cultivars, might be introduced to the open market. They just appeared and disappeared, unnoticed by most though legendary to the few who had stolen fruit, who kept an eye on the seed catalogues, wondering when these cultivars, the Moo U. Nor were they sold at any hort department fund-raising sale, the way apples, Christmas trees, and bedding plants were. In midsummer, just at the end of summer session, they were seen to bear fruit-heavy burnished apricots and big peaches swollen with juice that later disappeared and never seemed to reappear on the salad bars or the dessert bars in any of the dorms or fraternity houses. Right up against the long windowless southern wall of Old Meats, someone, sometime, without benefit of application, grant, permission from administration or grounds crew, without even the passing back and forth of a memo, someone had planted, then espaliered, a row of apricot and peach trees. Here and there, discreetly placed experimentals tested the climate. In front of that, an expanse of annuals flowed down the hillside and spilled across flat ground in a tide of August reds, golds, and yellows. Its southern approach, once a featureless slope of green lawn, was now an undulating perennial border whose two arms embraced a small formal garden defined by a carefully clipped and fragrant boxwood hedge. F ROM THE OUTSIDE it was clear that the building known generally as “Old Meats” had eased under the hegemony of the horticulture department.
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