Then, in the cool long glade of yard that
stretched four hundred feet behind the house he
planted trees and grape vines. And whatever he
touched in that rich fortress of his soul sprang
into golden life: as the years passed, the fruit
trees – the peach, the plum, the cherry, the
apple – grew great and bent beneath their
clusters. His grape vines thickened into brawny
ropes of brown and coiled down the high wire
fences of his lot, and hung in a dense fabric,
upon his trellises, roping his domain twice
around. They climbed the porch end of the house
and framed the upper windows in thick bowers.
And the flowers grew in rioting glory in his
yard – the velvet-leaved nasturtium, slashed
with a hundred tawny dyes, the rose, the
snowball, the red-cupped tulip, and the lily.
The honey-suckle drooped its heavy mass upon the
fence; wherever his great hands touched the
earth it grew fruitful for him.