



Few New England boys need be told what the May- 

 apple is the real May-apple of the swamp -pinks and 

 of the Pilgrim Fathers, not the yellow tomato -like af- 

 fair known as May-apple in the States farther south 

 and west, and which the doctors and botanists call 

 Podophyllum. No; the May-apple of the South has a 

 selfish errand in life ; it is filled with seeds, and is con- 

 cerned only in its own posterity; but the May-apple 

 which hangs among the clusters of the wild, fragrant 

 pink swamp -azaleas has no mission in the world except 

 to melt in the mouth of the eager, thirsty small boy. 

 He knows little and cares less what it really is. He 

 only knows that it beckons him as he passes through 

 the May woods, and its cool, translucent, pale- green 

 pulp is like balm to his thirsty lips. How it makes the 

 corners of my jaws ache with thirsty yearning as I think 



