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Updated: June 21, 2025
The side pockets of my jacket are usually weighted down with pruning-shears, a sharp knife, and a handled copper wire, always, indeed, in June, when I walk in my orchard. June is the month of all months for the prudent orchardist to go thus armed, for the apple-tree borer is abroad in the land.
Here in the south of England seven miles from the sea, in a dry and sunny climate, all apples develop a much more brilliant colour than in the moist climate of the Vale of Evesham. I fear that very few planters of fruit trees think of following the routine which Virgil describes in his second Georgic, as practised by the careful orchardist, when transplanting.
It is the opinion of an eminent orchardist that as the apple is an artificial production, and, as such, has its stages of youth, maturity, and old age, it cannot, in its period of decrepitude, be by any means renovated to its pristine state, either by pruning or cutting down, changing its place, or by transferring its parts to young and vigorous stocks; and that, in whatever station it may be placed, it carries with it the decay and diseases of its parent.
Such disaster happens when the air is favourable to the breeding of quivering gauze wings; but there comes a time when the fruit suffers little or no ill, and then the heart of the orchardist rejoices as does that of the fisher when the wind comes up from the sea.
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