THE LURE OF THE BERRY 133 



reach them. Just a big, bushy, green clump, 

 full of glossy black or softly blue berries, and 

 you can sit right down on the tussocks among 

 them, put your pail underneath a bush, and 

 begin. At first, the handfuls drop in with a 

 high-keyed &quot;plinking&quot; sound; then, when the 

 &quot;bottom is covered,&quot; this changes to a soft 

 patter altogether satisfactory; and as you sit 

 stripping the crisp branches and letting the 

 neat little balls roll through your fingers, your 

 spirit grows calm within you, you feel the 

 breeze, you look up now and then over 

 stretches of hill, or pasture, or sky, and you 

 settle into a state of complete acquiescence 

 in things as they are. 



For there is always a breeze, and always a 

 view, at least where my huckleberries grow. 

 If any one should ask me where to find a good 

 situation for a house, I should answer, with a 

 comprehensive wave of my arm, &quot;Oh, choose 

 any huckleberry patch.&quot; Only t were pity to 

 demolish so excellent a thing as a huckleberry 

 patch, merely to erect so doubtful a thing as a 

 house. 



I know one such a royal one even among 

 huckleberry patches. To get to it you go up 



