Felix, so far as my remembrance goes, never attained
to success in the Ordeal of Bitter Apples. He
gave up trying after awhile; and he also gave up praying
about it, saying in bitterness of spirit that there
was no use in praying when other fellows prayed against
you out of spite. He and Peter remained on bad
terms for some time, however.
We were all of us too tired those nights to do any
special praying. Sometimes I fear our “regular”
prayers were slurred over, or mumbled in anything
but reverent haste. October was a busy month
on the hill farms. The apples had to be picked,
and this work fell mainly to us children. We
stayed home from school to do it. It was pleasant
work and there was a great deal of fun in it; but
it was hard, too, and our arms and backs ached roundly
at night. In the mornings it was very delightful;
in the afternoons tolerable; but in the evenings we
lagged, and the laughter and zest of fresher hours
were lacking.
Some of the apples had to be picked very carefully.
But with others it did not matter; we boys would
climb the trees and shake the apples down until the
girls shrieked for mercy. The days were crisp
and mellow, with warm sunshine and a tang of frost
in the air, mingled with the woodsy odours of the
withering grasses. The hens and turkeys prowled
about, pecking at windfalls, and Pat made mad rushes
at them amid the fallen leaves. The world beyond
the orchard was in a royal magnificence of colouring,
under the vivid blue autumn sky. The big willow
by the gate was a splendid golden dome, and the maples
that were scattered through the spruce grove waved
blood-red banners over the sombre cone-bearers.
The Story Girl generally had her head garlanded with
their leaves. They became her vastly. Neither
Felicity nor Cecily could have worn them. Those
two girls were of a domestic type that assorted ill
with the wildfire in Nature’s veins. But
when the Story Girl wreathed her nut brown tresses
with crimson leaves it seemed, as Peter said, that
they grew on her—as if the gold and flame
of her spirit had broken out in a coronal, as much
a part of her as the pale halo seems a part of the
Madonna it encircles.
What tales she told us on those far-away autumn days,
peopling the russet arcades with folk of an elder
world. Many a princess rode by us on her palfrey,
many a swaggering gallant ruffled it bravely in velvet
and plume adown Uncle Stephen’s Walk, many a
stately lady, silken clad, walked in that opulent orchard!
When we had filled our baskets they had to be carried
to the granary loft, and the contents stored in bins
or spread on the floor to ripen further. We
ate a good many, of course, feeling that the labourer
was worthy of his hire. The apples from our
own birthday trees were stored in separate barrels
inscribed with our names. We might dispose of
them as we willed. Felicity sold hers to Uncle
Alec’s hired man—and was badly cheated
to boot, for he levanted shortly afterwards, taking
the apples with him, having paid her only half her
rightful due. Felicity has not gotten over that
to this day.
