“And you will not fall?”
“Oh! I shall not fall, sir,” I cried laughing.
“Very well. Up you go then. Take your basket and hook it on to the round of the ladder where you are picking, then take each apple carefully, raise it, and it will come off at a point on the stalk where it joins the twig. Don’t tear them out and break the stalks, or they become unsaleable.”
“I’ll mind, sir,” I said. “I know the big Marie Louise pears at home used to come off like that at a joint.”
“Good!” he cried smiling, and tapping my shoulder. “When you’ve picked an apple of course you’ll throw it into the basket?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’d better not,” he cried sharply. “Lay it in as tenderly as you can. If you throw it in, the apple will be bruised—bruised apples are worth very little in the market, and soon decay.”
“I’ll mind them, sir,” I said, and eagerly mounting the ladder I began to pick the beautiful little apples that hung about me, Old Brownsmith watching me the while.
“That’s right,” he said encouragingly. “When you get your basket nearly full, bring it down and empty it very gently in one of the sieves—gently, mind.”
I promised, and he went away, leaving me as busy as could be in the warm sunshine, thoroughly enjoying my task, picking away carefully at the apples, beginning low down, and then getting higher and higher till I felt the ladder bend and the branch give, and I had to hold on tightly by one hand.