They
are superb, those light-tinted Irish strawberries. And there are
wonderful new varieties developed in the gardens of New Jersey and
Rhode Island, which compare with the ancient berries of the woods
and meadows as Leviathan with a minnow. The huge crimson cushions
hang among the plants so thick that they seem like bunches of fruit
with a few leaves attached for ornament. You can satisfy your
hunger in such a berry-patch in ten minutes, while out in the field
you must pick for half an hour, and in the forest thrice as long,
before you can fill a small tin cup.
Yet, after all, it is questionable whether men have really bettered
God's CHEF D'OEUVRE in the berry line. They have enlarged it and
made it more plentiful and more certain in its harvest. But
sweeter, more fragrant, more poignant in its flavour? No. The wild
berry still stands first in its subtle gusto.
Size is not the measure of excellence. Perfection lies in quality,
not in quantity. Concentration enhances pleasure, gives it a point
so that it goes deeper.
Is not a ten-inch trout better than a ten-foot sturgeon? I would
rather read a tiny essay by Charles Lamb than a five-hundred page
libel on life by a modern British novelist who shall be nameless.
Flavour is the priceless quality. Style is the thing that counts
and is remembered, in literature, in art, and in berries.
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