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In any case, I remained silent and eventually returned to my own house, resigned and accepting that another merkle season had come and gone. About 12 o’clock my telephone rang. I thought, for a moment, that it might be the Culpeper Samaritan. It was not, but rather the wife, of a husband and wife team of Rappahannock weekenders of ten years running. “We’ve done it,” she exulted. I hesitated to ask “What?” for I knew that they, husband and wife, were well into their fifties, if not beyond. Was this Elizabeth reporting the good news for her and Zacary? It was not. They had found merkles. They would show me where. In the old apple orchard they had found them, but gave no promise that I would see a merkle growing in its natural state, for they had, in so far as they knew, left none unpicked.
I rushed over to their (dace, through their yard, and on to the orchard, where I found — one merkle — they had missed. It was growing under a dead apple tree. And then one more — at the edge of the orchard, under a tulip-poplar.
My faith was saved. I now know that merkles grow in an old apple orchard — and that they can be found by persons with brown eyes, as well as by those with blue.
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