the game of giving us a secret name—the Pathfinder, the Lamplighter, the Starseeker, and so on. But colours and flavours are harder to name and must wait longer than we.
. . . Under this Nameless tree, then, the swing hung, and to sit in the swing and have one’s head touch apple-blossoms, and mind, not touch them with one’s foot, was precisely like having one’s swing knotted to the sky, so that one might rise in rhythm, head and toe, up among the living stars. I can think of no difference worth the mentioning, so high it seemed. And if one does not know what rhythm is, one has only to say it over: Spring, Summer, apple- blossom, apple; new moon, old moon, running river, echo and then one will know.
“I would pick some,” said Mother, looking up at the apple-blossoms, “if I only knew which ones will never be apples.”
So some of the blossoms would never be apples! Which ones? And why?
“Why will some be apples and some others never be apples?” I inquired.
But Mother was singing and swinging me, and she did not tell.
“Why will you be apples and you not be
