Atpple-picking Time<br >I t st.:l) ro Lov r: this season. The wood stacked by the door，<br > tile ~ang ，，)f" its sap still speaking of forest. The hay， made，<br > all g(~ldcn in tile low afternoon light. The rumble of the<br >appJcs rural)ling into the cellar bins. Smells and sights and sounds<br >~h.at said this year it would be all right: there d be food and<br >~avmth fiw the babies by the time the snows came. I used to love<br >~(~ walk in the apple orchard at this time of the year， to feel the<br >s(~l} give un(terfoot when I trod on a fallen fruit. Thick， sweet<br >seems of ro~ting apple and wet wood. This year， the hay stooks<br >arc tcx~ amt the ~v(~odpilc scant， and neither matters much to me.<br > l hev/)fought the apl)les yesterday， a cartload for the rectory<br >cdlar， l，ate pickings， of course: I saw brown spots on more than il<br >icx~. [ had x~(wds with tb.e carter over it， but he told me we wcrc<br >iuckx to gct as good as we got， and I suppose it s true enough.<br >l hcic arc so (ew people to do the picking. So few people to do<br >anlhing. Xml those of us who :ire left walk around as if we re half<br >;~slccp. Wc arc all so tired.<br > I t(~ok :m apple that was crisp aild good and sliced it， thin as<br >t~at，cr， and carried it into that dim room where he sits， still and<br >silent， l lis hand is (m the Bible， but he never ()pens it. Not any-<br >more. I asked him if he d like me to read it to him. tte turned his<br >hca(I to look at me， and I started. It was the first time he d looked<br >at mc in days. I d fiwg()tten what his eyes could do--what they<br >could make us do--when he stared down from the pulpit an~l<br >held us， (me by one， in his gaze. I/is eyes are the same， but his<br >