THE APPLE. 145 



But the cow is the friend of the apple. How many 

 trees she has planted about the farm, in the edge of 

 the woods, and in remote fields and pastures. The 

 wild apples, celebrated by Thoreau, are mostly of her 

 planting. She browses them down to be sure, but 

 they are hers, and why should she not ? 



What an individuality the apple-tree has, each va- 

 riety being nearly as marked by its form as by its 

 fruit. What a vigorous grower, for instance, is the 

 Ribston pippin, an English apple. Wide branching 

 like the oak, and its large ridgy fruit, in late fall or 

 early winter, is one of my favorites. Or the thick 

 and more pendent top of the belleflower, with its 

 equally rich, sprightly, unclosing fruit. 



Sweet apples are perhaps the most nutritious, and 

 when baked are a feast of themselves. With a tree 

 of the Jersey sweet or of Tolman's sweeting in bear- 

 ing, no man's table need be devoid of luxuries and 

 one of the most wholesome of all deserts. Or the 

 red astrachan, an August apple, what a gap may be 

 filled in the culinary department of a household at this 

 season, by a single tree of this fruit ! And what a 

 feast is its shining crimson coat to the eye before its 

 snow-white flesh has reached the tongue. But the 

 apple of apples for the household is the spitzenberg. 

 In this casket Pomona has put her highest flavors. 

 It can stand the ordeal of cooking, and still remain 

 a spitz. I recently saw a barrel of these apples from 

 the orchard of a fruit grower in the northern part of 

 New York, who has devoted especial attention to 

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