W 
     
    
   
   
    
     A Phantom of Delight 
     
    
   
   
    
       
     
    
   
   
    
       
     
    
   
   
    
     The ghosts of these things seem to linger 
     
     in their old haunts through many empty 
     
     years. 
     
    

    
     The orchard was large and long, en- 
     
     closed in a tumbledown old fence of 
     
     longers bleached to a silvery gray in the 
     
     suns of many lost summers. At regular 
     
     intervals along the fence were tall, 
     
     gnarled fir trees, and an evening wind, 
     
     sweeter than that which blew over the 
     
     beds of spice from Lebanon, was singing 
     
     in their tops, an earth-old song with 
     
     power to carry the soul back to the dawn 
     
     of time. 
     
    

    
     Eastward, a thick fir wood grew, be— 
     
     ginning with tiny treelets just feathering 
     
     from the grass, and grading up therefrom 
     
     to the tall veterans of the mid-grove, un- 
     
     brokenly and evenly, giving the eflfect of 
     
     a solid, sloping green wall, so beautifully 
     
     compact that it looked as if it had been 
     
     clipped into its velvet surface by art. 
     
    

    
     Most of the orchard was grown over 
     
     lushly with grass; but at the end where 
     
    
   
   
    
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