134 THE APPLE. 



it blooms, the apple is a rose when its 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 fellows 

 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 Dearly 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 inde- 

 pendent vegetable existence, alive and vascular as 



