Is there any other fruit that has so much facial expression as the
apple? What boy does not more than half believe they can see with that
single eye of theirs? Do they not look and nod to him from the bough?
The swaar has one look, the rambo another, the spy another. The youth
recognizes the seek-no-further buried beneath a dozen other varieties,
the moment he catches a glance of its eye, or the bonny-cheeked Newtown
pippin, or the gentle but sharp-nosed gilliflower. He goes to the
great bin in the cellar and sinks his shafts 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.
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