dear old apple-tree, under whose gnarled branches these stories were written, to you i dedicate the book. my head was so close to you, who can tell from whence the thoughts came? i only know that when all the other trees in the orchard were barren, there were always stories to be found under your branches, and so it is our joint book, dear apple-tree. your pink blossoms have fallen on the page as i wrote; your ruddy fruit has dropped into my lap; the sunshine streamed through your leaves and tipped my pencil with gold. the birds singing in your boughs may have lent a sweet note here and there; and do you remember the day when the gentle shower came? we just curled the closer, and you and i and the sky all cried together while we wrote “the fore-room rug.”

it should be a lovely book, dear apple-tree, but alas! it is not altogether that, because i am not so simple as you, and because i have strayed farther away from the heart of mother nature.

kate douglas wiggin

“quillcote,” hollis, maine, august 12, 1895.