28 THE APPLE. 



the fence, turning acid into sugar, and sugar into 



wine ! 



How pleasing to tlie touch ! I love to stroke its 

 polished rondure with my hand, to carry it in my 

 pocket on my tramp over the winter hills, or through 

 the early spring woods. You are company, you red- 

 cheeked spitz, or you salmon-fleshed greening ! I toy 

 with you ; press your face to mine, toss you in the air, 

 roll you on the ground, see you shine out where you 

 lie amid the moss and dry leaves and sticks. You are 

 so alive I You glow like a ruddy flower. You look 

 so animated I almost expect to see you move. I 

 postpone the eating of you, you are so beautiful! 

 How compact ; how exquisitely tinted ! Stained by 

 the sun and varnished against the rains. An inde- 

 pendent vegetable existence, alive and vascular as my 

 own flesh ; capable of being wounded, bleeding, wast- 

 ing away, and almost of repairing damages ! 



How it resists the cold ! holding out almost as long 

 as the red cheeks of the boys do. A frost that de- 

 stroys the potatoes and other roots only makes the 

 apple more crisp and vigorous ; it peeps out from 

 the chance November snows unscathed. When I see 

 the fruit-vender on the street corner stamping his feet 

 and beating his hands to keep them warm, and his 

 naked apples lying exposed to the blasts, I wonder if 

 they do not ache too to clap their hands and enliven 

 their circulation. But they can stand it nearly as long 

 as the vender can. 



Noble common fruit, best friend of man and most 

 loved by him, following him like his dog or his cow, 

 wherever he goes. His homestead is not planted till 

 you are planted, your roots intertwine with his ; thriv- 

 ing best where he thrives best, loving the limestone 



