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"YOU ought to
have seen what I saw on my way
To the village,
through Mortenson's pasture to-day:
Blueberries as
big as the end of your thumb,
Real sky-blue, and
heavy, and ready to drum
In the cavernous pail of the
first one to come!
And all ripe together, not some of
them green
And some of them ripe! You ought to have
seen!"
"I don't know what part of the pasture you
mean."
"You know where they cut off the woods--let me
see--
It was two years ago--or no!--can it be
No
longer than that?--and the following fall
The fire
ran and burned it all up but the wall."
"Why, there
hasn't been time for the bushes to grow.
That's
always the way with the blueberries, though:
There
may not have been the ghost of a sign
Of them
anywhere under the shade of the pine,
But get the
pine out of the way, you may burn
The pasture all
over until not a fern
Or grass-blade is left, not to
mention a stick,
And presto, they're up all around
you as thick
And hard to explain as a conjuror's
trick."
"It must be on charcoal they fatten their
fruit.
I taste in them sometimes the flavour of soot.
And after all really they're ebony skinned:
The
blue's but a mist from the breath of the wind,
A
tarnish that goes at a touch of the hand,
And less
than the tan with which pickers are tanned."
"Does
Mortenson know what he has, do you think?"
"He may
and not care and so leave the chewink
To gather them
for him--you know what he is.
He won't make the fact
that they're rightfully his
An excuse for keeping us
other folk out."
"I wonder you didn't see Loren
about."
"The best of it was that I did. Do you know,
I was just getting through what the field had to show
And over the wall and into the road,
When who should
come by, with a democrat-load
Of all the young
chattering Lorens alive,
But Loren, the fatherly, out
for a drive."
"He saw you, then? What did he do? Did
he frown?"
"He just kept nodding his head up and
down.
You know how politely he always goes by.
But
he thought a big thought--I could tell by his eye--
Which being expressed, might be this in effect:
'I
have left those there berries, I shrewdly suspect,
To
ripen too long. I am greatly to blame.'"
"He's a
thriftier person than some I could name."
"He seems
to be thrifty; and hasn't he need,
With the mouths of
all those young Lorens to feed?
He has brought them
all up on wild berries, they say,
Like birds. They
store a great many away.
They eat them the year
round, and those they don't eat
They sell in the
store and buy shoes for their feet."
"Who cares what
they say? It's a nice way to live,
Just taking what
Nature is willing to give,
Not forcing her hand with
harrow and plow."
"I wish you had seen his perpetual
bow--
And the air of the youngsters! Not one of them
turned,
And they looked so solemn-absurdly
concerned."
"I wish I knew half what the flock of
them know
Of where all the berries and other things
grow,
Cranberries in bogs and raspberries on top
Of the boulder-strewn mountain, and when they will crop.
I met them one day and each had a flower
Stuck into
his berries as fresh as a shower;
Some strange
kind--they told me it hadn't a name."
"I've told you
how once not long after we came,
I almost provoked
poor Loren to mirth
By going to him of all people on
earth
To ask if he knew any fruit to be had
For
the picking. The rascal, he said he'd be glad
To tell
if he knew. But the year had been bad.
There had been
some berries--but those were all gone.
He didn't say
where they had been. He went on:
'I'm sure--I'm
sure'--as polite as could be.
He spoke to his wife in
the door, 'Let me see,
Mame, we don't know any good
berrying place?'
It was all he could do to keep a
straight face.
"If he thinks all the fruit that grows
wild is for him,
He'll find he's mistaken. See here,
for a whim,
We'll pick in the Mortensons' pasture
this year.
We'll go in the morning, that is, if it's
clear,
And the sun shines out warm: the vines must be
wet.
It's so long since I picked I almost forget
How we used to pick berries: we took one look round,
Then sank out of sight like trolls underground,
And
saw nothing more of each other, or heard,
Unless when
you said I was keeping a bird
Away from its nest, and
I said it was you.
'Well, one of us is.' For
complaining it flew
Around and around us. And then
for a while
We picked, till I feared you had wandered
a mile,
And I thought I had lost you. I lifted a
shout
Too loud for the distance you were, it turned
out,
For when you made answer, your voice was as low
As talking--you stood up beside me, you know."
"We
sha'n't have the place to ourselves to enjoy--
Not
likely, when all the young Lorens deploy.
They'll be
there to-morrow, or even to-night.
They won't be too
friendly--they may be polite--
To people they look on
as having no right
To pick where they're picking. But
we won't complain.
You ought to have seen how it
looked in the rain,
The fruit mixed with water in
layers of leaves,
Like two kinds of jewels, a vision
for thieves."
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