Of the fruits of the year I give my vote to the orange.
In the first place it is a perennial1 -- if not in actual fact, at least in the greengrocer's shop. On the days when dessert is a name given to a handful of chocolates and a little preserved ginger2, when macedoine de fruits is the title bestowed3 on two prunes4 and a piece of rhubarb, then the orange, however sour, comes nobly to the rescue; and on those other days of plenty when cherries and strawberries and raspberries, and gooseberries riot together upon the table, the orange, sweeter than ever, is still there to hold its own. Bread and butter, beef and mutton, eggs and bacon, are not more necessary to an order existence than the orange.
It is well that the commonest fruit should be also the best. Of the virtures of the orange I have not room fully5 to speak. It has properties of health giving, as that it cures influenza6 and establishes the complexion7. It is clean, for whoever handles it on its way to your table, but handles its outer covering, its TOP coat, which is left in the hall. It is round, and forms an excellent substitute with the young for a cricket ball. The pip can be flicked8 at your enemies, and quite a small piece of peel makes a slide for an old gentleman.
But all this would count nothing had not the orange such delightful9 qualities of the taste. I dare not let myself go upon this subject. I am a slave to its sweetness. I grudge10 every marriage in that it means a fresh supply of orange blossom, the promise of so much golden fruit cut short. However, the world must go on.
Yet with the orange we do live year in and year out. That speaks well for the orange. The fact is that there is an honesty aboutthe orange which appeals to all of us. If it is going to be bad -- for the best of us are bad sometimes -- it begins to be bad from the outside, not from the inside. How many a pear which presents a blooming face to the world is rotten at the core. How many an innocent-looking apple is harbouring a worm in the bud. But the orange had no secret faults. Its outside is a mirror of its inside, and if you are quick you can tell the shopman so before he slips it into the bag.
