Io sono uno che ama e non ho trovato la cosa da amare. - Sherwood Anderson

On the trees are only a few gnarled apples that the pickers have rejected. They look like the knuckles of Doctor Reefy's hands. One nibbles at them and they are delicious. Into a little round place at the side of the apple has been gathered all its sweetness. One runs from tree to tree over the frosted ground picking the gnarled, twisted apples and filling his pockets with them. Only the few know the sweetness of the twisted apples.

The writer, an old man with a white mustache, had some difficulty in getting into bed.

It was a cold day but the sun was out and the trees were like great bonfires against gray distant fields and hills.