hafts here and there in the garnered
wealth of the orchards, mining for his favorites, sometimes coming plump
upon them, sometimes catching a glimpse of them to the right or left,
or uncovering them as keystones in an arch made up of many varieties.
In the dark he can usually tell them by the sense of touch. There is
not only the size and shape, but there is the texture and polish. Some
apples are coarse grained and some are fine; some are thin-skinned and
some are thick. One variety is quick and vigorous beneath the touch;
another gentle and yielding. The pinnock has a thick skin with a spongy
lining, a bruise in it becomes like a piece of cork. The tallow apple
has an unctuous feel, as its name suggests. It sheds water like a duck.
What apple is that with a fat curved stem that blends so prettily
with its own flesh,--the wine-apple? Some varieties impress me as
masculine,--weather-stained, freckled, lasting and rugged; others
are indeed lady apples, fair, delicate, shining, mild-flavored,
white-meated, like the egg-drop and the lady-finger. The practiced hand
knows each kind by the touch. Do you remember the apple hole in the
garden or back of the house, Ben Bolt? In the fall after the bins in the
cellar had been well stocked, we excavated a circular pit in the warm,
mellow earth, and covering the bottom with clean rye straw, emptied in
basketful after basketful of hardy choice varieties, till there was a
tent-shaped mound several feet high of shining variegated fruit. Then
wrapping it about with a thick layer of long rye straw, and tucking it
up snug and warm, the mound was covered, with a thin coating of earth, a
flat stone on the top holding down the straw. As winter set in, another
coating of earth was put upon it, with perhaps an overcoat of coarse dry
stable manure, and the precious pile was left in silence and darkness
till spring. No marmot hibernating under-ground in his nest of leaves
and dry grass, more cosy and warm. No frost, no wet, but fragrant
privacy and quiet. Then how the earth tempers and flavors the apples! It
draws out all the acrid unripe qualities, and infuses into them a subtle
refreshing taste of the soil. Some varieties perish; but the ranker,
hardier kinds, like the northern spy, the greening, or the black apple,
or the russet, or the pinnock, how they ripen and grow in grace, how the
green becomes gold, and the bitter becomes sweet!

As the supply in the bins and barrels gets low and spring