This
bush--or tree, indeed, since it is not afraid to rear its
slender trunk as high as cherry or crab apple--might well be
considered emblematic of the frontier spirit in those regions
where the white silence covers the earth for several months and
shuts the lonely homesteader in upon himself. From the pioneer
time of the Old Southwest to the last frontier of the Far North
today, the service berry is cherished alike by white men and
Indians; and the red men have woven about it some of their
prettiest legends. When June had ripened the tree's blue-black
berries, the Back Country folk went out in parties to gather
them. Though the service berry was a food staple on the frontier
and its gathering a matter of household economy, the folk made
their berry-picking jaunt a gala occasion. The women and children
with pots and baskets--the young girls vying with each other,
under the eyes of the youths, as to who could strip boughs the
fastest--plucked gayly while the men, rifles in hand, kept guard.
For these happy summer days were also the red man's scalping days
and, at any moment, the chatter of the picnickers might be
interrupted by the chilling war whoop. When that sound was heard,
the berry pickers raced for the fort. The wild
fruits--strawberries, service berries, cherries, plums, crab
apples--were, however, too necessary a part of the pioneer's
meager diet to be left unplucked out of fear of an Indian attack.
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