So, at last, the new term was fairly established with these
three--Dr. Aberdeen, Happy Moses, and the owl.
Hulled corn and beans had now become but as a dream of the past in
Wallencamp, and for a brief season before the accession of lobsters, life
was mainly supported on winter-green-berries, or box-berries, as they
were called. These grew in large quantities at "Black Ground," a section
of the woods which had been burned over. Daily I met happy groups of
Wallencampers, with baskets and pails in their hands, going "boxberry
plummin.'"
We had boxberry bread, boxberry stews and pies, and one day, I caught a
glimpse of Grandma, in her part of the Ark, frying boxberry
griddle-cakes.
Grandpa, when I met him, at this time, wore an air of deep dejection; yet
he bore his woes in silence, doubtless avoiding any concession that
should suggest the need of another clarification of his system. Once,
when nobody was looking, he cautiously withdrew a handful of scraped
birch bark from his pocket and gave it to me, remarking that he thought
it was "a little more bracin' than them tarnal woodsy plums."
Next in the order of events, as the Modoc stood in her place in the
reading-class and slowly enunciated each separate syllable of the lesson
in a tone as remarkable for a loud distinctness as it was for a total
lack of meaning and modulation, from that side of her dress which had
been sagging most heavily, something fell with a crash to the floor.
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