THE RIPENING AUTUMN 
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fruit-bud to faery seas of blossom, and thence to these 
ruddy and golden globes—believe me, the miracle is a 
miracle yet. Blown by all the winds that pass, and wet 
with all the showers, how should this harvest not be 
impregnated through and through with the very spirit 
and soul of summer, the divine breath of the open air. 
Here, as everywhere, there are differences and dis¬ 
tinctions ; more, it may be, than the casual purchaser 
who falls under the easy spell of the fruiterer’s gay 
window-pane may realise. 
An apple on the basket’s rim, a yellow (or rosy) 
apple is to him, and it is nothing more. But we know 
better, you and I, as, basket on arm, we stand in 
serene contemplation between the laden shelves; this 
huge primrose-hued pear, for instance, of long and 
graceful shape, is the famous Marie Louise, and this is 
the precise period when it is at its best. My friend the 
Expert will tell you, and rightly, that it is the queen of 
dessert pears, while the dainty, rosy, little Louise Bonne 
de Jersey, which plays soubrette, so to speak, to this 
great lady, comes next in order of merit among those 
that are ripe now. And, theoretically speaking, I hold 
him to be absolutely in the right; it is only that I have 
myself so cowardly a palate as to shrink somewhat from 
the very slight and delicate acidity which to connois¬ 
seurs forms one of Marie Louise’s chiefest charms, and 
to willingly decline upon the softer, more suave attrac¬ 
tions of Louise Bonne, and others of humbler degree. 
On this lower shelf lies a group of Urbaniste, smaller 
than my last season’s yield, sturdy green pears, almost 
Dutch in contour, and lightly pitted with bronze. 
