Where is the Russet we boys thought rippin'?
(Though its sharpness sometimes started the tears?)
Oh! such-like often I've spent my "tip" in—
But where are the apples of earlier years?
Where's the King Pippin, the sun-brown one?
And where is the Catshead, light Spring green?
(Which gave, while eating, such glorious fun,
If—after munching—some dule and teen)?
And where is the Golden Knob, whose sheen
Would draw the wasps all about our ears?