THE ORCHARD. 245 



their weight. I see them peeping at me from under 

 every leaf, and hanging in innumerable sphericles, 

 round shapes everywhere, ripe and ready for the har- 

 vest. I reach and pull them to me, and, turning one 

 back a little, it breaks from its twig, dead ripe, and is 

 soon fulfilling its intended usefulness; or perhaps, upon 

 being jostled, one falls on my shoulder, in a tap, as 

 it were, of friendly recognition, bidding its last good- 

 bye, and then thumps and bounces at my feet. Others 

 are not quite so mature, and these are the ones for the 

 market. My sack is soon full, and I step down the 

 ladder, and gently pour them out into one of the 

 bushel baskets; another is soon emptying his, and be- 

 fore long the first basket is heaped and running over. 

 Later, and these will all be hauled up to the barn, and 

 there be still further sorted into four distinct classes: 

 the ripe ones (to eat), the little, knotty, specked ones 

 (for the hogs), the medium-sized ones (for the can- 

 ning), and the large, fine-looking, imposing fellows 

 (for the market). Sometimes, indeed, all these last 

 do not find their way to a market, but go the familiar 

 road of the kitchen and the evening circle about the 

 fireplace. 



I think if I have a favorite apple it is the fine old 

 Tulpehocken (the Fallawater). There used to be, and 

 is still, a moss-grown tree of that variety in the orchard, 

 close to a dry brook-bed; and the great greenish balls 

 would fall and slowly roll down the little slope, there 

 to hide away among the weeds. I used to like to pick 

 them out from the hollows and burrows which they 

 had made for themselves amongst the leaves and 

 grasses. They were sweet, but not too sweet; and they 



