208 



A NORTHERN APPLE ORCHARD. 



half bushel baskets by a medly crowd of boys and girls, 

 with one or two old withered dames. Three rows of 

 barrels, choice, seconds and thirds, or "scalawags," 

 she said, with a quiet smile, in answer to my questions. 



The Apple Buyer. 



and then, as if to be rid of my company, she pointed to 

 the upper orchard where father and mother were sorting 

 some superior fruit for shipment. Through the long 

 aftermath of crisping clover we went, past a field of 

 raspberry and blackberry canes that gave promise of a 

 rich next summer harvest, and on to a slope of trees 

 laden to the ground with rich, red fruit. And here 

 stood Mr. and Mrs. October, indeed, sorting and pack- 

 ing the ruby beauties, rejecting any that had the slight- 

 est blemish. The soft, grey felt hat of the master of the 

 orchard fell over a face at once shrewd and benign. "A 

 Scotchman," was my first thought, which was verified 

 by his tongue. " Ye're verra welcome if Mister Gibb 

 sent you, '' was his salutation, while his wife, after a 

 cordial bow, went on with her packing, and I found by 

 watching, that it required the closest attention to sort 

 correctly as to size and quality. These apples were the 

 " Fameuse, " a staple Canadian fruit, too little known in 

 the American market and something that will surprise us 

 with its white, crisp flesh and ruddy beauty when we 

 have free trade with our sister province. At present the 

 duties preclude all possibility of marketing it in "the 

 States,'' as the natives there call our mighty republic. 

 " There is no fear but we could compete well with your 

 American fruit,'' said the owner, with pardonable pride, 

 "if it was not for the duty, because we have just the 

 climate suitable for apple growing. I was at your Cen- 

 tennial in '76 and saw the apples opened up. But there 

 wasn't any could compare with Canada in color and 

 flavor, except Michigan and our own Nova Scotia. We 

 want free trade, sir, and none of this protection." Not 

 being much interested in the national policy, Pomme 

 had walked on, and soon motioned me to another part 



of the orchard where one of the daughters busily sorted 

 St. Lawrence apples. "A lone packer,'' she said, as 

 the young girl lifted her blue eyes to us, and quietly 

 went on with her sorting as if such intrusions were of 

 every-day occurrence. The sunlight shone on the white, 

 smooth barrels and glistened on the striped beautiful 

 fruit that was piled high above the chine as the 

 ''crusher" or press is put on to screw them firmly in 

 before nailing down the head. Before we left her the 

 "lone packer" became quite friendly, and showed us 

 the two rows of "setters" in the bottom of the barrel 

 that have to be put in with the greatest care and firm- 

 ness. "And do you work all day at this?" I asked, 

 looking at her slim figure. " Oh, yes," she answered, 

 brightly ; "it isn't hard work, only one gets dizzy now 

 and then if 'setting' too steadily. " "I should think," 

 said Pomme, " there would be a great deal of dizziness 

 before these thousands of barrels ^ere marketed." 

 Yet we found them all cheerful and helpful, even little 

 Flemish Beauty being able to pick up the fallen fruit and 

 lay it in a heap when it is assorted separately. Near 

 the storing shed a small shaver of ten stood with a tub 

 of paint and a brush. He had just laid down his brand 

 and a streak of black shone on his nose and chin and 

 over his rosy cheek. " How do you do, and what do 

 you do ?" I asked ; and he answered in rich, resonant 

 tones, "I am the ' brander, '" smearing his brush over 

 the head of a barrel, which afterwards, as if by magic, 

 read; "Choice Fameuse Apples, Grown and Packed 

 by October and Sons, Charmonte, Canada." "How 

 many brothers and sisters have you ?" asked Pomme. 

 "Five of each, " he answered "proudly, and they're all 

 in the orchard there," with a nod of his sagacious head. 

 Just then from church and convent pealed forth a 



Conscientious Packing. 



cheerful bell, that vibrated on the clear air. We did 

 not know that it was noon, but were soon informed that 

 this daily summons served as clock to all the habitants of 

 the valley, who instantly dropped their work at the last 



