Of the bells of lolling kine in

Slaughter’s grove;—see the pink of

Fruit above us when I think of

“Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.”

I can taste those old Benoni

Apples yet—(fall apples—mellow

As the winds that kissed the bony

Branches into blossom; yellow—

Butter-yellow—and as fine in

Taste as Flemish Beauty pears were)—