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Updated: May 21, 2025
Soon he was in a warm glow, the cold wind forgotten, his cheeks like snow-apples, his eyes like stars. "That's just a hundred," counted Mr. Kincaid, "and its a humming good boat load. It'll do. Now you take this demijohn and fill it from the spring-hole you'll find back of the house, and I'll get the shell-box."
Early in the season were the soft yellow sweetings; then the streaked red and green "Northern Spies"; and last of all the snow-apples with their contrast of deep crimson outside and white flesh within. The windfalls covered the ground ready to the hand; and the branches bent under their burden.
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