I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve had a rotten week and I could do with some peaceful, quiet relaxation:

I imagine that Anton Chekhov would hate this song because there’s a hornet’s nest in it and yet nobody gets stung.  Nevertheless, it might be a good idea for Ernie to find another tree to sit under for a while.

(Although I love the way that Jim Henson makes Ernie sound slightly nervous every time he sings the line “a hornet’s nest.”)

This song reminds me of an apple tree on my parents’ property.  When I was a kid, I figured out how to climb it all by myself, and I spent a lot of time sitting up in it after that: thinking, dreaming, or sometimes just being.  It was magical, being up in my apple tree; somehow time itself seemed to move more slowly up there.