apples in March.

It being a mild and sunny day, the door of the fruit cellar was open,
and as I came around the corner I had such of whiff of fragrance as I
cannot describe. It seemed as though the vials of the earth's most
precious odours had been broken there in Horace's yard! The smell of
ripe apples!

In the dusky 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.