“Pears?” said Tom. “Yes, I was looking at them yesterday, and thinking how good they must be.”
“Nay, but they am’t, Master Tom; that’s just it. If you was to pick one o’ they—which would be a sin, sir—and stick your teeth into it, you’d find it hard and tasting sappy like chewed leaves.”
“Why I thought they were ripe.”
“Nay, not them, sir. You want to take a pear, sir, just at the right moment.”
“And when is the right moment for a pear?”
David laughed, and shook his head.
“Tends on what sort it is, sir. Some’s at their best in September, and some in October. Then you goes on to December and January, and right on to April. Why the round pears on that little tree yonder don’t get ripe till April and May. Like green bullets now, but by that time, or even June, if you take care on ’em, they’re like brown skins’ full o’ rich sugary juice.”
“But these must be ripe, David.”
“Nay, sir, they’re not. As I told you afore, if you pick ’em too soon they srivels. When they’re quite ripe they’re just beginning to turn creamy colour like.”
“Well, they’re a very nice lot, David.”