At some remote period this orchard had evidently been cultivated, but
now the weeds and grasses grew rank and matted around neglected trees.
The whole place was down at the heels. Tin cans and rusty baling wire
strewed the back yard; an ill-cared-for wagon stood squarely in front;
broken panes of glass in the windows had been replaced respectively by
an old straw hat and the dirty remains of overalls. The supports of the
little verandah roof sagged crazily. Over it clambered a vine. Close
about drew the forest. That was it: the forest! The "homestead" was a
mere hovel; the cultivation a patch; the improvements sketchy and
ancient; but the forest, become valuable for lumber where long it had
been considered available only for shakes, furnished the real motive for
this desperate attempt to rehabilitate old and lapsed rights.
The place was populous enough, for all its squalor. A half-dozen small
children, scantily clothed, swarmed amongst the tin cans; two women, one
with a baby in her arms, appeared and disappeared through the low
doorway of the cabin; a horse or two dozed among the trees of the
neglected orchard; chickens scratched everywhere.
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