OUT-OF-TOWN PLACES 



laid down between the aims of the Pomolo- 

 gists and of the quiet country liver. And I am 

 strongly inclined to think that the former are 

 a little too much disposed to sneer at the sim- 

 ple tastes of the latter. There is a sturdy 

 professional pride that enters into this, for 

 something. I have before now been thrown 

 into the company of breeders of blooded stock 

 who would not so much as notice the best 

 native animals— no matter how tenderly 

 cared for, or how assiduously combed down; 

 and yet a good dish of cream most people 

 relish, even if the name of the cow is not writ- 

 ten in the Herd-books. Of course that nice 

 discrimination of tastes which enables a man 

 to detect the minute shades of difference in 

 flavors, is a thing of growth and long culture, 

 and every man is inclined to respect what has 

 cost him long culture. But if I smack my 

 lips over the old Hovey, or a mahogany col- 

 ored Wilson, and stick by them, I do not 

 know that the zealous Pomologist has a right 

 to condemn me utterly, because I do not root 

 up my strawberry patches and plant Russell's 

 Prolific, or the Jucunda in their place. It is 

 even doubtful if extreme cultivation of taste 

 does not do away with a great deal of that 

 hearty gusto with which most men enjoy 



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