Spencer Heath Archive

Item 583

Exchange of correspondence between Heath at Elkridge, Maryland, and Meredith Blume,206 East Livingston Avenue, Orlando, Florida, concerning the annual Thanksgiving Apple Dinner of the Orlando, Florida, Poetry Society, for which Heath wrote, at her request, a doggerel about apples. As with other poetry, he typed copies to carry with him to read when appropriate. He sometimes left off the final stanza, depending on his audience.

November, 1948

 

 

 

Dear Dr. Heath,                November 7, 1948

 

This is just a reminder that we haven’t your lines on “apples” that you thought you could write for us for our Thanksgiving dinner on November 20, the Saturday before the holiday.

 

   Please do not try to put the little story in verse if that seems difficult. Just write any bit of doggerel.

 

Everyone here whom I have asked to help on this program has been exceedingly co-operative and I expect the “dinner” to be decidedly amusing, if not enlightening.

 

It is good to be here again and to see my friends. Mrs. Constable gave an excellent sermon this morning on “Armistice Day.”

 

I miss you, Dr. Heath, but not nearly so much as if I were in Pittsfield.

 

   If you cannot woo the Muses so as to write these lines, don’t let it worry you. I suppose there have been many Thanksgiving Banquets without apples.

 

Are you disappointed in the election? That’s begging the question, isn’t it?

Sincerely,

Meredith B.

 

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My Dear Mrs. Blume:                    November 16, 1948

 

Many thanks for your kind note and reminder — I almost forgot. Your letter must have been delayed in forwarding from New York, since it reached me only yesterday. So I spent the evening last night putting the little story into doggerel all in one sitting. My only extenuation is that “you asked for it.” That is how it came to be born — it never would otherwise — so a major share of the responsibility is yours, even though you fain would disclaim, especially after reading it.

 

I’m glad you journeyed safely and arrived happily. Wonder if the “House of Flowers” in Pittsfield failed to deliver that orchid corsage to you on the train at seven in the morning of Sept. seventh. Mr. Parker helped me select it (Mr. Dupret, I think it was, presiding). I also telephoned back to him from the gas station (from which I talked to you) that morning when I was leaving for Cheshire and New Haven and reminded him of the exact date, train and hour and he assured me positively.

 

The entertainment and hospitality that you extended to me as your house guest was marvelous. I shall always remember it most happily. I hope you are being somewhat rewarded for it by the kindness of your many friends in Orlando and that you will continue your kindnesses to me by remembering me happily to them — especially to the members of the poetry society and to Mr. and Mrs. Constable.

 

I have been getting a health check-up here in Maryland for the last ten days or two weeks with all signs favorable so far. I do hope your health has kept right on improving ever since your serious time in Pittsfield and subsequent responsibilities there.

 

I’ve no doubt your Thanksgiving Dinner will be fine and that you will get this in time, in case you should find the doggerel sufficiently amusing to foist upon it. I have arranged to take my daughter Lucile to Andover, Mass. The day before, by car, and then to entertain her and three grandsons and a friend of hers at dinner next day.

 

 I must take this to Baltimore right away and put it in the air mail. All the best wishes and everything.

 

 

 

If you see Mr. Granberry please remind him of my Mss. and tell him I’ll be in New York from now on.

 

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APPLE SAUCY

“An apple a day keeps the doctor away,”

Cried the maiden with cheek apple-red.

“Not a doubt but that’s true but for me none will do

But the winesap,” her customer said.

“Are they not in season or have you some reason

To proffer another instead?”

“0, yes my good fellow, but not enough mellow;

They’re a little too brittle, though red.”

“Then what other brand that you do have on hand

Would be equal or better for me?”

“The King David,” she said, “is as sweet and as red

As ever a winesap can be.”

“Of such,” he averred, “I never have heard;

Some new-fangled kind, is my guess —

Some poor substitute, of no such repute

As its long-honored elders possess.”

“You’re mistaken,” said she, “for it comes from a tree

  Whose fruit is long famed with the rest;

Of all apples that grow ‘tis the oldest we know —

   As good if not better than best.”

“That all may be true, but I’ll remind you

Of an apple long proven and tried:

    The old Jonathan, mayhap older than

This David you proffer with pride.”

“That is true,” said the maid, her wit undismayed,

“But the argument still favors me —

Your apple’s old age cannot mine over-gage,

   For they were con-tem-po-ra-ree.”

“Never mind,” says the man, “count up all you can,

   There’s an apple more ancient than all —

That in Adam stuck in just under his chin

   Right after his sin and his fall.”

“0, fie,” said the girl, her lip in a curl,

Both Adam and apple disdaining, “The kind that Eve ate are the ones that I date,

None others hereunto pertaining.”

“0, well,” said the man, “if Adam’s we ban

So must we ban Eve’s that she ate of;

Not the fruit of her shame, but the fruit she became

We now need the name and the date of.”

“You are slick,” said the maid, “but your hand’s overplayed;

Your wit is not subtle, you’re slippin;’

You try to discredit the way we’ve all read it;

You’re just itchin’ to call her a pippin.”

“You do me much credit, but, now that you’ve said it,

Quite a pippin she was, I agree;

But something much nicer and very much spicier

For her Adam she soon came to be.”

“Now what are you telling you think so excelling

The telling that’s always been told?

You make me suspicious of thoughts meretricious —

I hope you’re not going to be bold!”

“You know, my dear madam, the nature of Adam,

What a dullard he was — unambitious —

Until he went to college at Eve’s Tree of Knowledge

And she became his Stark Delicious.”

When he gave this a squeeze she went weak in the knees,

   Nor cared she what woe might betide her;

So then Adam each day he the devil did play

Till his spearit — it weakened — in cider.

 

 

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