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The odor of the apple orchard, heavily fruited, was mellow on the air, and the red-freighted boughs of an old winesap bent above the girl's head as she sat with her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand.
Great hopes will be built on it, and the tree will probably do its part to justify them. Nobody knows how a bud from a Baldwin tree holds the memory of a Baldwin or from a Winesap tree the memory of a Winesap. Neither does anyone know why of two seeds that look alike one will unerringly produce a cabbage and the other a cauliflower.
The air was filled with the smell of more herbs and spices than I knew the names of, that went into mincemeat, fruit cake, plum pudding, and pies. There was a teasing fragrance in the spiced vinegar heating for pickles, a reminder of winesap and rambo in the boiling cider, while the newly opened bottles of grape juice filled the house with the tang of Concord and muscadine.
Nicholas Rapieff nobody has suspected me now for fifteen years. Paul Spencer's dead dead long ago. But, somehow or other, I have taken it into my head that I would like to see the place where he was born...." His glance were on the ripples that led to the moon. "I wonder if the orchard is still back of the house," he thought, "and the winesap tree I fell out of. I wonder if old Hutch is dead yet.
As we walked homeward under a frosty sparkle of sky we mused upon all the different kinds of apples we have encountered. And what a poetry in the names Winesap, Pippin, Northern Spy, Baldwin, Ben Davis, York Imperial, Wolf River, Jonathan, Smokehouse, Summer Rambo, Rome Beauty, Golden Grimes, Shenango Strawberry, Benoni!
I distinctly recall how well Jacob behaved when on one occasion Micajah Blair a dreadful, dissolute character, though of a very old family and an intimate friend of your father's took decidedly too much egg-nog one Christmas when he was visiting us, and insisted upon biting Jacob's cheek because it looked so like a winesap.
"It's goot," wonderingly explained Albert Naumann, a sturdy, blond little German, when she refused a bite of the crimson-cheeked winesap apple that he offered. "Why not?" asked merry-faced Peggy Callahan, when Anne declined her dare to a foot-race. "You're not sick, are you?" "No, indeed!" answered Anne.
She rocked like a kingbird on the top twig of the winesap, which was the tallest tree in our orchard, and for once there wasn't a single fly in her ointment, not one, she said so herself, and so did father. As we watched the big ve-hi-ackle, as Leon called it, creep slowly down the Little Hill, it made me think of that pathetic poem, "The Three Warnings," in McGuffey's Sixth. I guess I gave Mr.
There is a variety in our orchards called the winesap, a doubly liquid name that suggests what might be done with this fruit. The apple is the commonest and yet the most varied and beautiful of fruits. A dish of them is as becoming to the centre-table in winter as was the vase of flowers in the summer, a bouquet of spitzenbergs and greenings and northern spies.
To keep one's apple-tree in the pink of perfection is as joyful an enterprise as to do anything else well. It is only the well-conditioned tree that yields its glorious harvest year by year. If the seeds of a Baldwin or Winesap apple are planted, we do not expect to get a Baldwin or Winesap; we shall probably raise a very inferior fruit.
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