146 STATE POMOLOGICAL S0CIE:TY. 



I fill my basket, and my treasures bear, 



Where happy mates, its autumn sweetness share — 



I sing and sing, and, as I sing, I eat 



Another apple, toothsome, soft and sweet — 



Upon the laden boughs we gaily swing. 



The topmost apples, from its branch to bring. — 



I sing the story of the paring bee, 



The paring and the quartering I see; 



The coring, and the stringing; and I seem 



To gaze far back, into a childhood dream — 



I sing the perfect string, hung firm and high; 



(I cannot sing of the dried apple pie.) 



I sing the pretty girls, "the Mission's" peril — 



The "Copenhagen," and the "Hunt the Squirrel." 



I hear Amanda, as she counts the seeds, 

 Blushing and laughing, for, she plainly reads 

 Her fate in numbers — 



"One's my heart's desire — 

 Four I take, and never forsake. 

 And five, I throw in the fire — 

 Six — he loves" — 



What shouts arise ! 

 Oh see those tossing curls ! 

 "Nine, they both love." 



Ah, those eyes — 

 Those happy boys and girls ! 



I sing Snow apples, full of crimson juice, 



Barreled away for late December use. 



I sing the Greening, large, and full, and round. 



From month to month, better and better found. 



I think of apple sauce, and apple pies, 



And dumplings, and turnovers greet my eyes, — 



And rich mince pies, and every fruitful thing. 



Of these I sing. — 



I see another apple, hanging high, 



And sing the glory of the Northern Spy. 



I listen to the buzzing of the bees — 



And pick the white-winged blossoms from the trees, 



And wait and wait, until the apples fall. 



And sing my song, 



"These are the best of all"— 



Then sing the Harvest song, the song of fruit — 

 The merry jesting, and the glad dispute — 

 The anthem of Thanksgiving, let us sing. 



