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

Nature there. So butchers rake the tongues of bison out of the

prairie grass, regardless of the torn and drooping plant. The

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