THE PONDS. 
Sometimes, having had a surfeit of human society 
and gossip, and worn out all my village friends, I ram¬ 
bled still farther westward than I habitually dwell, into 
yet more unfrequented parts of the town, “ to fresh 
woods and pastures new,” or, while the sun was setting, 
made my supper of huckleberries and blueberries on 
Fair Haven Hill, and laid up a store for several days. 
The fruits do not yield their true flavor to the purchaser 
of them, nor to him who raises them for the market. 
There is but one way to obtain it, yet few take that 
way. If you would know the flavor of huckleberries, 
ask the cow-boy or the partridge. It is a vulgar error 
to suppose that you have tasted huckleberries who never 
plucked them. A huckleberry never reaches Boston ; 
they have not been known there since they grew on her 
three hills. The ambrosial and essential part of the 
fruit is lost with the bloom which is rubbed off in the 
market cart, and they become mere provender. As 
long as Eternal Justice reigns, not one innocent huc¬ 
kleberry can be transported thither from the country’s 
hills. 
< 188 ^ 
