64 AN OLD ROAD. 



ries (which last were delicious, as we took 

 them out of their icy ovens in the spring), 

 pig-nuts, hazel-nuts, acorns, and the rest. 

 Yet I will not pass by a small clump of dan- 

 gleberry bushes (a September luxury not 

 common in our neighborhood) and a lofty 

 pear-tree. The latter, in truth, hardly be- 

 longs under this head ; for though it bore 

 superabundant crops of pears, not even a 

 child was ever known to eat one. We called 

 them iron pears, perhaps because nothing but 

 the hottest fire could be expected to reduce 

 them to a condition of softness. My mouth 

 is all in a pucker at the mere thought of 

 the rusty-green bullets. It did seem a pity 

 they should be so outrageously hard, so ab- 

 solutely untoothsome ; for the tree, as I say, 

 was a big one and provokingly prolific, and, 

 moreover, stood squarely upon the roadside. 

 What a godsend we should have found it, 

 had its fruit been a few degrees less stony ! 

 Such incongruities and disappointments go 

 far to convince me that the creation is in- 

 deed, as some theologians have taught, under 

 a curse. 



My appetite for wild fruits has grown 

 dull with age, but meanwhile my affection 



