Johnny Appleseed

Of Jonathan Chapman

Two things are known,

That he loved apples,

That he walked alone.

At seventy-odd

He was gnarled as could be.

But ruddy and sound

As a good apple tree.

For fifty years over

Of harvest and dew,

He planted his apples

Where no apples grew.

The winds of the prairie

Might blow through his rags,

But he carried his seeds

In the best deerskin bags.

From old Ashtabula

To frontier Fort Wayne

He planted and pruned

And he planted again.

He has not a hat

To encumber his head.

He wore a tin pan

On his white hair instead.

He nested with owls

And with bear-cub and possum,

And knew all his orchards

Root, tendril and blossom.

A fine old man

As ripe as a pippin,

His heart still light,

And his steps still skipping.

The stalking Indian

The beast in its lair

Did no hurt

While he was there.

For they could tell,

As wild things can,

That Jonathan Chapman

Was God's own man.

Why did he do it?

We do not know

He wished that apples

Might root and grow.

He has no statue

He has no tomb

He has his apple trees

Still in bloom.

Consider, consider,

Think well upon

The marvelous story

Of Appleseed John.

Apple Trees In Bloom

"Johnny Appleseed"
Rosemary Carr Benet