One thing more let us look at before we leave the apple.  Cut it horizontally through the middle with a sharp knife, and try how thin and smooth a slice you can make; hold it up to the light, and we shall see something very beautiful.  There in the centre of the round slice is the delicate figure of a perfect apple-blossom, with all its petals spread; for it was that lovely pink-and-white blossom from which the apple was formed,—­a tiny green ball at first, which you may see in the spring, if you look where the blossoms have just fallen.  As this little green apple grew, it kept in its very heart always the image of the fair blossom; and now that the fruit has reached this ripe perfection, we may still see the same form.

The pears, too, the apricots and plums, you may see for yourselves; you do not need me to tell their stories.

But come down to the garden, for there I have some of the oddest and prettiest boxes to show.  The pease and beans have long canoes, satin-lined and waterproof.  On what voyage they are bound, I cannot say.

The tall milk-weed that grew so fast all summer, and threatened to over-run the garden, now pays well for its lodging by the exquisite treasure which its rough-covered, pale-green bag holds.  Press your thumb on its closed edges; for this casket opens with a spring, and, if it is ripe and ready, it will unclose with a touch, and show you a little fish, with silver scales laid over a covering of long, silken threads, finer and more delicate than any of the sewing-silk in your mother’s work-box.  This silk is really a wing-like float for each scale; and the scales are seeds, which will not stay upon the little fish, but long to float away with their silken trails, and, alighting here and there, cling and seek for a good place to plant themselves.

See, too, how the poppy has provided herself with a deep, round box of a delicate brown color; the carved lid might have been made by the Chinese, it looks so much like their fine work.  Full to the brim, this box is.  The poppy is rich in the autumn; brown seeds by the hundred, packed away for another year’s use.

Here are the balsams,—­touch-me-nots, we used to call them when I was a child; for, Poor things, so slightly have they locked up their treasure, that even the baby’s little finger will open the rough-feeling oblong casket with a snap and a spring, and send the jewels flying all over the garden-bed, where you will scarcely be able to find them again.

Roses have beautiful round, red globes to hold their precious seeds; and so firm and strong are they, that the winter winds and snows even do not break or open them.  I have found them dashed with sea-spray, or on dusty roadsides; everywhere strong and safe, making the dullest day bright with their cheery color.

If we go to the wet meadows and stream-sides, we shall find how the scarlet cardinal has packed away its minute seeds in a pretty little box with two or three partings inside; and the cowslip has a cluster of oval bags as full as they can hold.