depths of the cellar, down three steps, I could see
Horace's ruddy face.

"How are ye, David," said he. "Will ye have a Good Apple?"

So he gave me a good apple. It was a yellow Bellflower without a
blemish, and very large and smooth. The body of it was waxy yellow, but
on the side where the sun had touched it, it blushed a delicious deep
red. Since October it had been in the dark, cool storage-room, and
Horace, like some old monkish connoisseur of wines who knows just when
to bring up the bottles of a certain vintage, had chosen the exact
moment in all the year when the vintage of the Bellflower was at its
best. As he passed it to me I caught, a scent as of old crushed apple
blossoms, or fancied I did or it may have been the still finer aroma of
friendship which passed at the touching of our fingers.

It was a hand-filling apple and likewise good for tired eyes, an
antidote for winter, a remedy for sick souls.

"A wonderful apple!" I said to Horace, holding it off at arm's length.

"No better grown anywhere," said he, with scarcely restrained pride.

I took my delight of it more nearly; and the odour was like new-cut
clover in an old orchard, or strawberry leaves freshly trod upon, or the
smell of peach wood at the summer pruning--how shall one describe it? at
least a compound or essence of all the good odours of summer.

"Shall I eat it?" I asked myself, for I thought such a perfection of
nature should be preserved for the blessing of mankind. As I hesitated,
Horace remarked:

"It was grown to be eaten."

So I bit into it, a big liberal mouthful, which came away with a rending
sound such as one hears sometimes in a winter's ice-pond. The flesh
within, all dewy with moisture, was like new cream, except a rim near
the surface where the skin had been broken; here it was of a clear, deep
yellow.

New odours came forth and I knew for the first time how perfect in
deliciousness such an apple could be. A mild, serene, ripe, rich
bouquet, compounded essence of the sunshine from these old Massachusetts
hills, of moisture drawn from our grudging soil, of all the peculiar
virtues of a land where the summers make up in the passion of growth for
the long violence of winter; the compensatory aroma of a life
triumphant, though hedged about by severity, was in the bouquet of this
perfect Bellflower.

Like some of the finest of wines and the warmest of friends it was of
two flavours, and was not to be eaten for mere nour