THE APPLE. 37 



out the ripe ones for her. An apple is an apple, and 

 there is no best about it. I heard of a quick-witted 

 old cow that learned to shake them down from the 

 tree. While rubbing herself she had observed that 

 an apple sometimes fell. This stimulated her to rub 

 a little harder, when more apples fell. She then took 

 the hint and rubbed her shoulder with such vigor that 

 the farmer had to check her and keep an eye on her 

 to save his fruit. 



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 ya^ 

 riety being nearly as marked by its form as by its 

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

 Kibston 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 uncloying fruit. 



Sweet apples are perhaps the most nutritious, and 

 when baked are a feast in 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. 



