loosed them and sent them down. I know the stain of blackberries, and
how pretty it is; and I know the stain of walnut hulls, and how little
it minds soap and water; also what grudged experience it had of either
of them. I know the taste of maple sap, and when to gather it, and how
to arrange the troughs and the delivery tubes, and how to boil down the
juice, and how to hook the sugar after it is made; also how much better
hooked sugar tastes than any that is honestly come by, let bigots say
what they will. I know how a prize watermelon looks when it is sunning
its fat rotundity among pumpkin-vines and "simblins"; I know how to tell
when it is ripe without "plugging" it; I know how inviting it looks when
it is cooling itself in a tub of water under the bed, waiting; I know
how it looks when it lies on the table in the sheltered great
floor-space between house and kitchen, and the children gathered for the
sacrifice and their mouths watering; I know the crackling sound it makes
when the carving-knife enters its end, and I can see the split fly along
in front of the blade as the knife cleaves its way to the other end; I
can see its halves fall apart and display the rich red meat and the
black seeds, and the heart standing up, a luxury fit for the elect; I
know how a boy looks, behind a yard-long slice of that melon, and I know
how he feels; for I have been there. I know the taste of the watermelon
which has been honestly come by, and I know the taste of the watermelon
which has been acquired by art. Both taste good, but the experienced
know which tastes best. I know the look of green apples and peaches and
pears on the trees, and I know how entertaining they are when they are
inside of a person. I know how ripe ones look when they are piled in
pyramids under the trees, and how pretty they are and how vivid their
colors. I know how a frozen apple looks, in a barrel down cellar in the
winter-time, and how hard it is to bite, and how the frost makes the
teeth ache, and yet how good it is, notwithstanding. I know the
disposition of elderly people to select the specked apples for the
children, and I once knew ways to beat the game. I know the look of an
apple that is roasting and sizzling on a hearth on a winter's evening,
and I know the comfort that comes of eating it hot, along with some
sugar and a drench of cream. I know the delicate art and mystery of so
cracking hickory-nuts and walnuts on a flatiron with a hammer that the