And now, though the little tree had not noticed that her apples had grown, her branches were bending almost to the ground with their weight. She tried to shake off some of the apples, for it seemed to add to her disgrace to bear so much of this useless fruit. But she could no more shake them off than could the wind and storm.
The clear cool fall days were passing, growing shorter and shorter. The little tree was very lonely now, for the chipmunk was snug in his winter home, the birds had flown south and the cows now looked for sun instead of shade. The other trees, having finished their work, were preparing for their long winter nap. The little tree way down in the corner of the orchard seldom saw any one, but she was stout of heart, and kept on saying:
"I know I shall find some way to be of use."
She did not pay much attention to her apples, for she had long ago given up hopes of their becoming red and ripe.
Every night now white frost tripped daintily over the hardening ground, and at sunup disappeared; the days were cool and bright; the frosts grew heavier and the weather colder.
One day there were voices in the orchard,—men and boys carrying baskets and ladders were coming; and to the astonishment of the little tree, they stopped under her boughs, placed the ladders in the branches and climbed up.
"Good old apples!" cried one of the boys, dropping them into his basket with a plump.
"A fine yield!" said one of the men. "Did you ever see anything more beautiful than this rich golden brown?"
"The sweetest apple that ever grew!" said another. "I don't feel that I've had an apple till November brings these."
"It's a wise Providence that saves this sweetest morsel for the last," declared a third.