Huckleberries-A Reminiscence

By

META SCHOOLEY LAWS

              Last week mention was made of an item of ticket selling for the marsh in the “Looking Backwards” column of the paper.

             A present-day advertisement was also noted in the same issue.

             Driving, either on the “new road” north of the marsh, or on the road that used to skirt the southern boundary of it, one can scarcely believe that the well-tilled farms with their comfortable buildings were ever waste land.

             John Misener, whose father, Leonard, pioneered on the Forks Road, just north of Marshville, told the writer, that his father believed that the one field he had cleared north of what is now the Forks Road, marked the boundary of the marsh.

             The beautiful Misener homestead is still in possession of the family, though it is rented to strangers.

             By the way, many farms of that particular neighborhood are still, as they should be, owned and tilled by the descendents of those who wrestled the fertile acres from forest or marsh.

             But to return to the huckleberries.

             The incident that comes to my mind occurred some 46 or 47 years ago.- circa 1880

             The marsh was then either government property or unvalued by the owners of the farms bordering it. Berries were abundant and people drove miles to get them.

             Thos. Boles was station agent at Ridgeway in those days. His wife and mother were great friends, and the two of them often drove the eight miles to “Stonebridge” and put their horse in at Uncle George Morgan’s, in the early morning. He would take a load of women and little boys out to the marsh and come for them toward evening, meeting them out on the path to help them carry their berries.

             The two women enjoyed the jaunts and the berries immensely, but Mrs. Bole’s trips were ended when her husband lured by her accounts of her pleasure in them, came up on a train one evening and went to meet the women. He was used to the system of his office and its surroundings, tried to find the women, got on a bad path, lost his bearings and his temper, and vowed when he got out, that the place was fit neither for man nor beast, nor to be even mentioned to women.

             But mother was not to be deterred. Many times she and Hugh went, always returning with all the berries they could carry. It sounds unbelievable, but mother always took two 12-qt. pails. Hugh had a 10 qt. and 5 qt. Each had a small pail to pick in and the pails were always filled.

             Well, Aunt Mary came down from Arkona, as usual, to spend the summer, and it was agreed that on August 30^th they would all go to the marsh. Oat harvest kept the men home, of course.

             But an extra lunch was packed and early in the morning, Uncle George took his wife, mother, Aunt Mary, and the two little boys, Hugh and Watson.

             They had not gone far from the path when they spied a big rattler, and a few steps further on, its mate. Though frightened, they kept on their way with the usual success. About four, some bewildered women came to Aunt Morgan. She directed them to the path and they came out without incident.

             It was time to leave, but Aunt Mary’s pails were not quite full-berries were abundant and they stayed to get all they could carry. One of them made a bag of her apron.

             Then they started for the edge, in haste, for Uncle would be awaiting them.

             The path forked, and the west branch was difficult to follow. They had logs to walk on, over some boggy places, and when they reached a path, Aunt Morgan insisted that they were south of the fork in the path and must strike across the marsh to the good path. They parleyed, but finally followed her lead.

             But they didn’t find the path and darkness came on. The little boys, tired and frightened, began to cry.

             Uncle had been a little late and decided that they must have come out and found some other way home.

             He had been up at the farm that day; so he went on home.

             But the berry-pickers had not arrived, and he started back, men with lanterns accompanying him.

             The women plodded on. Mother suggested throwing away their load, but the others said, no indeed. They hushed the little boys crying by inducing them to shout with them.

             After each shout, they paused and listened.

             The moon came out. Nothing could be seen but the dark fringe-the impassable border of the marsh.

             At last they fancied they heard a faint answer to their cry. Again they called. This time the answer was certain. But in what direction? They could not be sure. So they stood still and kept calling. Then lights appeared and the replies to their shouts were clear.

             A few yards further and their feet struck a path.

             Mother used to say that she did not ever expect to be happier, on earth, than she was at that moment. The berries did not seem so heavy, either. In another moment they were relieved of their loads by the anxious men.

             It was then nine o’clock. When they reached Port Colborne, a search party was being organized.

             That ended our family’s huckleberrying. When huckleberries were on the table, father always referred to their COST, but mother always laughed and insisted that they were worth a great deal of trouble.

             “But I wouldn’t want to live those two hours again for all the berries in the world,” she would add, and Hugh never failed to echo soberly: “You bet!”

The Welland Tribune and Telegraph

2 September 1926