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"But you don't mean it, do you?" she said, lifting to him her face that was round and glossy like a blackheart cherry.

She tended with care her little garden, whose chief ornament was a fine cherry tree bearing luscious blackhearts, while her fellow-townsmen had only sour Morellos growing in their yards.

“Well,” chuckled the old man over the ancient joke, “he’s the colour of a blackheart cherry.”

Tell her to set out her best cake and that basket of blackhearts.”

Said Tom, ‘I do not know; But I can take you to a tree where blackheart cherries grow.’