FOLLOWING THE SPRING NORTH



of May, when our apple-orchards, drenched by
sun and rain, put on their vestments of white
splendor, I think the world is a place of clean
perfection, and I confess that the sense of earth's
loveliness almost breaks my heart.
  I have some friends on Long Island who have
transplanted two apple-trees to the terrace of their
house, so that guests, from their upper windows
on white May mornings, may look out and actu-
ally touch those gleaming boughs and drink in the
fragrance of them. When the petals finally fall,
while one is having tea on that same terrace, it
is as though a Danae shower of silver were drop-
ping, instead of gold, and the light rain makes a
fairy carpet that one scarcely dares to tread.
  Now, having had a plethora of these magical
boughs, I craved, even as a drunkard craves, one
more full cup of joy-as though a prohibition
of apple-blossoms were about to go into effect;
as indeed it may, if our stupid lawmakers do not
call a halt. And I say this in all seriousness;
for, since cider is made from apples, the fanatics
wishing to rid the world of a few roustabouts,
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