116 WINTER SUNSHINE 



rose when it blooms, the apple is a rose when it 

 ripens. It pleases every sense to which it can be 

 addressed, the touch, the smell, the sight, the taste; 

 and when it falls, in the still October days, it pleases 

 the ear. It is a call to a banquet, it is a signal 

 that the feast is ready. The bough would fain hold 

 it, but it can now assert its independence; it can 

 now live a life of its own. 



Daily the stem relaxes its hold, till finally it lets 

 go completely and down comes the painted sphere 

 with a mellow thump to the earth, toward which it 

 has been nodding so long. It bounds away to seek 

 its bed, to hide under a leaf, or in a tuft of grass. 

 It will now take time to meditate and ripen ! What 

 delicious thoughts it has there nestled with its fel 

 lows under the fence, turning acid into sugar, and 

 sugar into wine! 



How pleasing to the touch! I love to stroke its 

 polished rondure with my hand, to carry it in my 

 pocket on my tramp over the winter hills, or through 

 the early spring woods. You are company, you 

 red-cheeked spitz, or you salmon-fleshed greening! 

 I toy with you; press your face to mine, toss you 

 in the air, roll you on the ground, see you shine 

 out where you lie amid the moss and dry leaves and 

 sticks. You are so alive ! You glow like a ruddy 

 flower. You look so animated I almost expect to 

 see you move ! I postpone the eating of you, you 

 are so beautiful! How compact; how exquisitely 

 tinted! Stained by the sun and varnished against 

 the rains. An independent vegetable existence, 



