146 STATE POMOLOGICAIv SOCIETY. 



I fill my basket, and my treasures bear, 



Where happy mates, its autumn sweetness share — 



I sing and sing, and, as I sing, I eat 



Another apple, toothsome, soft and sweet — 



Upon the laden boughs we gaily swing. 



The topmost apples, from its branch to bring. — 



I sing the story of the paring bee. 



The paring and the quartering I see; 



The coring, and the stringing ; and I seem 



To gaze far back, into a childhood dream — 



I sing the perfect string, hung firm and high; 



(I cannot sing of the dried apple pie.) 



I sing the pretty girls, "the Mission's" peril — 



The "Copenhagen," and the "Hunt the Squirrel." 



I hear Amanda, as she counts the seeds. 

 Blushing and laughing, for, she plainly reads 

 Her fate in numbers — 



"One's my heart's desire — 

 Four I take, and never forsake, 

 And five, I throw in the fire — 

 Six — he loves" — 



What shouts arise ! 

 Oh see those tossing curls ! 

 "Nine, they both love." 



Ah, those eyes — 

 Those happy boys and girls ! 



I sing Snow apples, full of crimson juice, 



Barreled away for late December use. 



I sing the Greening, large, and full, and round. 



From month to month, better and better found. 



I think of apple sauce, and apple pies, 



And dumplings, and turnovers greet my eyes, — 



And rich mince pies, and every fruitful thing, 



Of these I sing. — 



I see another apple, hanging high. 



And sing the glory of the Northern Spy. 



I listen to the buzzing of the bees — 



And pick the white-winged blossoms from the trees. 



And wait and wait, until the apples fall. 



And sing my song, 



"These are the best of all" — 



Then sing the Harvest song, the song of fruit— 

 The merry jesting, and the glad dispute — 

 The anthem of Thanksgiving, let us sing, 



