Well, there were some trees hung over the fence, I never
seed such bearers, the apples hung in ropes, for all the world like
strings of onions, and the fruit was beautiful. Nobody touched the
minister's apples, and when other folks lost their'n from the boys,
his'n always hung there like bait to a hook, but there never was so
much as a nibble at 'em. So I said to him one day, 'Minister,' said
I, 'how on airth do you manage to keep your fruit that's so exposed,
when no one else can do it no how?' 'Why,' says he, 'they are
dreadful pretty fruit, ain't they?' 'I guess,' said I, 'there ain't
the like on 'em in all Connecticut.' 'Well,' says he, 'I'll tell you
the secret, but you needn't let on to no one about it. That 'ere row
next the fence, I grafted it myself, I took great pains to get the
right kind, I sent clean up to Roxberry, and away down to Squaw-neck
Creek for ---.' 'I know that, Minister,' said I (for I was afeared
he was a-goin' to give me day and date for every graft, being a
terrible long-winded man in his stories), 'I know that,' said I,
'but how do you preserve them?' 'Why, I was a-goin' to tell you,'
said he, 'when you stopped me. That 'ere outward row I grafted myself
with the choicest kind I could find, and I succeeded. They are
beautiful, but so etarnal sour, no human soul can eat them.
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