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.