I live about a ½ mile down Berry Road from the
Robert Frost farm in Derry, New Hampshire.
When he lived in Derry and taught at the local
Pinkerton Academy, he also farmed and wrote many of his Poems. In fact I have about 100 blueberry bushes on
my property, each year yielding a huge crop for friends who wish to pick them.
Seems that I should share one of his poems as this
is the season where the berries are ripening, about a month they will be ready.
While mine are cultivated they abound in the forest of New Hampshire, just
smaller berries, which taste as good.
"You
ought to have seen what I saw on my way
To
the village, through Mortenson's pasture to-day:
Blueberries
as big as the end of your thumb,
Real
sky-blue, and heavy, and ready to drum
In
the cavernous pail of the first one to come!
And
all ripe together, not some of them green
And
some of them ripe! You ought to have seen!"
"I
don't know what part of the pasture you mean."
"You
know where they cut off the woods--let me see--
It
was two years ago--or no!--can it be
No
longer than that?--and the following fall
The
fire ran and burned it all up but the wall."
"Why,
there hasn't been time for the bushes to grow.
That's
always the way with the blueberries, though:
There
may not have been the ghost of a sign
Of
them anywhere under the shade of the pine,
But
get the pine out of the way, you may burn
The
pasture all over until not a fern
Or
grass-blade is left, not to mention a stick,
And
presto, they're up all around you as thick
And
hard to explain as a conjuror's trick."
"It
must be on charcoal they fatten their fruit.
I
taste in them sometimes the flavour of soot.
And
after all really they're ebony skinned:
The
blue's but a mist from the breath of the wind,
A
tarnish that goes at a touch of the hand,
And
less than the tan with which pickers are tanned."
"Does
Mortenson know what he has, do you think?"
"He
may and not care and so leave the chewink
To
gather them for him--you know what he is.
He
won't make the fact that they're rightfully his
An
excuse for keeping us other folk out."
"I
wonder you didn't see Loren about."
"The
best of it was that I did. Do you know,
I was
just getting through what the field had to show
And
over the wall and into the road,
When
who should come by, with a democrat-load
Of
all the young chattering Lorens alive,
But
Loren, the fatherly, out for a drive."
"He
saw you, then? What did he do? Did he frown?"
"He
just kept nodding his head up and down.
You
know how politely he always goes by.
But
he thought a big thought--I could tell by his eye--
Which
being expressed, might be this in effect:
'I
have left those there berries, I shrewdly suspect,
To
ripen too long. I am greatly to blame.'"
"He's
a thriftier person than some I could name."
"He
seems to be thrifty; and hasn't he need,
With
the mouths of all those young Lorens to feed?
He
has brought them all up on wild berries, they say,
Like
birds. They store a great many away.
They
eat them the year round, and those they don't eat
They
sell in the store and buy shoes for their feet."
"Who
cares what they say? It's a nice way to live,
Just
taking what Nature is willing to give,
Not
forcing her hand with harrow and plow."
"I
wish you had seen his perpetual bow--
And
the air of the youngsters! Not one of them turned,
And
they looked so solemn-absurdly concerned."
"I
wish I knew half what the flock of them know
Of
where all the berries and other things grow,
Cranberries
in bogs and raspberries on top
Of
the boulder-strewn mountain, and when they will crop.
I met
them one day and each had a flower
Stuck
into his berries as fresh as a shower;
Some
strange kind--they told me it hadn't a name."
"I've
told you how once not long after we came,
I
almost provoked poor Loren to mirth
By
going to him of all people on earth
To
ask if he knew any fruit to be had
For
the picking. The rascal, he said he'd be glad
To
tell if he knew. But the year had been bad.
There
had been some berries--but those were all gone.
He
didn't say where they had been. He went on:
'I'm
sure--I'm sure'--as polite as could be.
He
spoke to his wife in the door, 'Let me see,
Mame,
we don't know any good berrying place?'
It
was all he could do to keep a straight face.
"If
he thinks all the fruit that grows wild is for him,
He'll
find he's mistaken. See here, for a whim,
We'll
pick in the Mortensons' pasture this year.
We'll
go in the morning, that is, if it's clear,
And
the sun shines out warm: the vines must be wet.
It's
so long since I picked I almost forget
How
we used to pick berries: we took one look round,
Then
sank out of sight like trolls underground,
And
saw nothing more of each other, or heard,
Unless
when you said I was keeping a bird
Away
from its nest, and I said it was you.
'Well,
one of us is.' For complaining it flew
Around
and around us. And then for a while
We
picked, till I feared you had wandered a mile,
And I
thought I had lost you. I lifted a shout
Too
loud for the distance you were, it turned out,
For
when you made answer, your voice was as low
As
talking--you stood up beside me, you know."
"We
sha'n't have the place to ourselves to enjoy--
Not
likely, when all the young Lorens deploy.
They'll
be there to-morrow, or even to-night.
They
won't be too friendly--they may be polite--
To
people they look on as having no right
To
pick where they're picking. But we won't complain.
You
ought to have seen how it looked in the rain,
The
fruit mixed with water in layers of leaves,