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And there were always apples, real apples. I think they must make
apples in factories nowadays. They taste like it. These were real
ones, picked off the trees. Out at grandpap's they had bellflowers,
and winesaps, and seek-no-furthers, and, I think, sheep-noses, and
one kind of apple that I can't find any more, though I have sought
it carefully. It was the finest apple I ever set a tooth in. It
was the juiciest and the spiciest apple. It had sort of a rollicking
flavor to it, if you know what I mean. It certainly was the ne plus
ultra of an apple. And the name of it was the rambo. Dear me, how
good it was! think I'd sooner have one right now than great riches.
And all these apples they kept in the apple-hole. You went out and
uncovered the earth and there they were, all in a big nest of straw;
and such a gush of perfume distilled from that pile of them that
just to recollect it makes my mouth all wet.
They had a big red apple in those days that I forget the name of.
Oh, it was a whopper! You'd nibble at it and nibble at it before
you could get a purchase on it. Then, after you got your teeth in,
you'd pull and pull, and all of a sudden the apple would go "tock!"
and your head would fly back from the recoil, and you had a bite about the size of your hand. You "chomped" on it, with your cheek
all bulged out, and blame near drowned yourself with the juice of it
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