fair apples, and fair of colour to behold; but whoso breaketh them or cutteth them in two, he shall find within them coals and cinders, in token that by the wrath of God, the city and the land were burnt and sunken into hell.”  Speaking of the many legendary tales connected with the apple, may be mentioned the golden apples which Hera received at her marriage with Zeus, and placed under the guardianship of the dragon Ladon, in the garden of the Hesperides.  The northern Iduna kept guarded the sacred apples which, by a touch, restored the aged gods to youth; and according to Sir J. Maundeville, the apples of Pyban fed the pigmies with their smell only.  This reminds us of the singing apple in the fairy romance, which would persuade by its smell alone, and enable the possessor to write poetry or prose, and to display the most accomplished wit; and of the singing tree in the “Arabian Nights,” each leaf of which was musical, all the leaves joining together in a delightful harmony.

But peculiarities of this kind are very varied, and form an extensive section in “Plant-lore;”—­very many curious examples being found in old travels, and related with every semblance of truth.  In some instances trees have obtained a fabulous character from being connected with certain events.  Thus there was the “bleeding tree."[1] It appears that one of the indictments laid to the charge of the Marquis of Argyll was this:—­“That a tree on which thirty-six of his enemies were hanged was immediately blasted, and when hewn down, a copious stream of blood ran from it, saturating the earth, and that blood for several years was emitted from the roots.”  Then there is the “poet’s tree,” which grows over the tomb of Tan-Sein, a musician at the court of Mohammed Akbar.  Whoever chews a leaf of this tree was long said to be inspired with sweet melody of voice, an allusion to which is made by Moore, in “Lalla Kookh:":—­“His voice was sweet, as if he had chewed the leaves of that enchanted tree which grows over the tomb of the musician Tan-Sein.”

The rare but occasional occurrence of vegetation in certain trees and shrubs, happening to take place at the period of Christ’s birth, gave rise to the belief that such trees threw out their leaves with a holy joy to commemorate that anniversary.  An oak of the early budding species for two centuries enjoyed such a notoriety, having been said to shoot forth its leaves on old Christmas Day, no leaf being seen either before or after that day during winter.  There was the famous Glastonbury thorn, and in the same locality a walnut tree was reported never to put forth its leaves before the feast of St. Barnabas, the 11th June.  The monkish legend runs thus:  Joseph of Arimathaea, after landing at no great distance from Glastonbury, walked to a hill about a mile from the town.  Being weary he sat down here with his companions, the hill henceforth being nicknamed “Weary-All-Hill,” locally abbreviated into “Werral.”  Whilst resting Joseph struck his staff into the ground, which took root, grew, and blossomed every Christmas Day.  Previous to the time of Charles I a branch of this famous tree was carried in procession, with much ceremony, at Christmas time, but during the Civil War the tree was cut down.