m, and
in fruit.

It is of the esthetic value of the apple I would write, leaving its
supreme place in pomology unassailed. Look at the young apple tree in
the "nursery row," where it has been growing a year since it was
"budded"--that is, mysteriously changed from the wild and untamed fruit
of nature to the special variety designed by the nurseryman. It is a
straight, shapely wand, in most varieties, though it is curious to find
that some apples, notably the favorite Rhode Island Greening, start in
promptly to be picturesquely crooked and twisty. As it grows and
branches under the cultivation and guidance of the orchardist, it
maintains a lusty, hearty aspect, its yellowish, reddish or brownish
twigs--again according to variety--spreading out to the sun and the air
freely. A decade passes, and the sparse showing of bloom that has
decorated it each spring gradually gives place to a great glory of
flowers. The tree is about to bear, and it assumes the character of
maturity; for while it grows on soberly for many years, there is now a
spreading, a sort of relaxation, very different from the vigorous
upshooting of its early youth. After a crop or two, the tree has become,
to the eye, the familiar orchard member, and it leans a little from the
blasts of winter, twists aside from the perpendicular, spreads
comfortably over a great expanse of ground, and settles down to its
long, useful, and truly beautiful life.

While the young orchard is trim and handsome, I confess to a greater
liking for the rugged old trees that have followed blossom with fruit in
unstinted profusion for a generation. There is a certain character of
sturdy good-will about these substantial stems that the clinging snows
only accentuate in winter. The framework of limb and twig is very
different from that of the other trees, and the twisty lines seem to
mean warmth and cheer, even against a frosty sky. And these old
veterans are house trees, too--they do not suggest the forest or the
broad expanse of nature, but, instead, the proximity of man and the
home, the comfortable summer afternoon under their copious leafage, the
great piles of ruddy-cheeked fruit in autumn.

[Illustration: An apple orchard in winter]

I need hardly say anything of the apple-blossoms, for those who read
these words are almost certain to have long appreciated their delicately
fragrant blush and white loveliness. The apricot and the cherry are the
first of the fruit trees to si