rosy apple blossoms

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"I asked you," he said, "as a special favor, not to be too flowery. But our poetess . . ." Betsy squirmed and blushed . . . "is not only flowery. Her flowers are the wrong color. I haven't read your story, Betsy, and I don't intend to. The opening sentence is enough for me. He read aloud scornfully:

"Under a tree hung with rosy apple blossoms . . ."

"Rosy apple blossoms! Rosy apple blossoms! Who ever heard of rosy apple blossoms? Apple blossoms, my dear young lady, are not pink. They are white."

Betsy's blushes receded. She turned, in fact, a little pale.

"I think they are pink, Mr. Gaston."

"You think they are pink?" Mr. Gaston glared at her through his thick glasses. "But I know they are white."

"It's the under part of the petals," Betsy said falteringly. "They're pinkish, sort of."

"Pinkish, sort of!" Mr. Gaston mocked.

Betsy looked around a little wildly. Joe Willard was staring out the window. She brought her gaze back to Mr. Gaston stubbornly. "We had lots of apple trees when we lived up on Hill Street. I always liked to look at them in May."

"You should have examined them accurately. You would have found that they are white."

"But they aren't white." Betsy was near tears, but it was from anger.

"They must have been peach trees," Mr. Gaston said.

"They were apples. I've eaten the apples."

"Betsy," said Mr. Gaston with a maddening, condescending smile. "If you were a little younger, I'd ask you to write a hundred times, 'Apple blossoms are white.' As it is, I merely ask you to rewrite your story, and eliminate any inaccuracies."

He picked up another paper.

But the subject was not quite done with. Joe Willard turned from his study of the trees beyond the window and raised his hand.

"Yes, Joe?" Mr. Gaston said changing his tone.

"It is my opinion sir, that apple blossoms are pink."

Mr. Gaston was silent, stunned.

"Pinkish, rather." Joe continued. "I think Betsy's word 'pinkish' is excellent. They're colored just enough to make the effect rosy."

The silence in the room had width, height, depth, mass, and substance.

From Betsy in Spite of Herself  by Maud Hart Lovelace

 

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As you can see in the photo, Betsy and Joe are quite right - apple blossoms are pinkish.
And they smell simply divine!!

P.S.
If you've never read the Betsy~Tacy books by Maud Hart Lovelace, you should.
Really, you should.
They're simply delightful.