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Follow the path and ascend the mountain, and the Peach Grove reveals itself all at once before you. Hundreds of trees there may be, some spaced wide, some growing close, each stands in its rightful place. In spring, crimson clouds drape the ridge; in summer, boughs bend heavy with scarlet fruit. When the autumn wind stirs with a whisper, the swollen fruit sways and trembles, and at the touch of rain it falls, strewing the ground in glad abundance. When a guest arrives and tilts his head upward in patient waiting, the ripest fruit drops of its own accord into his open palm, and held upon the tongue, the mouth fills at once with sweetness.