Would become ripe apples when he was dead.
So he kept on traveling far and wide,
Till his old limbs failed him and he died.
He said at the last, “Tis a comfort to feel
I’ve done good in the world, though not a great deal.”
Weary travelers, journeying west,
In the shade of his trees find pleasant rest;
And they often start, with glad surprise,
At the rosy fruit that round them lies.
And if they inquire whence came such trees,