IN THE HUCKLEBERRY MARSH

(For the People’s Press)

[People’s Press, 21 August 1900]

Mr. Editor- I want to tell you right here there is a field full of adventure in this world that has been overlooked by the press generally. Thinking some of your readers may be interested in the above heading, I will venture my experience in the huckleberry marshes of Humberstone and Wainfleet on the 3^rd August inst. After arming myself with a ticket instead of a rifle (the latter being the custom of 50 years ago) I was prepared to face Messrs. Reavely & Wilson-more dreaded generally than the bear, and they want 25c, and insist on that amount every day; whereas the bear was quite satisfied with much less, and if you were a good shot seldom called the second time.

Being thus armed I started in for a “soft snap”-that is, to find a new place where I could fill my basket in short order. Having been driven out of the Humberstone march on the previous day (by the heavy rain) I started for Wainfleet. After I had proceeded about a mile past the town line I bolted into the ferns and alders and kept bolting until I was as wet as a drowned rat, expecting every minute to reach the open march where the berries are usually found. After wading in the wet ferns, taller than myself, for nearly a mile, I found myself tangled in the worst jungle of poison sumach, ivy, burned and fallen timber I had ever met. I don’t claim any magnetism, but sumach and ivy dearly love me wherever they catch me in that marsh.

I was seriously considering a direct retreat, when it occurred to me to climb a tree and take observations. From the tree I could make out nothing but jungle, not a clear place only directly above me where I could see the sky. As much as you know I dislike retreating, I did retreat to the high land again, where I emptied the water from my shoes and wrung as much from my clothes as I could. I then followed the edge of the march about a mile further west and from a tree could make out a number of pickers among the burnt spruce brambles, about three-quarters of a mile distant. With wounds and scratches from the burned brambles I soon found myself in the midst of the pickers (strangers to me), who were getting but few berries. I pressed on through the march to the green spruces, where I had heard the high bush berries were plentiful. Picking a few on my way which gave a number of the other pickers a chance to overtake me. We then went to the spruces, where we soon separated, they bearing off to the westward, and I to the east. After wandering over acres of a laurel scrub bedocked and cranberry covered cushion that any of your upholsterers might envy (this is its purity alone remaining of what was once “The Great Cranberry Marsh;” what a pity it could not be preserved for a park) from a tree I discovered, about three-quarters of a mile to the east, some boys picking on the outskirts of the spruce. Noting their bearing by the sun I descended to the cushioned moss again, and by the natural paths that frequently occur in this moss, I had proceeded perhaps fifty yards when down through the moss I went, with one foot into of those subterranean lakes or rivers that frequently occur in this locality. This necessitated (after getting out) another wringing and drying process, after which I ventured to examine the hole from which I made my escape, and I was quite convinced that had I brought my fishing rod I might have had at least, a string of fish; but lacking time for regrets I pressed on through the spruce to where I discovered the pickers to be ladies-two young and one elderly-their jackets and straw hats being responsible for my mistake.

Approaching the young ladies, as they were the nigher to me, I was in hopes they would at least acknowledge my presence. This they failed to do, and in my desperation I ventured: “Will you please tell me from which side of the marsh did you come in?” thinking thereby to exchange notes and inform each other in which part of the marsh (at least there were no berries. Imagine my surprise and chagrin when I learned I was in the presence of a real “up-to-date” society young lady, whose scornful look and up-turned nose (for my impudence) send the chills all over me. In my despair my eyes wandered to the other young lady, who no doubt saw in my looks an object of pity, possibly an orphan, and with an appealing look in my behalf she obtained the answer from her companion, “from the east side,” in as piqued a manner as could be. I was paralyzed. She, the very picture of good looks, with her nose turned up, facing her companion; I, meditating that such pride would surely have a fall, picturing in the distance a lost girl begging for some one to pilot her out of the marsh or to rescue her from some harmless snake that would give more for a frog than a bite at a good looking girl. But law sakes, I didn’t expect the fall so sudden. Miss Uptodate made three steps when down she went into a lake or river, of which “mine” was only a tributary. In answer to my better nature I would have sprung to the rescue, but experience and discretion forbade any advances on my part.

Oh how I wished she would ask for assistance, which I was only too ready to have given. But she didn’t. She scrambled out unassisted but what a wreck! The water in sheets streaming from her garments from the right arm down. In answer to her friend she said she had only gotten one foot wet. Imagine,

Mr. Editor, a snubbed, bashful, sensitive man with a very active mind being a silent witness. I don’t even allude to the size of the hole, neither dare I ask if she was from Chicago, for fear she would infer that I was alluding to the size of the foot, that made it, nor dare I suggest that she also had missed it by not bringing her fishing rod, fearing it would spoil her well-shaped mouth whose muscles I already fancied showed symptoms of relaxing. I was embarrassed. I felt that privacy on her part was now doubly desired since the purge, and expressing a wish that they would have better luck the reminder of the day, I retired in as graceful a manner as an awkward man could.

Don’t think from my ill-luck there is nothing amusing in that marsh. Before I got out I did laugh heartily at a couple of very amusing incidents, and as for the best time to pick berries, I would recommend all means the finding of berries. I had but four quarts worth. They cost me 25c.

An Orphan

We are afraid “An Orphan” proceeded to make a mash on the Huckleberry marsh and failed. Perhaps if he looked more after berries than pretty girls he might have better results.-Ed.