All the domestic animals love the apple, but none so much so as the
cow. The taste of it wakes her up as few other things do, and bars and
fences must be well looked after. No need to assort them or pick out
the ripe ones for her. An apple is an apple, and there is no best
about it. I heard of a quick-witted old cow that learned to shake them
down from the tree. While rubbing herself she had observed that an
apple sometimes fell. This stimulated her to rub a little harder, when
more apples fell. She then took the hint and rubbed her shoulder with
such vigor that the farmer had to check her and keep an eye on her to
save his fruit.
But the cow is the friend of the apple. How many trees she has planted
about the farm, in the edge of the woods, and in remote fields and
pastures. The wild apples, celebrated by Thoreau, are mostly of her
planting. She browses them down to be sure, but they are hers, and why
should she not?
What an individuality the apple-tree has, each variety being nearly as
marked by its form as by its fruit.
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