THE APPLE. 37 
out the ripe ones for her. An apple is an apple, and 
there is no best about it. I heard of a quick-witted 
old cow that learned to shake them down from the 
tree. While rubbing herself she had observed that 
an apple sometimes fell. This stimulated her to rub 
a little harder, when more apples fell. She then took 
the hint and rubbed her shoulder with such vigor that 
the farmer had to check her and keep an eye on her 
to save his fruit. 
But the cow is the friend of the apple. How many 
trees she has planted about the farm, in the edge of 
the woods, and in remote fields and pastures. The 
wild apples, celebrated by Thoreau, are mostly of her 
planting. She browses them down to be sure, but they 
are hers, and why should she not ? 
What an individuality the apple-tree has, each va- 
riety being nearly as marked by its form as by its 
fruit. What a vigorous grower, for instance, is the 
Ribston pippin, an English apple. Wide branching 
like the oak, and its large ridgy fruit, in late fall or 
early winter, is one of my favorites. Or the thick and 
more pendent top of the belleflower, with its equally 
rich, sprightly wncloying fruit. 
Sweet apples are perhaps the most nutritious, and 
when baked are a feast of themselves. With a tree 
of the Jersey sweet or of Tolman’s sweeting in bear- 
ing, no man’s table need be devoid of luxuries and 
one of the most wholesome of all deserts. Or the 
red astrachan, an August apple, what a gap may be 
filled in the culinary department of a household at 
this season, by a single tree of this fruit! And what 
a feast is its shining crimson coat to the eye before its 
snow-white flesh has reached the tongue. But the 
apple of apples for the household is the spitzenberg. 
