gh open country, plunges through the
surging cities, and escapes to broad lands beyond--any path, any road,
makes this appeal. And so long as one has faith that what may be is
more than what is, so long as one has the buoyant patience to await it
or the will to go forth and seek it, so long as one has the imagination
and the heart of the wayfarer, the charm of the Road will be potent.

X

The Lure of the Berry

Men have sung the praises of fishing and hunting, they have extolled the
joys of boating and riding, they have dwelt at length upon the pleasures
of automobiling. But there is one--sport, shall I call it?--which no one
seems to have thought worth mentioning: the gentle sport of berrying.

Perhaps calling it a sport is an unfortunate beginning; it gives us too
much to live up to. No, it is not a sport, though I can't think why,
since it is quite as active as drop-line fishing. Perhaps the trouble is
with the game--the fish are more active than the berries, and their
excesses cover the deficiencies of the stolid figure in the boat.

What, then, shall we call it? Not an occupation; it is too desultory for
that; nor an amusement, because of a certain tradition of usefulness
that hangs about it. Probably it belongs in that small but select group
of things that people do ostensibly because they are useful but really
because they are fun. At any rate, it does not matter how we class
it,--it is just berrying.

But not strawberrying. Strawberries are so far down, and so few! They
cannot be picked with comfort by any one over six years old.

Nor blackberrying! Blackberries are good when gathered in, but in the
gathering process there is nothing restful or soothing. They always grow
in hot places, and the briers make you cross; they pull your hair and
"sprout" your clothes and scratch your wrists. And the berries stain
your fingers dark blue, and, moreover, they are frequented by those
unpleasant little triangular, greenish-brown creatures known as squash
bugs, which I do not believe even the Ancient Mariner could have been
called upon to love. No, I do not mean blackberrying.

What then? What indeed but huckleberrying! How can I adequately sing the
praises of the gentle, the neat, the comfortable huckleberry! No briers,
no squash bugs, no back-breaking stoop or arm-rending stretch to reach
them. Just a big, bushy, green clump, full of glossy black or softly
blue berries, and you can sit right down on the tu