a. a. milne
of the fruits of the year i give my vote to the orange. in the first place it is a perennial1—if not in actual fact, at least in the greengrocer’s shop. on the days iven to a handful of chocolates and a little preserved ginger, e, hoooseberries riot together upon the table, the orange, sgs and bacon3, are not more necessary to an ordered existence than the orange.
it is e i have not room fully to speak. it has properties of health giving, as it cures influenza and establishes the complexion. it is clean, for , its top coat, for a cricket ball. the pips can be flicked at your enemies, and quite a small piece of peel4 makes a slide for an old gentleman.
but all this had not the orange such delightful qualities of taste. i dare not let myself go upon this subject. i am a slave to its srudge every marriage in that it means a fresh supply of orange blossom, the promise of so much golden fruit out short. hoo on.
yet e e. the fact is that there is an hontesty about the orange oing to be bad—for the best of ills are bad sometimes—it begins to be bad from the outside, not from the inside. ho face to the apple, is harboring a e has no secret faults. its outside is a mirror of its inside, and if you are quick you can tell the shopman so before he slips5 it into the bag.
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