Jonathan Chapman, orchardist, was possibly the only man living in Pittsburgh who should be counting his grains at the end of the day, although no other had such attractive wares to offer as he. But he could not honestly sell young apple trees that would die on the long, slow journeys into the wilderness of the Northwest Territory, so he was obliged to discourage men from buying. Nevertheless he would have as busy as a day as any, just in being a brother to wayfaring man and beast.
His nursery and orchard lay on the main traveled road, on the blow of Grant's Hill, the very first bit of rising ground eastward of town. From that green and flowery slope the ancient woods had long since retreated, so from rude doorways below, from forest clamps above, and from boats on the flanking, bluff boarded streams Johnny’s blossoming trees were visible that morning as a drift of dawn. To the nearer view of passes-by the nurseries made and his orchard offered a moment...