On a healthy autumn day, the Marshalsea prisoner, weak but
otherwise restored, sat listening to a voice that read to him. On
a healthy autumn day; when the golden fields had been reaped and
ploughed again, when the summer fruits had ripened and waned, when
the green perspectives of hops had been laid low by the busy
pickers, when the apples clustering in the orchards were russet,
and the berries of the mountain ash were crimson among the
yellowing foliage. "
Of course, the russet apples mentioned here are probably not what was called russet in New England when I was a boy.
They made a cider that was so good people who had once tasted it would drive many miles to buy it. It would be very hard to find today, alas.
