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housewives, market -pickers, come, and go 

 away full -handed. So, too, do the gray 

 squirrels the Ariels of the wood. 



For the blackberry is a very democrat. 

 It thrives best in the freedom of waste land, 

 growing over all for all. Its best-beloved 

 haunt is an old, old orchard, where it may 

 root and twine about half-dead peach-trees, 

 or gnarled, half-bent, close -stemmed seed- 

 ling apples, starveling reminders of the days 

 when the old field was closer in touch with 

 humanity. This small, imperfect fruit often 

 makes up in savor for what it lacks of sub- 

 stance. 



Plum thickets are, in some sort, the ghosts 

 of long-dead gardens. The original root, 

 perhaps, defended the fence's weakest cor- 

 ner. When it was torn away, the sturdy 

 growth remained to mark the vanished 

 home-seat, to hang fair-colored, juicy ovals 

 by the thousand and ten thousand to tempt 

 or refresh the wayfarer who stops for a min- 

 ute in their thorny shade. 



Woe to him if a wild plum tempts his 

 lip. Its rich bloom promises sugary sweets ; 

 yet, until the fruit has lain mellowing for 

 days on the warm earth at foot, it is almost 

 as bitterly astringent as a green persimmon. 



Saith the Arab proverb, "The reward of 



