a. The Oriental is a pretty useful asset
in British Columbia, for in addition to his gifts of industry he is an
excellent agriculturist.

After the ceremonies the Prince had an orgy of orchards.

Fruit growing is done with a large gesture. The orchards are neat and
young and huge. In a run of many miles the Prince passed between
masses of precisely aligned trees, and every tree was thick with bright
and gleaming red fruit. Thick, indeed, is a mild word. The short
trees seemed practically all fruit, as though they had got into the
habit of growing apples instead of leaves. Many of the branches bore
so excessive a burden that they had been torn out by the weight of the
fruit upon them.

It was a marvellous pageant of fruit in mass. And the apples
themselves were of splendid quality, big and firm and glowing, each a
perfect specimen of its school. We were able to judge because the
land-girls, after tossing aprons full of specimens (not always
accurately) into the Prince's car, had enough ammunition left over for
the automobiles that followed.

Attractive land girls they were, too. Not garbed like British
land-girls, but having all their dashing qualities. Being Canadians
they carried the love of silk stockings on to the land, and it was
strange to see this feminine extremity under the blue linen overall
trousers or knickers. They were cheery, sun-tanned, laughing girls.
They were ready for the Prince at every gate and every orchard fence,
eager and ready to supplement their gay enthusiasm with this apple
confetti.

The Prince stopped here and there to chat with fruit growers, and to
congratulate them on their fine showing. Now he stopped to talk to a
wounded officer, who had been so cruelly used in the war that he had to
support himself on two sticks. Now he stopped to pass a "How d'y' do"
to a mob of trousered land-girls who gathered brightly about his car,
showing himself as laughing and as cheerful as they.

The cars left the land of growing apples and turned down the lake in a
superb run of thirty-six miles to Kelowna. This road skirts fairyland.
It winds high up on a shoulder above Long Lake, that makes a floor of
living azure between the buttresses and slopes of the mountains. Only
when it is tired of the heights does it drop to the lake level, and
sweeping through a filigree of trees, speeds along a road that is but
an inch or two above the still mirror of Wood Lake, on the polished
surface of