New Jersey, 1877.
DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: You would not think, from their names,
that cranberry bogs are pleasant places, but I enjoyed very much a
visit to one last year in the fall. Seen merely from the road,
a bog doesn't show very well, for the leaves are small, and the
vines are crowded in heavy masses; but, when you get near, the
white and red berries look pretty among the dark-green leaves.
The meadow is checquered with little canals by means of which the
whole surface is flooded in winter-time, so as to protect the
vines from the ill effects of frosts and thaws. In the spring, the
water is drawn off at low tide through the flood-gates.
When the cranberry-pickers are at work, they make a curious sight,
for there are people of all ages, odd dresses, and both sexes
among them, and often a tottering old man may be seen working
beside a small child. The little ones can be trusted to gather
cranberries, for the fruit is not easily crushed in handling.
Where cranberries grow thickly, one can almost fill one's hand at
a grasp.
The overseer's one-roomed shanty, where he cooks, eats and sleeps,
is on a knoll, and near it are the barrels in which the berries
are packed, after they have been sorted according to size and
quality.
Picking cranberries may be pleasant enough in fine weather, but it
must be miserable work on a cold, drizzly day.
I hope this short account will be news to some of your chicks, of
whom I am one, dear Jack; and I remain yours truly,