"I hope it isn't a woodchuck, either," said Jonathan.
During the haying season there was always a lull. The hand of the destroyer was stayed. Rather, every one was so busy cutting the hay that there was no time to cut anything else. One day in early August I took a pail and sauntered up the lane in the peaceful mood of the berry-picker—a state of mind as satisfactory as any I know. One is conscious of being useful—for what more useful than the accumulating of berries for pies? One has suitable ideals—the ideal of a happy home, since in attaining a happy home berry pies are demonstrably helpful. And one is also having a beautiful time. On my way I turned down the side lane to see how the blackberries were coming on. There lay my blackberry canes—lay, not stood—their long stems thick-set with fruit just turning from light red to dark. I do not love blackberries as I do birches; it was rather the practical than the contemplative part of me that protested that time, but it was with a lagging step that I went on, over the hill, to the berry patches. There another shock awaited me. Where I expected to see green clumps of low huckleberries there were great blotches of black earth and gray ashy stems, and in the midst a heap of brush still sending up idle streamers and puffs of blue smoke. Desolation of desolations! That they should do this thing to a harmless berry patch!
They were not all burned. Only the heart of the patch had been taken, and after the first shock I explored the edges to see what was left, but with no courage for picking. I came home with an empty pail and a mind severe.
"Jonathan," I said that night, "I thought you liked pies?"
"I do," he said expectantly.
"Well, what do you like in them?"
"Berries, preferably."
"Oh, I thought perhaps you preferred cinders or dried briers."
Jonathan looked up inquiringly, then a light broke. "Oh, you mean those blackberry bushes. Didn't I tell you about that? That was a mistake."
"So I thought," I said, unappeased.