by Maria Child
So he kept traveling, far and wide,
'Till his old limbs failed him and he died.
He said, at last: "'Tis a comfort to feel
I've done some good in the world, though not a great deal."
Weary travelers journeying West,
In the shade of his trees find pleasant rest,
And often they start with glad surprise
At the rosy fruit that around them lies.
And if they inquire whence came such trees
Where not a bough once swayed in the breeze?
The reply still comes as they travel on,
"These trees were planted by Appleseed John."