streaks' added."

"An' a shy bearer most times, tu," added Mr. Lezzard.

"Just so; then come next year, by some mischance, me being indoors, if
they didn't forget to christen un! An', burnish it all! theer wasn't
fruit enough on the tree to fill your pockets!"

"Whether 't is the firing into the branches, or the cider to the roots
does gude, be a matter of doubt," continued Mr. Lezzard; but the other
authority would not admit this.

"They 'm like the halves of a flail, depend on it: wan no use wi'out
t'other. Then theer's the singing of the auld song: who's gwaine to say
that's the least part of it?"

"'T is the three pious acts thrawn together in wan gude deed," summed up
Mr. Lezzard; "an' if they'd awnly let apples get ripe 'fore they break
'em, an' go back to the straw for straining, 'stead of these tom-fule,
new-fangled hair-cloths, us might get tidy cider still."

By this time the gate of the orchard was reached; Gaffer Lezzard, Billy,
and the other patriarch, Mr. Chapple,--a very fat old man,--loaded their
weapons, and the perspiring cider-carriers set down their loads.

"Now, you bwoys, give awver runnin' 'bout like rabbits," cried out Mr.
Chapple. "You 'm here to sing while us pours cider an' shoots in the
trees; an' not a drop you'll have if you doan't give tongue proper, so I
tell 'e."

At this rebuke the boys assembled, and there followed a hasty gabbling,
to freshen the words in young and uncertain memories. Then a small
vessel was dipped under floating toast, that covered the cider in the
great pitchers, and the ceremony of christening the orchard began. Only
the largest and most famous apple-bearers were thus saluted, for neither
cider nor gunpowder sufficient to honour more than a fraction of the
whole multitude existed in all Chagford. The orchard, viewed from the
east, stretched in long lines, like the legions of some arboreal army;
the moon set sparks and streaks of light on every snowy fork and bough;
and at the northwestern foot of each tree a network of spidery
shadow-patterns, sharp and black, extended upon the snow.

Mr. Blee himself made the first libation, led the first chorus, and
fired the first shot. Steaming cider poured from his mug, vanished,
sucked in at the tree-foot, and left a black patch upon the snow at the
hole of the trunk; then he stuck a fragment of sodden toast on a twig;
after which the christening song rang out upon the night--ragged at
first, but settling into resol