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All the sunlight seemed to centre on her black figure like a burning-glass; the thick growth of sweet-fern around the blueberry bushes sent a hot and stifling aroma into her face; the wild flowers hung limply, like delicate painted rags, and the rocks were like furnaces. Mrs. Field went out soon after dinner, and at half-past five she was still picking; the berries were not very plentiful.
Then, too, there were a few hospitable firesides where he could always warm himself; and the winter would soon be over, the birds would come again, new birds, singing the old songs, the sap would mount in the trees, the buds swell on the blueberry bushes, and the young ivory leaves push their ruddy tips through the softening ground.
He is having a second piece of blueberry pie when he is summoned to the telephone. Rather tiresome of Mother, really, he thinks as he goes out of the dining-room something about his laundry again most probably or when he is coming back. "Hello, Oliver?" "Hello, dear. Anything important?" Mrs. Crowe's voice has a tiny chuckle in it a chuckle that only comes when Mrs.
The bush is low and the branches usually covered with small, white dots. =Low Blueberry= Another variety is called the low blueberry. It is very much like the dwarf blueberry, but the bush grows sometimes as high as four feet. It is stiff and upstanding and prefers the edge of the woods and sheltered roadsides to the dry open fields.
"See the directness." "What's it done with?" asked Dunham. "Not a brush." "No, some sort of a stump; and it's such a queer color. I've been trying to make out John Dunham!" Edna's tone suddenly changed. "This is that blueberry juice!" Dunham's mouth fell open.
What kind of berry was that I saw some verses of yours about once? amatory verses to some kind of berry yewberry, blueberry, glueberry! Pretty verses, decidedly warm. Lips, eyes, bosom, legs legs? I don't think you gave her any legs. No legs and no nose. That appears to be the poetic taste of the day. It shall be admitted that you create the very beauties for a chaste people.
Blueberry scrub, already turning gold and crimson, grew sparsely on the crag cover enough for any watcher of the trail. And thither I crept and stretched me out flat in the bushes, where I could see the trail we had lately traversed, and look along it far to our rear as clearly as one sees through a dim and pillared corridor.
Some time after she rose from the table and looked at the dish with a feeling of disgust that there could still be such a quantity left, after she had eaten so much that it was impossible to enjoy even a taste of the blueberry pie or the honey.
At the last pair of bars the two girls were sometimes met by a detachment of the Simpson children, who lived in a black house with a red door and a red barn behind, on the Blueberry Plains road. Rebecca felt an interest in the Simpsons from the first, because there were so many of them and they were so patched and darned, just like her own brood at the home farm.
In among the blueberry bushes grow huckleberries, "choky pears," and black-snaps. Gnarled oaks and stunted pines lift themselves out of the wilderness of shrubs. They look dwarfed and gloomy, as if Nature had been an untender mother, and denied them proper nourishment. The road is a little-traveled one, and furrows of feathery grasses grow between the long, hot, sandy stretches of the wheel-ruts.
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