Chapter 1

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_Title:_ The Bloom of May
_Date of first publication:_ 1921
_Author:_ L. M. (Lucy Maud) Montgomery (1874-1942)
_Date first posted:_ May 26, 2017
_Date last updated:_ May 26, 2017
Faded Page eBook #20170551

This ebook was produced by: Alex White & the online Distributed
Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net

The Bloom of May
_The Story of An Old Apple Tree and Those Who Loved It_
L. M. Montgomery
Author of “Anne of Green Gables,” “Anne of the Island,” and other stories.
Illustrations by G. W. L. Bladen omitted, no biographical information
available.
First published _Canadian Home Journal_, May 1921.

The apple tree grew in a big, green meadow by a brook. It was an old
tree—so old that hardly anybody remembered when it had begun to grow.
Nobody had planted it; it had sprung from some chance-sown seed, and had
grown so sturdily and valiantly that Miser Tom’s father had let it live
when he discovered it. Now Miser Tom’s father had been dead for forty
years, and the tree was living still—a great, wide-branching thing,
known to all the country round as “Miser Tom’s apple tree.” Miser Tom
cared nothing for it; the sour green apples it bore were fit only for
pigs to eat; but, somehow, the countryside had a sort of prescriptive
right to it, as it had to the little cross-lots road that ran past it;
and though there were few things Miser Tom dared not do for the sake of
making and hoarding, he never dared to cut down the tree or shut up the
road.

In Maytime “Miser Tom’s tree” was a wonderful thing. The blossoms were
snow white, with no tint of rose, and they covered its boughs so thickly
that hardly a leaf could be seen. It always bloomed; there were no “off”
years for it. Old homesteads, sacred to the loves of the living and the
memories of the dead, were all around it. Violets grew thickly in the
grass at its roots, and the little cross-lots path ran by it and looped
lightly up and over the hill—a little, lovable, red path over which the
vagabond wandered, and the lover went to his lady, and children to joy,
and tired men home.

Years before one of Miser Tom’s hired men had built a little wooden seat
under the tree. Miser Tom did not keep him long—he was lazy, it
seemed—but the seat remained, and almost every hour of the day some
passer-by would step aside from the path to rest awhile under the great
tree, and look up into its fragrant arch of bloom with eyes that saw it
or saw it not, according as they were or were not holden by human
passions. The slim, pale girl, with the delicate air and the large
wistful brown eyes, did not see it as she sat there with the young man
who had overtaken her on the path. She had loved him always, it seemed
to her; and there had been times when she thought he loved, or might
love her. But now she knew he never would. He was joyously telling her
of his coming marriage to another girl. She was so pale she could not
turn any paler, and she kept her eyes down so that he might not see the
anguish in them: she forced her lips to utter some words of good wishes,
and he was so wrapped up in the egotism of his own happiness that he
found nothing wanting; she had always been a quiet, dull little thing.
When he was gone she sat there for a long time because she was too
unhappy to move. “I shall hate this place forever,” she said aloud,
looking up at the beautiful tree. She walked away full of bitterness
when she saw two men coming along the path.

They turned in and sat down under the tree. One was the minister of the
community and the other a visiting friend, and they were deep in a
profound discussion concerning the immortality of the soul. The friend
was doubtful of it, and the minister desired greatly to convince him;
but at the end his friend looked up with a smile and said:

“After all, John, this tree is a better argument than any you’ve
advanced. When I look at it I feel I’m immortal.”

“That is better than believing,” said the minister, with a little laugh.
They felt suddenly very near to each other. “Our love—our old
friendship—of course it’s immortal,” he said. “It couldn’t be anything
else. One knows that—here. I have wasted my breath.”

* * * * *

When they went away, two lovers came along the path through the blue
of the afternoon. They held each other openly by the hand, as people
dared to do on the by-path; and when he asked her, seriously, to sit for
awhile on the bench under the old tree, she assented tremblingly, for
she knew what he was going to say. She was very young and very pretty
and very sweet—as sweet and virginal as the apple blossoms. When she
said “Yes” to his question, he kissed her and both sat silent for joy.
They hated to go away and leave the darling spot. “How I shall always
love this dear old tree,” he said. “This place will always be sacred to
me.”

The old tree suddenly waved its boughs over them as if in blessing. So
many lovers had sat beneath it; it had screened so many kisses. Many of
the lips that had kissed were ashes now; but the miracle of love renewed
itself every springtime.