In October I went a-graping to the river meadows, and loaded

myself with clusters more precious for their beauty and fragrance

than for food. There, too, I admired, though I did not gather, the

cranberries, small waxen gems, pendants of the meadow grass, pearly

and red, which the farmer plucks with an ugly rake, leaving the

smooth meadow in a snarl, heedlessly measuring them by the bushel

and the dollar only, and sells the spoils of the meads to Boston and

New York; destined to be jammed, to satisfy the tastes of lovers of

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