APPLES 



air freely. A decade passes, and the sparse 

 showing of bloom that has decorated it each 

 spring gradually gives place to a great glory 

 of flowers. The tree is about to bear, and it 

 assumes the character of maturity; for while it 

 grows on soberly for many years, there is now 

 a spreading, a sort of relaxation, very different 

 from the vigorous upshooting of its early 

 youth. After a crop or two, the tree has 

 become, to the eye, the familiar orchard 

 member, and it leans a little from the blasts 

 of winter, twists aside from the perpendicular, 

 spreads comfortably over a great expanse of 

 ground, and settles down to its long, useful, 

 and truly beautiful life. 



While the young orchard is trim and 

 handsome, I confess to a greater liking for 

 the rugged old trees that have followed blos- 

 som with fruit in unstinted profusion for a 

 generation. There is a certain character of 

 sturdy good -will about these substantial stems 

 that the clinging snows only accentuate in 

 winter. The framework of limb and twig is 

 very different from that of the other trees, 

 and the twisty lines seem to mean warmth 



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