24 THE APPLE-TREE 



hood spent in an orchard now passed away, as father 

 and mother have passed, as playmates have fallen one 

 by one, the old place holding only memories. Here is 

 my boyhood because the earth is always young and 

 repeats her miracles for the children by my side as it did 

 for me so many many years ago. Yet the miracles are 

 greater now than they were then. They have more 

 meaning. Now are they part of some great order. They 

 are not separate. Without moving my feet, I lay my 

 hands on apples, Virginia creeper, asparagus, marigold, 

 sweet sultan, oxalis, plantain, crab-grass, white clover, 

 all growing securely in one place, and everyone like unto 

 itself alone. Here is the everlasting miracle before my 

 eyes, and all miracles are mysteries. Once I thought I 

 should understand such things when I was "grown up," 

 but I find myself still a boy. 



These three apples on the last of the days of July 

 look fair and sound, partly hiddell in the leaves, the deep 

 red colors covering them in broad splashed stripes and 

 relieved by light dots. Yet when I raise the leaves or 

 when I lift the apples apart, I find the burrows of insects. 

 They know that these apples are good. It is astonishing 

 how nature covers up the wounds, how she conceals the 

 sore places, and how fair she makes everything look. 

 Were it not that she covers the depredations of man, the 

 earth would not long remain habitable by him. 



Summer is ended. Today the sun is on the equator, 

 and we are at the equinox when nights are equal to the 

 days, as the word testifies. The harvest is over. The 

 apples are no more. Yet the tree still is active and pre- 

 paring for another year (Fig. 12). The spurs are now 

 thick and stout, bearing sturdy hard leaves. The bud in 



