The Rambles of an Idler 



three weeks 'twixt blossom and fruit. Wild 

 strawberries ! A poem in two words that no ex- 

 ploitation of stanzas could improve. A little 

 prose, however, may do no harm. 



I know a bank whereon this berry grows and 

 with it purple crane's bill, wind-flowers, butter- 

 cups and bluets. To-day, too, the white sepals 

 of the dog-wood still show and not all of the 

 pink aaalea has faded. Jack-in-the-pulpit holds 

 forth to the oven-bird scratching among dead 

 leaves and red-starts flash among the old oaks' 

 branches above me. I rested for a time on a 

 cushion of rich green moss and plucked red ber- 

 ries ; plucked and ate, while I heard the strain- 

 ing snorts of freight engines, the rumble of traf- 

 fic on the high-way, the steady hum of the town 

 borne hither by the breeze. The world is very 

 busy and let us hope, happy; happy as I was 

 there, alone with the trees, flowers, birds and 

 fruit; as happy with those few berries as the 

 man of business clutching the profits of hard- 

 driven bargains. The strawberry does not 

 ripen that I may eat, but Nature was in a gen- 

 erous mood to-day, and had enough for her pur- 

 poses and mine. I could eat and be merry, with 

 a clear conscience. 



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