APPLES.--The trees swelled into masses of pink and white fragrance. Nothing could exceed their fluttering loveliness or their luxuriant promise. A few days of fairy beauty, and showers of soft petals floated noiselessly down, covering the earth with delicate snow; but I knew, that, though the first blush of beauty was gone, a mighty work was going on in a million little laboratories, and that the real glory was yet to come. I was surprised to observe, one day, that the trees seemed to be turning red. I remarked to Halicarnassus that that was one of Nature's processes which I did not remember to have seen noticed in any botanical treatise. I thought such a change did not occur till autumn. Halicarnassus curved the thumb and forefinger of his right hand into an arch, the ends of which rested on the wrist of his left coat-sleeve. He then lifted the forefinger high and brought it forward. Then he lifted the thumb and brought it up behind the forefinger, and so made them travel up to his elbow. It seemed to require considerable exertion in the thumb and forefinger, and I watched the progress with interest. Then I asked him what he meant by it. "That's the way they walk," he replied. "Who walk?" "The little fellows that have squatted on our trees." "What little fellows do you mean?" "The canker-worms." "How many are there?" "About twenty-five decillions, I should think, as near as I can count." "Why! what are they for? What good do they do?" "Oh! no end. Keep the children from eating green apples and getting sick." "How do they do that?" "Eat 'em themselves." A frightful idea dawned upon me. I believe I turned a kind of ghastly blue. "Halicarnassus, do you mean to tell me that the canker-worms are eating up our apples and that we shan't have any?" "It looks like that exceedingly." That was months ago, and it looks a great deal more like it now. I watched those trees with sadness at my heart. Millions of brown, ugly, villanous worms gnawed, gnawed, gnawed, at the poor little tender leaves and buds,--held them in foul embrace,--polluted their sweetness with hateful breath. I could almost feel the shudder of the trees in that slimy clasp,--could almost hear the shrieking and moaning of the young fruit that saw its hope of happy life thus slowly consuming; but I was powerless to save. For weeks that loathsome army preyed upon the unhappy, helpless trees, and then spun loathsomely to the ground, and buried itself in the reluctant, shuddering soil. A few dismal little apples escaped the common fate, but when they rounded into greenness and a suspicion of pulp, a boring worm came and bored them, and they, too, died. No apple-pies at Thanksgiving. No apple-roasting in winter evenings. No pan-pie with hot brown bread on Sunday mornings.