“This is tomorrow’s apple Ned”The old man told his mount,As he planted the core behind the shedUp there at Blair’s bush camp.Since then generations of stockmenHave caught the descendants of Ned,With a tempting sweet apple giftFrom that old tree behind the shed.The tree that survived the ’39 firesWhen the shed was burnt right down,And has lived through 100 winter snowsTo fruit each year at muster time.Then a new way of thinkingConsidered the tree a curse,And the modern enlightened rangerCut it down; “it’s a weed of course”.