some part of the vast quantities of stone scattered
about; for as to cultivating the lots, that was entirely out of the
question.

There was some little pasturage, however, and the bells of the
browsing cows were heard tinkling in a pleasing manner, and giving
somewhat of a social character to the desolate landscape.

We were all soon immersed in our search. The bushes were crouching all
around us, bearing their rich clusters of misty blue berries, covered
with the soft beautiful down that vanished at the touch leaving the
berry dark and glittering as the eye of a squirrel. How like is the
down of the fruit to the first gossamer down of the heart--and ah! how
soon the latter also vanishes at the rude touch of the world. The
pure virgin innocence with which God robes the creature when fresh
from His holy hand! why cannot it stay! why, oh why, does it so soon
depart and leave the soul disrobed of its charm and loveliness. Harsh
world, bad world! it destroys all it touches.

Ahem! we'll return.

Merry laughter breaks out from the girls, and playful scrambles occur
amongst them as to who should secure the most fruit. The berries pour
in handfuls in the baskets, which show in some cases signs of
plethora. I tell you what it is, reader, there is sport in picking
whortleberries. Strawberries pout their rich mouths so low that it
gives a sore temptation to the blood to make an assault upon the head,
causing you, when you lift it, to look darkly upon various green spots
dancing about your eyes. Raspberries again, and blackberries, sting
like the dev--I beg pardon, making your hands twitch up like a fit of
St. Vitus' dance. But picking whortleberries is all plain sailing.
Here are the berries and there are your baskets; no getting on your
knees, (although it must be confessed the bushes are somewhat low,)
and no pricking your fingers to the verge of swearing.

We all hunt in couples--a lover and his sweet-heart--and take
different paths. My companion was a tall black-eyed girl, the sight of
whom always made my heart beat quicker, in those unsophisticated days.
Rare sport we had, and so, doubtless, had the rest. Pick, pick, pick
went the fingers--and ruttle, ruttle, ruttle in the baskets ran the
berries. Glorious sport! glorious times! We talked, too, as we
picked--indeed why should we not--we had the whole English language to
ourselves, and no one to disturb us in it--and I tell you what it
is--if people can't talk they had