used to grow
in Virginia when Pocahontas was smitten with the charms of Captain John
Smith. They are superb, those light-tinted Irish strawberries. And there
are wonderful new varieties developed in the gardens of New Jersey and
Rhode Island, which compare with the ancient berries of the woods and
meadows as Leviathan with a minnow. The huge crimson cushions hang among
the plants so thick that they seem like bunches of fruit with a few
leaves attached for ornament. You can satisfy your hunger in such a
berry-patch in ten minutes, while out in the field you must pick for
half an hour, and in the forest thrice as long, before you can fill a
small tin cup.

Yet, after all, it is questionable whether men have really bettered
God's CHEF D'OEUVRE in the berry line. They have enlarged it and made
it more plentiful and more certain in its harvest. But sweeter, more
fragrant, more poignant in its flavour? No. The wild berry still stands
first in its subtle gusto.

Size is not the measure of excellence. Perfection lies in quality, not
in quantity. Concentration enhances pleasure, gives it a point so that
it goes deeper.

Is not a ten-inch trout better than a ten-foot sturgeon? I would rather
read a tiny essay by Charles Lamb than a five-hundred page libel on
life by a modern British novelist who shall be nameless. Flavour is the
priceless quality. Style is the thing that counts and is remembered, in
literature, in art, and in berries.

No JOCUNDA, nor TRIUMPH, nor VICTORIA, nor any other high-titled fruit
that ever took the first prize at an agricultural fair, is half so
delicate and satisfying as the wild strawberry that dropped into my
mouth, under the hemlock tree, beside the Swiftwater.

A touch of surprise is essential to perfect sweetness.

To get what you have been wishing for is pleasant; but to get what
you have not been sure of, makes the pleasure tingle. A new door of
happiness is opened when you go out to hunt for something and discover
it with your own eyes. But there is an experience even better than that.
When you have stupidly forgotten (or despondently forgone) to look
about you for the unclaimed treasures and unearned blessings which are
scattered along the by-ways of life, then, sometimes by a special mercy,
a small sample of them is quietly laid before you so that you cannot
help seeing it, and it brings you back to a sense of the joyful
possibilities of living.

How full of enjoyment is the search af