with leaves before we discover the fragrance of its slender, drooping clusters; for, though in other ways these blossoms are almost exactly like those of the cultivated cherry, they are much smaller, and grow differently on the branches. This same difference in size and manner of growing you will find between the wild and the cultivated fruits. You country children know well the little chokecherries (Fig. 29) that are so pretty and so plentiful along the lanes. These hang in bunches that remind you somewhat of the clusters of the currant. They are much smaller than the market cherry; yet if you cut one through, you will see that in make-up it is almost exactly like its big sister. Those of you who live near the sea find wild beach plums (Fig. 30) growing thickly along the sand hills. These are hardly larger than good-sized grapes; yet if you cut them open, you see that they are really plums. In our woods and fields we do not find any wild peaches. The peach was brought to us from far-away Persia. Only in the garden and orchard do we meet its beautiful pink blossoms. To see these growing naturally we must go to their Persian home. [Illustration: FIG. 30] So, while we remember that the cherry, the plum, and the peach belong to one little group because of their likeness to one another, let us not forget that the peach is one of the foreign members of the Rose family. IN THE WOODS What do you say this morning to going to the woods rather than to either garden or orchard? Not that I am ready to take back anything I said at the beginning of this book about the delights of the orchard as a playground. For actual play I know of no better place. An apple tree is as good a horse as it is a house, as good a ship as it is a mountain. Other trees may be taller, finer to look at, more exciting to climb; but they do not know how to fit themselves to the need of the moment as does an apple tree. But for anything besides play, the woods, the real woods, are even better than the orchard. The truth is, in the woods you have such a good time just living, that you hardly need to play; at least you do if you are made in the right way. So now we are off for the woods. We have only to cross a field and climb a fence, and we are in the lane which leads where we wish to go.