162 FOOTING IT IN FRANCONIA 



vote one forenoon to wliat miglit be called 

 an ornithological errand : I went up to tlie 

 worn-out fields at the end of the Coal Hill 

 road, to see whether by any chance a pair 

 of horned larks might be summering there, 

 as I had heard of a j)air's doing eight or ten 

 years ago. Even this jaunt, however, ran 

 into — I will not say degenerated into — 

 something like a berry-picking excursion. 

 Easpberries and blueberries so thick as to 

 color the roadside, mile after mile, are a de- 

 lightful temptation to a natural man whose 

 home is in a closely settled district where 

 every edible berry that turns red (actual 

 ripeness being out of the question) finds a 

 small boy beside the bush ready to pick it. 

 I succumbed at once. In fact, I succumbed 

 too soon. The road was long, and the ber- 

 ries grew fatter and riper, or so I thought, 

 as I proceeded. It was a real tragedy. 

 Does anything in my reader's experience 

 tell him what I mean ? If so, I am sure of 

 his sympathy. If not, — weU, in that case 

 he has my sympathy. Perhaps he has once 

 in his life seen a small boy who, at table, 

 not suspecting what was in store for him, 



