THE WANING YEAR 
H7 
psychological instant, or not at all. However, these are 
gone by with their glories, and we have still, to fall back 
upon, closely serried rows of the Glou Morceau that we 
left hanging on the bough until the first frost and pre¬ 
datory birds gave warning. These will see the year out 
with us, and enliven our Yule-tide mahogany tree ; their 
stout and comely contemporary, the Uvedale St. Ger¬ 
mains, most solid and greenest of good cooking-pears, is 
to provide us, so long as our ample store shall last, with 
the choicest and most delicate of conserves and confec¬ 
tions. 
There are others beside, but these I believe to be the 
best; while, in spite of pessimistic prophecies as to the 
apple yield, I find my dessert shelves not ill-provided, 
after all. My cooking varieties are somewhat to seek, 
with the exception of the waxen pink and white Haw¬ 
thorn den, so like the Emperor Alexander ; and the great 
green Alfriston; to say nothing of my faithful Rymers 
and Cellinis. But the fine flower of all dessert lapples, 
Cox’s Orange Pippin, with its sober bronzed rind and 
heart of crisp gold and crystal, has been boutiful to me 
this season ; and of the scarce less delectable old Ribstone 
Pippin, the excellent Claygate Pearmain, and the useful 
Braddick’s Nonpareil, I have no reason for complaint. 
But the radiant rose and golden King of the Pippins has 
played me false for once. As the heavy wooden door 
closes, a strange belated waft of summer comes to trouble 
the chill air with memories of jasmine, of syringa. No 
—nor is it of magnolia quite that this faint fragrance is 
eloquent; one must needs go back and see. Here from 
this shallow tray of pear-shaped yellow fruit floats the 
