ked homeward under a frosty sparkle of sky we mused upon all
the different kinds of apples we have encountered. There are big glossy
green apples and bright red apples and yellow apples and also that
particularly delicious kind (whose name we forget) that is the palest
possible cream color--almost white. We have seen apples of strange
shapes, something like a pear (sheepnoses, they call them), and the
Maiden Blush apples with their delicate shading of yellow and debutante
pink. And what a poetry in the names--Winesap, Pippin, Northern Spy,
Baldwin, Ben Davis, York Imperial, Wolf River, Jonathan, Smokehouse,
Summer Rambo, Rome Beauty, Golden Grimes, Shenango Strawberry, Benoni!

We suppose there is hardly a man who has not an apple orchard tucked
away in his heart somewhere. There must be some deep reason for the old
suspicion that the Garden of Eden was an apple orchard. Why is it that a
man can sleep and smoke better under an apple tree than in any other
kind of shade? Sir Isaac Newton was a wise man, and he chose an apple
tree to sit beneath. (We have often wondered, by the way, how it is that
no one has ever named an apple the Woolsthorpe after Newton's home in
Lincolnshire, where the famous apple incident occurred.)

An apple orchard, if it is to fill the heart of man to the full with
affectionate satisfaction, should straggle down a hillside toward a lake
and a white road where the sun shines hotly. Some of its branches should
trail over an old, lichened and weather-stained stone wall, dropping
their fruit into the highway for thirsty pedestrians. There should be a
little path running athwart it, down toward the lake and the old
flat-bottomed boat, whose bilge is scattered with the black and
shriveled remains of angleworms used for bait. In warm August afternoons
the sweet savor of ripening drifts warmly on the air, and there rises
the drowsy hum of wasps exploring the windfalls that are already rotting
on the grass. There you may lie watching the sky through the chinks of
the leaves, and imagining the cool, golden tang of this autumn's cider
vats.

You see what it is to have Caliphs in the world.

AS TO RUMORS

MADRID, Jan. 17.--Nikolai Lenine was among the Russians who landed at
Barcelona recently, according to newspapers here.--News item.

It is rather important to understand the technique of rumors. The wise
man does not scoff at them, for while they are often absurd, they are
rarely baseless. Peo