The apples are growing too heavy to hold longer to the parent branch and, with no warning but the click of intercepting leaves, tumble perhaps, on the head of some unprofitable dreamer even in practical New England. They are ready for gathering, and the Greenings, Northern-spies, Spitzenbergs, Russets, Pomeroys and Tallman-sweets, and all whose virtues or pretensions have gained them a name, are plucked with the care befitting their honored rank and stored for winter use or market, while their plebeian kindred, the "common" or "natural" apples are unceremoniously beaten with poles or shaken from their scraggy, untrimmed boughs and tumbled into the box
of the farm-wagon to go lumbering off to the cider-mill. This, after its ten or eleven months of musty emptiness and idleness, has now awakened to a short season of bustle, of grinding and pressing and fullness of casks and heaped bins and the fragrance thereof. Wagons are unloading their freight of apples and empty barrels, and departing with full casks after the driver has tested the flavor and strength of the earliest made cider. And now at the cellar hatch-way of the farm-house, the boy and the new-come cider-barrel may be found in conjuncture with a rye straw for the connecting link.
Auturmnal Beauty from Scribners Monthly, Volume 16