The Brandon news. (Brandon, Miss.) 1892-1961, 1907-12-19
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an apple orchard than with anything
else nature has given us. The trees
grow up with us. The earliest joys
OF childhood are with Juneatings and
Redstreaks. The apple is equally
delightful to advancing age. 1t is
associated with our school dinner
baskets, our working days, when it
wound up our lunches, and what
more could we give to our boy loves
than a red-cheeked, golden-hearted
Pearmain? So, so! But was it not
an apple that every morning we car
ried to our teacher, with which to
BUY smile and pay for love. Those
were golden days when the Sweet
Bough covered the sod, and burst
open with innate goodness. Why
should one not love an orchard?
remember well that by a little
turn on the way home from school
could go through the old kirkland
orchard-the first one planted by
white men on their westward way
from New England across the CONT
nent. There sat in the trees, among
the Spitzenburgs dreaming life
creams, and looking into a valley
paradise, until the call of the COWS
warned me to drive them homeward
Tor milking. Yesterday. I sat at the
foot of some of those same old trees.
leaned my head against them, felt
their broken arms with sympathy,
and when the October sunshine called
out the bees and the butterflies, in
the midday hours, I kissed the dear
Old tree that was my boyhood favor
lite. Why not? 1t gave me cheer
fully, literally, capfuls, pocketfuls,
Of delicious apples.
The pickers are at work-home
pickers. and they know what they
are about. They do not toss, nor do
they drop the apples, not even a few
inches; but as true apple pickers
should do, they lay each one gently
into the basket. Rudeness is never
more out of place than when picking
fruit Think you what nature has
done in packing together these balls
Of cells, each one delicately fitted to
the. other, and all inclosed with art
liner than that of Apelles-who once
deceived the birds Handle each
apple sympathetically, and then do
not pour out the basketful into the
wagon, but once more lay out the ap-
pies like eggs.
A basketful of Northern Spys!
What can be more beautiful? Some
have burst their sides in the process
of growing, and you see the yellow
fieshed cells, full of nectar. The
boys lay these aside for their own
use-for to be sure nothing can be
better to make fine boy flesh and
soul-and if placed in cellar they
will not keep. They are like boys
and girls that are crowded in school;
they die early. The Swaar is a sly
apple, for it is of green russell color,
and one would not know it to be
the very standard of quality; yet if
you do but know what to do, you
Will ask for barrel of prime Swaars,
and store them away to be used next
May. The Mcintosh and the Walter
Pease are brothers of the most ia
nous (Fameuse) family of apples
ever created, and when you look at
their glory you will hardly like to
see them taken from the limbs. A
tree full of either sort is so perfect
that only the freezing weather just
ahead could induce me to despoil
1t. Mcintosh is as white inside as it
is red outside, and Walter Pease has
fragrance like bed of lilies. And
not long ago Mr.. Burbank sent us
the Winterstein, the very climax of
science and art combined. Grimes
Golden and Jonathan are not big
apples, but they go long way to-
ward being perfect apples. They
should be planted alternately, so that
you shall see the gold of one and
the perfect crimson of the other
side by side.
But IL / keep on at this rate you
will know not only that / am a wor-
shipper of the apple, but that I shall
never get the picking finished. Only
l do not like an apple grower who
KNOWS nothing about comparative
values. He grows Greetings, Rus
sets, Spys and dozen more sorts
possibly, but in my orchard of eighty
sorts he is lost. He knows no apple
history, does not keep pace with pro-
gress in the gardeners art, and the
new things that burst out Of Gods
will and mans intelligent work
these he cares nothing about, because
he does ont understand them. He
grows his apples without brains, and
he picks them without brains, while
the grandest harvest on his acres
wakens no more enthusiasm than his
turnips. His apples are tossed,
poured, tumbled: and in the mid
winter he digs them for use, out of
a half-rotted bin of rubbish. All
right work is poetry and religion;
all wrong work is impiety as well as
illiteracy. The most learned man I
ever knew thought more of apple
lore and rose lore than of his Greek
hexameters. He said, In my garden
there is a greater poem than the
odyssey. The days write it, and the
winds chant it, and as for me, learn