I IO 
THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
You would say, perhaps, that their hour was not yet 
come; but sometimes still appearances deceive, and 
should you take heart to brave the experience, you will 
seem to be feasting upon a species of ambrosia served 
through a medium of scented snow. The next tier is 
full almost to overflowing with slender forms of the 
nut-brown Calabash, or Beurre Busc, to my way of 
thinking one of the sweetest pears that grows, and its 
cousin, the Belle Julie, whose dark rind is flushed with 
a strain of gold, and whose flavour is, perhaps, of a 
somewhat fuller quality. Here, again, is the delightful 
Beurre Hardy, whose honeyed savour touches the 
imagination to thoughts of imprisoned sunlight and 
dew, and the breath of late-blowing roses. 
Just opposite are stored the apples, in dull, rich 
mosaics of amaranth and rose and gold ; the old Ribston 
Pippin, with dusky complexion and golden-tinged 
crystalline flesh, set by for Christmas; the Claygate 
Pearmain, with rougher and more russet skin, but 
otherwise almost the Ribston’s twin for form and 
quality; and the bright-cheeked King of the Pippins, 
so like the Ribston save in the glossy sheen of its rind 
and the differently modelled apex. Further on shine 
the little lemon yellow Ingestres, the gorgeously golden 
Flower of Kent, with many another beside ; and, last of 
all, the homely Rymer, darkly green and streaked with 
faded red, which is to furnish me with all the pies I 
may need until next blossom-time. 
But, indeed, this pleasant loft is not my only happy 
hunting-ground; I have another resort for such times 
when my mind is set upon a wider range of choice. 
