There were a great many holidays at Plumfield, and one of the most delightful was the yearly apple-picking … The old orchard wore its holiday attire; golden rod and asters fringed the mossy walls; grasshoppers skipped briskly in the sere grass, and crickets chirped like fairy pipers at a feast; squirrels were busy with their small harvesting; birds twittered their adieux from the alders in the lane; and every tree stood ready to send down its shower of red or yellow apples at the first shake. Everybody was there; everybody laughed and sang, climbed up and tumbled down; everybody declared that there had never been such a perfect day or such a jolly set to enjoy it; and everyone gave themselves up to the simple pleasures of the hour as freely as if there were no such things as care or sorrow in the world.