Memory-ticklers to those who know
The ways of the farm in the long-ago:
—The kitchen table, the heaping store
Of round, red apples upon the floor.
The purr of the parer, the mellow snip
As the busy knives thro’ the apples slip.
The merry chatter of boys and girls,
The rosy clutter of paring curls,
As hurrying knives and fingers fly
O ’er the luscious fruit for dried-apple pie.