vine," or else to climb the sapling that up- 

 bears it to the very top, then clasp it with 

 both hands and swing off, bringing tree and 

 vine to earth. Grapes so obtained have al- 

 most the savor of forbidden fruit a wild, 

 fresh, woodsy flavor, with a tang of frost 

 that no clusters from the vineyard may 

 hope to equal. 



A little farther on stand persimmon-trees 

 in clumps. The small clear space about 

 them held a pioneer's cabin eighty -odd 

 years ago. There is no trace of it now, 

 save the big flat stones that mark the 

 hearth and these thick-growing trees. 



Persimmon beer was the height of liquid / 

 luxury in those days. To make it, the ripe 

 fruit was gathered, mashed, and kneaded 

 with corn meal into big flat cakes an inch 

 thick. After baking, these were broken up 

 in water, and allowed to ferment. The re- 

 sult was a clear, pale, yellow liquid, sweetish- 

 sour, with a faint sparkle to it in short, the 

 champagne of that primitive era. These 

 trees did not furnish it. Instead they 

 sprang from seed thrown away in beer- 

 making. They are bare of leaves now, but 

 hung thick with soft, sweet, tawny- yellow 

 globes, thick-dusted with purple bloom. A 

 week ago they looked fully ripe, but if you 



