AN OLD ROAD. 55 



many places along this old road that are 

 indissolubly connected in my mind with 

 the question of something to eat. At the 

 foot of the orchard just now spoken of, for 

 example, is a dilapidated stone wall, be- 

 tween it and the river. Over this, as well 

 as over the bushes beside it, straggled a 

 small wild grape-vine, bearing every year 

 a scanty crop of white grapes. These, to 

 our unsophisticated palates, were delicious, 

 if only they got ripe. That was the rub ; 

 and as a rule we gathered our share of 

 them (which was all there were) while 

 they were yet several stages short of that 

 desirable consummation, not deeming it 

 prudent to leave them longer, lest some 

 hungrier soul should get the start of us. 

 Graping, as we called it, was one of our 

 regular autumn industries, and there were 

 few vines within the circle of our perambu- 

 lations which did not feel our fingers tug- 

 ging at them at least once a year. Some 

 of them hung well over the river; others 

 took refuge in the tops of trees; but by 

 hook or by crook, we usually got the better 

 of such perversities. No doubt the fruit 

 was all bad enough ; but some of it was 



