Aunt Grenertsen’s Apples
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THAT apple tree of Aunt Grenertsen’s was too tantalizing! Big, beautiful
apples hung there day after day, and nobody ever seemed to think of such
a thing as taking one off. Aunt Grenertsen might, for instance, so
easily say to old Katrina, her housemaid: “Shake down an apple or two
for Johnny Blossom”; but no indeed! Far from it. Never in the world had
she suggested anything of the kind, although he had been in there every
single day since the apples had begun to turn.
It was a little farther to go home around past Aunt Grenertsen’s, but he
didn’t mind that, for it was interesting to watch how the apples grew
and to see whether Katrina had gathered any. But day after day
everything remained exactly the same. There hung the apples still—the
only change being that they grew riper and riper and more tempting. Aunt
Grenertsen sat gazing out of her window from behind the plants, and old
Katrina, grumpy as ever, stood at the kitchen window peering over the
sash curtain, in exactly the same way every day.
He was just sick and tired of seeing those apples in that
good-for-nothing garden. Good-for-nothing it certainly was, and very,
very old. There was only one apple tree besides the one Johnny was so
interested in, but its fruit could scarcely be called apples at all. He
would call them croquet balls—such hard green things as they were—hard
as rocks. Of course if any of them were on the ground, he bit into them.
In fact, he had eaten a good many of them first and last, but they were
horrid things, anyway.
The currants in Aunt Grenertsen’s garden were nothing to speak of,
either. Awfully sour, small pinheads! The raspberries were small, too,
but at any rate, they were sweet.
Not another thing was to be found in that garden—not a decent sugar pea
nor a carrot even; just some stupid mignonette and violets and other
flowers that smelled sweet—as if they were any good! No, truly, Aunt
Grenertsen’s garden was not very pleasant.
For that matter, neither was she. She was not really his aunt and he was
glad of it; but she was Mother’s aunt, and so all the family called her
Aunt Grenertsen, just as Mother did.
Aunt Grenertsen had lived in the little house on King Street for an age,
ever since he could remember; and everything she had was very
old-fashioned. There was a cuckoo clock, and a blue glass jar with dried
rose-leaves in; and on the window sill an old gray cat blinked and
purred among the plants.
Aunt Grenertsen was difficult to talk with—so contrary, somehow, even if
not really cross, that it was very tiresome. She wasn’t the least bit
like Uncle Isaac of Kingthorpe, who was always kind and gentle, always
pleasant. Oh, dear, no! Aunt Grenertsen wasn’t like Uncle Isaac; far,
far from it!
Suppose, for instance, that he went to her house for a little call, as
he often did, for Mother liked him to go—and Aunt Grenertsen sometimes
had exceedingly good cakes which she called “half moons”; and just now
there were these delicious ripe apples. During such calls she could be
remarkably disagreeable. “What is the weather today?” she would say; and
before he could answer, would add “Oh, well! No use asking you. Children
never notice the weather.” Or, “What kind of fish is there nowadays at
the wharf?—but you wouldn’t know that.” Or, “Who is to preach tomorrow?
Well there! I wonder at my asking you.”
No, she never thought he knew anything about anything, and that was so
exasperating! He knew very well what the weather was; he knew all the
kinds of fish that were for sale at the wharf every day; and he also
knew that the old minister was to preach tomorrow; but do you suppose
Aunt Grenertsen would believe a thing he told her? “I can’t depend on
that,” she would say.
Aunt Grenertsen certainly was difficult to talk with; and sometimes he
did not even get a “half moon.” He believed he wouldn’t go there any
more, or try to please either her or old Katrina, who was almost worse
than Aunt Grenertsen.
Katrina wanted everything done just so; the garden gate must not only be
shut but latched; he must walk in the middle of the path, and he must
always use the kitchen door. If he went to the other door, he was sure
to hear “Dear, dear! How grand he is today! He must come in at the front
door and make some one leave her work to let him in.” No, indeed. He
would not go all that way around by King Street any more. Their old
apples could hang and hang there forever, for all he cared.
* * * * *
For fully four days Johnny Blossom did not show himself inside of Aunt
Grenertsen’s green-painted garden fence; but on the fifth day he thought
it would be interesting after all to see whether the apples still hung
on the tree. It seemed an age since he had looked at them, and it would
be disappointing enough if they had been gathered.
No, luckily, there they hung. And Aunt Grenertsen was gazing out of the
window from behind her plants, and Katrina peering over the sash
curtains just as usual. Well, he would go in and see how Aunt Grenertsen
was today. The front door was unlocked, so he could go in that way
without inconveniencing her highness, Katrina.
“Good afternoon, Aunt Grenertsen. How do you do?” He sat down in the
chair by the door, where he knew he was expected to sit.
“Good afternoon, Johnny Blossom.”
Dead silence for a long time.
Ugh! he would have to try to talk.
“Mother has gone to a luncheon party today.”
“I can well believe it,” said Aunt Grenertsen. “People never stay at
home in these days. They are forever flying about.”
“Father was at a meeting last night.”
“I haven’t the least doubt of it.”
Absolute silence again. If only the cuckoo in the clock would come out
and call! But it would be almost a quarter of an hour before that would
happen. Johnny Blossom racked his brain to think of something to talk
about.
“We baked cookies at home yesterday,” he said suddenly.
“Then I presume you ate more of them than was good for you.”
Oh, no, Johnny Blossom had not over-eaten; he could easily eat some
today, too; he had had only those that were burnt.
“Burnt, hey? Well, there’s nothing a boy won’t put into his stomach.”
Aunt Grenertsen was unusually disagreeable today. Not a word could he
say about the apples, because he had so often before brought up that
subject.
“Well, I think I must go now,” he said, rising slowly.
“Yes, you had better,” said Aunt Grenertsen. But when he had gone into
the hall she called, “Johnny Blossom!”
He looked in again.
“Why, there are those ripe apples. You might climb up in the tree for
them, you are so small and light.”
“Yes, Aunt Grenertsen. I’ll go right up now, this minute.”
“No. Come tomorrow. It is altogether too late this afternoon.”
* * * * *
The next day, at a little past two, Johnny Blossom was again in Aunt
Grenertsen’s garden. He had gulped down his dinner at an alarming rate,
and then hurried to King Street, stopping on his way to get Tellef; for
there must be one person to climb and shake the tree and one to stand
below and pick up the apples. However, Tellef must stay outside the
garden until Aunt Grenertsen had been informed that Johnny had brought
an assistant.
“Good afternoon, Aunt Grenertsen, here I am.
“Well, you are early enough I hope. I want to say this much, Johnny
Blossom, that I won’t have it on my conscience that you should eat any
half-rotten apples—and there are usually a good many half-rotten of this
kind—but those that are cracked or bruised you may have, for they won’t
keep anyway.”
“Thank you, Aunt Grenertsen.”
“I suppose you can get along without Katrina’s help.”
“Oh, yes, perfectly. For that matter, I have a boy outside there who
will be a fine helper. He’s very quick and oh! awfully strong.”
“I hadn’t supposed great strength was necessary to pick a few apples.”
“He’s a very good boy, too, Aunt Grenertsen.”
“Glad to hear it. Well, bring your paragon in and go to work.”
* * * * *
At last Johnny Blossom and Tellef stood under the apple tree with a big
basket.
My, oh, my! Just look at all the apples! There must be fully a half
bushel—a good many for such a little old tree.
“You go up in the tree and shake it,” said Johnny.
“Here I go,” responded Tellef. He sprang to the tree, gripped the trunk
with his knees and was up in a trice. Vigorous shaking. Five big apples
thumped to the ground.
“Five big ones and all of them bruised, so they are for us,” shouted
Johnny Blossom; and the apples vanished inside his blouse.
“Well, but I want some,” answered Tellef from the tree.
“Of course. I just put them in here to keep.”
Another shaking of the branches. Besides some decayed ones, four good
apples fell, hitting the ground with such force that these, too, were
crushed or cracked. Tellef was down on the instant. My, oh, my! but they
were delicious apples. Neither of the boys had ever tasted any equal to
them. A sharp knock sounded on Aunt Grenertsen’s window, and Johnny
hurried over there.
“It seems to me you do nothing but eat,” came through the window.
“Oh, no. These are some that got smashed and you said we might eat
those.”
“Such rough shaking, I don’t like. You must pick the apples.”
“Yes, Aunt Grenertsen.”
Up the tree went both the boys. They picked six apples, but found it
impossible to reach any more. All the others hung upon thin old branches
that cracked if you but touched them, and would by no means bear a boy’s
weight. The boys tried and tried to get the apples, but the tempting
things hung exasperatingly out of reach.
“No use,” said Johnny. “I’ll have to stand under the tree and hold the
basket, while you shake the apples into it. Then they won’t whack on the
ground and bruise themselves.”
First, however, the six perfect apples were laid carefully upon the
porch steps.
John held the basket under a branch while Tellef shook it. Eight apples
bounced and rolled in the garden path, but not one fell into the basket
and not one but showed a bruise or a split.
“What a stupid you are to shake them off that way!” exclaimed Johnny.
“Not a bit. It is you who are stupid about holding the basket,” retorted
Tellef.
They stole glances at Aunt Grenertsen’s window. Fortunately, she was not
looking out and so had not seen the unlucky outcome of this attempt.
Hastily thrusting the eight apples into their blouses, they both climbed
the tree again and stretched and reached their utmost till one branch
broke and the boys nearly tumbled from the tree.
“Well. We’ll just have to shake them off.”
“Yes, we must; but shake gently.” Three much crushed and two that were
bruised slightly, with, of course, a number of decayed ones that did not
count.
“These two we’ll lay on the steps.”
Strangely enough, there were almost no apples left on the tree now,
except those on a very slender branch. They would have to be shaken
down, for no person alive could reach them. Violent shaking ensued and
apples pelted down in a shower, every one landing with a thud that
bruised or marred it somewhere. The boys gathered them hurriedly and
deposited them under a gooseberry bush.
True as you live, there were no more apples on the tree! It was
remarkable how little time it had taken to strip it. And on the steps
lay only eight apples, and two of them were bruised! What would Aunt
Grenertsen say at getting so few? Well, he must take them in to her.
“Here are the apples, Aunt Grenertsen. Aren’t they beauties?”
“And where are the rest?”
“Why—these are all.”
“From the whole tree? _Eight_ apples?”
“Well, some were half-rotten, and you said yourself that we might eat”—
“I said no such thing,” interrupted Aunt Grenertsen.
Johnny Blossom blinked his eyes and scarcely knew what to say, but
suddenly had an idea. He would begin differently.
“But those that were bruised you said we might eat, and we have done
that,” said Johnny Blossom, frankly and virtuously.
“Indeed! You have done that, have you? Well—it looks as if they had all
got bruised.”
“Oh no, Aunt Grenertsen. Six of them are not bruised at all, and these
two only the least bit.”
“Well, well! What’s done is done. I pity your stomachs, that’s all I can
say.”
Oh, dear! Aunt Grenertsen wasn’t comfortable to deal with—not a bit easy
in fact—and never had been.
Johnny Blossom was glad enough to get out into the garden with Tellef
again. The heap of apples under the gooseberry bushes was divided with
great exactness. Aunt Grenertsen could not see over there from her
window.
The boys walked slowly and lingered much on the way home, munching
apples all the time; and their well-stuffed blouses were noticeably less
bulging when the boys finally parted at Johnny Blossom’s gate.
* * * * *
“How did the harvesting of Aunt Grenertsen’s apples go this afternoon?”
asked Mother.
“Oh, very well,” answered Johnny.
“Did she have many apples?”
“Why, some were half-rotten or all rotten, and a good many were
bruised”—
“But of course you were very careful how you picked them?”
“Yes, very. We shook them into a basket. Those that were bruised, Aunt
Grenertsen said we might have.”
“Did she? And how many did Aunt Grenertsen get?”
“Oh”—Further probing on Mother’s part to find out what Aunt Grenertsen’s
share of the harvest had amounted to, drew forth the truth, uttered with
a show of enthusiasm.
“She had quite a good many—eight big beautiful apples—and six of them
hadn’t the least speck of a bruise on them anywhere.”
“But poor Auntie! Do you mean to say she had only _eight_ apples for
herself? And she so fond of them too! How in the world could that happen
when there was so much fruit on the tree?”
“It was queer there weren’t more, but none of the apples would fall in
the basket, and they _would_ whack right down on the ground, and so they
got bruised—and then we ate them, you see, Mother.”
“Oh! I am really sorry for Aunt Grenertsen,” said Mother. “I must see if
I can’t find something good to send her to make up for this. It was not
at all nice of you, John—not at all kind. Poor Aunt Grenertsen who is so
lonely and has so little of everything!”
Johnny Blossom blinked hard. He began to feel disgusted with himself.
Just think of Aunt Grenertsen’s being very fond of apples—and of
Mother’s feeling so sorry for her! Suddenly he rushed from the door.
Perhaps Tellef had some apples left. Not even a core remained of his
own.
Pshaw! At Tellef’s they had eaten all the apples immediately on Tellef’s
arrival with them.
How trying it was that Aunt Grenertsen should be so particularly fond of
apples! Poor thing! And besides, she was lonely, Mother had said, and
had very little money. It was too bad.
If he only had something to give her—he himself. Of course Mother would
find something, but he would like to, too. He hadn’t a cent in his bank.
What few cents he had saved had all been poked out long since, and he
hadn’t anything else either. Well, yes, he had that fine new cake of
India ink Father had just given him; but Aunt Grenertsen surely did not
draw with India ink.
There! Now he had an idea. She should have that rare postage stamp from
Mozambique, she certainly should! The whole class and some of the big
boys envied him his possession of that stamp and had begged and begged
for it; but not one of them should get it, no indeed!
He found an old pill box, laid the Mozambique stamp carefully in it, and
ran straightway to King Street.
Everything was as usual. He could scarcely bear to look at the tree he
had gathered the fruit from, but finding two apples on the ground under
the other tree, he picked them up and took them into the house. He
certainly wasn’t going to eat any more of Aunt Grenertsen’s apples.
“Good afternoon, Aunt Grenertsen.”
“Oh, is that you, back here already?”
“I found these apples out in the garden.”
Aunt Grenertsen looked at them over her glasses.
“H’m—they are not bruised, these two.”
Johnny Blossom made no answer to this remark, but got up quickly from
his chair by the door and went over to the window where Aunt Grenertsen
sat.
“I thought you might like to have this.” And Johnny Blossom placed the
pill box on the table and gazed expectantly into Aunt Grenertsen’s
wrinkled face.
“Pills?” said Aunt Grenertsen. “I have never taken pills in all my long
life.”
“It isn’t pills, it isn’t pills!” exclaimed Johnny Blossom, hopping
about on one foot with joy, because Aunt Grenertsen would be so pleased
when she saw what it was.
“Just look inside! Just look!” he continued.
Aunt Grenertsen opened the box.
“An old postage stamp,” said she.
“Oh, it’s a Mozambique stamp, Aunt Grenertsen,” explained Johnny Blossom
earnestly. “It is awfully rare. There isn’t another one in the whole
town, Aunt Grenertsen.”
“Indeed?” Aunt Grenertsen looked at the little old stamp dubiously,
turning it round and round.
“But why do you give it to me, Johnny Blossom?”
“Oh, because—because you only got eight apples, and Mother said”—
“What did Mother say?”
“Mother said that you liked apples so much—and that you were lonely;
and, besides, I was ashamed of myself because Tellef and I had eaten so
many of your apples.”
“And so you want to give me this stamp?”
“Yes. Isn’t it interesting, Aunt Grenertsen? Isn’t it a beauty?”
He stood behind her chair, looking eagerly over her shoulder at the
stamp.
“Aren’t you glad to have it?”
“Yes, indeed; I thank you very much. And I want you to have a half moon
today.”
“Oh, no. I don’t want anything.”
“Yes, you surely must have one.”
The “half moon” was brought forthwith and was eaten with great relish.
Light-hearted now, Johnny Blossom ran through the garden, fastening the
gate carefully, while at the window an old face peered out from among
the plants, through tear-misted spectacles. Then Aunt Grenertsen took
the stamp and pasted it on the window pane nearest where she sat.
“That is a reminder of you,” she said later to Johnny Blossom. And
Johnny was proud to think that the interesting and rare Mozambique stamp
should be a reminder of him.
But how queer old people are! thought Johnny Blossom.
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