In A thriving apple orchard full of trees richly laden with fruit, stood one hardy little tree whose apples remained small and green and hard.

The little tree wondered why her fruit was so small, when that on the other trees grew so large and fine.

“But perhaps as these are my first apples they are slow in ripening,” she thought. “I must be patient and before long the beautiful color will begin to appear.”

So day after day she watched for some signs of color on the cheeks of the hard little apples, and time seemed to drag more and more slowly.

But life in an apple orchard is not altogether uneventful, and the little tree became interested in finding she could take part in what was going on about her.

One day there was a curious squawk in among her branches, and soon two robins, each with a worm in his mouth, came flying in through the thick-leaved boughs, to their nest in a crotch of the tree.

“Our birdies are hatched!” they cried, filling the gaping mouths. “The little tree sheltered our eggs from storm and sun, and hid them so carefully that no one could find them. We are safer in this tree than in any tree in the orchard.”

The little tree was filled with joy at finding that, after all, there was something she could do to be of use.

“I have watched the little blue eggs ever since you left them here,” she said; and she seemed to snuggle her branches more closely about the nest.

At last the little robins grew strong enough to fly, and the nest was left empty, though the young birds stayed in the orchard and often came to perch in the tree, and sing their song of gratitude.

Indeed all the creatures about seemed to know that here was loving shelter for them. A little chipmunk made its home under the rock at the foot of the tree, and frisked up the trunk and among the boughs. Many birds perched in the branches and told wonderful song stories of what was going on in the world.

A merry little flycatcher chose a small twig under one of the boughs of the apple tree, where it perched for hours, darting out when a fly or other insect buzzed by; but always returning to the little twig as if it were home. In the shade of the thick-leaved boughs, the friendly cows sought shelter, patiently chewing their cud, and switching their tails to shoo off the flies.

And so the earnest little tree did all she could to be of use, and was more beloved, though she did not know it, than any tree in the orchard. Yet she could not but think sadly of her little green apples, that seemed to show no signs of ripening.

Many long summer days passed. The early harvest apples in their full prime were picked and barreled.

Each day the golden pippins grew more juicy and golden; the big jolly Ben Davis, wine-saps, northern spies, bellflowers and many others ripening in their turn, filled the orchard with a delightful odor and glow of color; but the fruit on the one tree seemed as hard and backward as ever.

The trees with the beautiful fruit laughed and whispered among themselves, and the little tree was very unhappy, for she thought they were laughing at her.

“Surely my fruit must begin to ripen soon,” she thought.

But at night when the rest of the orchard was asleep, she wept silently to herself, for she wondered if it could be possible that her apples would not ripen at all.

At last summer seemed to hold her breath. Day after day the warm sunshine beat down upon the orchard, drowsy with the richness and fulness of its almost completed labor. The trees now and then stirred their heavy branches, as if suggesting that it was time to be relieved of their burden.

One day a flock of merry children came to the orchard to play. The day was cool, a gentle breeze stirred, early fall had blown its first faint breath.

The children frolicked all day, ate their luncheon on the grass, shook down ripe apples, and with the lengthening evening shadows, began to gather up their baskets, happy and contented and ready to go home.

A cool evening breeze sprang up with sudden briskness.

“Look at that black cloud!” cried a little urchin.

Suddenly the rain began to come down with a brisk patter; the children scampered quickly under the nearest tree; the dark cloud overspread the whole sky, rain pelted down, a great wind roared through the orchard, bending the trees, and causing their branches to wave wildly and a shower of apples to fall.

“Oh, where shall we go?” cried the children. “The apples are pelting us, and the rain drives in upon us.”

“Yonder under the little tree with green apples,” cried one. “See how thickly leaved it is, and how low the boughs bend; we shall be well sheltered there.”

Quickly they rushed to the tree, and how gladly she gathered them in, and kept them dry under her loving arms; and not one of her apples fell off.

Soon the shower was over, and the children scampered home, saying:

“It’s a good thing we were near that tree, or we should have been soaking wet. There isn’t another one like it in the orchard.”

The little tree heard their words of gratitude, and wept for joy.

The next day was bright and warm, and pleasant sunshiny weather followed. At last the haze of Indian summer settled lovingly over the country and the orchard rang with the voices of men and boys carrying baskets and ladders.

“Too bad that equinoctial storm was such a blusterer,” said one of the men. “These lazy trees have dropped much of their fruit, and it lies bruised on the ground.”

But they picked barrel after barrel of the rich harvest, and soon the little tree was left alone with her burden of useless fruit.

Now the trees seemed prouder than ever, and talked boastfully about the fine apple harvest they had furnished for mankind.

The little tree sighed softly to herself.

“But I must not be unhappy,” she said, “for if I cannot bear beautiful red and golden apples, there is surely some work for me to do, and I shall find out what it is.”

And now, though the little tree had not noticed that her apples had grown, her branches were bending almost to the ground with their weight. She tried to shake off some of the apples, for it seemed to add to her disgrace to bear so much of this useless fruit. But she could no more shake them off than could the wind and storm.

The clear cool fall days were passing, growing shorter and shorter. The little tree was very lonely now, for the chipmunk was snug in his winter home, the birds had flown south and the cows now looked for sun instead of shade. The other trees, having finished their work, were preparing for their long winter nap. The little tree way down in the corner of the orchard seldom saw any one, but she was stout of heart, and kept on saying:

“I know I shall find some way to be of use.”

She did not pay much attention to her apples, for she had long ago given up hopes of their becoming red and ripe.

Every night now white frost tripped daintily over the hardening ground, and at sunup disappeared; the days were cool and bright; the frosts grew heavier and the weather colder.

One day there were voices in the orchard, men and boys carrying baskets and ladders were coming; and to the astonishment of the little tree, they stopped under her boughs, placed the ladders in the branches and climbed up.

“Good old apples!” cried one of the boys, dropping them into his basket with a plump.

“A fine yield!” said one of the men. “Did you ever see anything more beautiful than this rich golden brown?”

“The sweetest apple that ever grew!” said another. “I don’t feel that I’ve had an apple till November brings these.”

“It’s a wise Providence that saves this sweetest morsel for the last,” declared a third.

The little tree listened, trembling with happiness. Could it be true?

She gazed at the fruit on her heavy branches, and there, like drops of gold, tinged with the sombre violet of November, hung ball after ball of the luscious sweetness.

“Oh!” she murmured, “how blest I am to have so much to give, when all the rest of nature is silent and sleeping. How happy I shall be, and how earnestly I will try to bear the sweetest apples ever grown!”

At last the apples were all picked and carried to the great bins in the cellar, there to lie mellowing and sweetening for the farmer’s use during the long winter months.

And the little russet apple tree went to sleep, and took her long nap with the rest.