Jack had checked every store. He'd gone to every hardware, garden or nursery store, and then he'd gone back.

They gave him the same spiel everywhere he went. "No seeds, dahling," they'd say. "The apples had no seeds this year."

Despairing, he sat down at the wooden bar, rested his elbows and called for the tender. "Gimme a hard cider. You're best stuff."

"Sorry," the tender said, laying her voluptuousness on the bar across from him. "No apples this year, means no cider. No apples last year, means no cider. No apples for five years, no cider. Get the picture?"

Johnny stared up at her, longing for that juicy, warm, spicy fruit. He slackened his jaw, took a breath to speak and burst into tears.

"Oh dahling, dahling, pull yerself togetha! We've got all the ales, the whisky you could want."

"No... no..." he stammered. "I long for that spicy, juicy warm fruit that hangs so deliciously from strong limbs."

Wandering through his fallow fields, he saw at the north end a chipmunk. Ruddy, and the size of a pigeon, the chipmunk was chattering. It almost felt like laughter.

The cretin's cheeks puffed full, of seeds no doubt.