“As the chimney-back?” suggested Carl.
“They are not exactly that colour,” replied Beachamwell,—“being in fact more like mahogany.”
“Well I never saw any of that,” said Carl, “so you don’t tell me much. Never mind, I shall know when I cut you up. Now be quick and tell about Knerly; and then give me all the history of your great, great, great grandfather apple.”
“Knerly,” said Beachamwell, “was a little cross-grained from the very bud. Before he had cast off the light pink dress which as you know we apples wear in our extreme youth, the dark spot might be seen. It is probable that some poisonous sting had pierced him in that tender period of his life, and the consequence is, as I have said, some hardness of heart and sourness of disposition. As you see, he has not softened under the sun’s influence, though exposed to it all his life; and it is doubtful whether he ever attains a particle of the true Beachamwell colour. There are however good spots in Knerly; and even Half-ripe can be sweet if you only get the right side of her.”
“I’ll be sure to do that,” said Carl, “for I’ll go all round. Come, go on.”
“Unfortunately,” said Beachamwell, “I cannot give the information which you desire about my respected and venerable ancestors. The pedigree of apples is not always well preserved, and in general the most we can boast of is the family name: nor is that often obtained except by engrafting upon a very different stock. For one generation back, however, we may claim to be true Beachamwells. From root to twig the parent tree was the right stuff. The remarkable way in which this came about I am happily able to tell you.
“A number of years ago, one Thanksgiving-eve, Widow Penly was washing up the tea-things, and her little boy Mark sat looking at her.
“‘I wish we could keep Thanksgiving, mother,’ said he.
“‘Why so we will,’ said his mother.
“‘But how?’ said Mark, with a very brightened face. ‘What will you do, mother?’