OLD COLONY BERRY PASTURES 



THE last holiday of the century found me in 

 the place where I was born, with weather 

 made on purpose for out-of-door pleasures 

 warm, bright, and still. A sudden inspiration 

 took me. I would go to see the old berry 

 pastures not all of them (the forenoon 

 would hardly be long enough for that), but 

 two or three of the nearest, on opposite sides 

 of the same back road. It would be a kind 

 of second boyhood. 



As I traveled the road itself, past two or 

 three houses that were not there in the old 

 time, two at least of the older wayside trees 

 greeted me with the season's compliments. 

 Or possibly it was I that greeted them. In 

 this kind of intercourse, it is hard to tell 

 speaker from hearer. We greeted each 

 other, let us say, though they are the older, 

 and by good rights should have spoken first. 

 They have held their own exceedingly well, 



