n 



all. But He did make the Cohansey Creek persimmon, 

 and He made it as good as He could. Nowhere else 

 under the sun can you find such persimmons as these 

 along the creek, such richness of flavor, such gummy, 

 candied quality, woodsy, wild, crude, especially the 

 fruit of two particular trees on the west bank, near 

 Lupton's Pond. But they never come to this perfec- 

 tion, never quite lose their pucker, until midwinter, 

 a's if they had been intended for the Christmas 

 table of the woods. 



It had been nearly twenty years since I crossed 

 this pasture of the cedars on my way to the per- 

 simmon trees. The cows had been crossing every 

 year, yet not a single new crook had they worrT1n 

 the old paths. But I was half afraid as I came to 

 the fence where I could look down upon the pond 

 and over to the persimmon trees. Not one of the 

 Luptons, who owned pasture and pond and trees, 

 had ever been a boy, so far as I could remember, or 

 had ever eaten of those persimmons. Would they 

 have left the trees through all these years ? 



I pushed through the hedge of cedars and stopped 

 for an instant, confused. The very pond was gone ! 

 and the trees! No, there was the pond, but how 



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