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 ginger, when macédome de fruits is the title bestowed2 on two prunes and a piece of rhubarb, then the orange, however sour,es nobly to the rescue; and on those other days of plenty when cherries and strawberrles 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 bacon3, are not more necessary to an ordered existence than the orange.