YES, I was very fond of blackberrying, and as we lived in a real country place, where hedges were in abundance, I had plenty of opportunities of indulging in that particular taste. My sister and I often rambled out in the fields in search of our favorite delicacy, and a rare time we had of it, you may he sure. But it was not an unmixed pleasure. I often hear that the sweetest rose has the sharpest thorn, which is meant, I suppose, by those who write pretty morals in poetry, to show that there is a little pain connected with the flowery part of pleasure. Be this as it may, I am quite sure—and I speak from experience—that in getting a good handful of blackberries, one does not fail to get a fair supply of little sharp prickles that have a peculiar way of finding out the soft parts of wee fingers; and the question often was, whether the pain did not last longer than the pleasure. Of one thing I am very sure, that the thorns had a way of lingering longer in the fingers than did the juicy berry remain in the mouth. Another thing I particularly remember, that the reception at home after our rambles was anything but pleasant; no doubt it was anything but pleasant for mother, who had spent all a mother’s pains in the adjustment of dresses and aprons—to say nothing of the rosy cheeks that. follow a free application of soap and water, and towel—to see us return what artists call a pair of pictures in “black and white.” Besides, our very efforts to remove the stains that had dyed lips and chin only served to make matters worse, and to spread the inky fluid over a wider space, to say nothing of the tell-tale aprons. It seemed so very provoking that one could not indulge in a feast of blackberries without such after unpleasantnesses. But chastisement and love were happily blended together, and the dear mother who, long, long ago has gone to be with Jesus, knew how to meet childhood’s waywardness in her own loving way, and soon put matters right.
But years came and went, and, like others, I sought pleasure, and found the thorn and the stains—stains of a deeper dye—you know what I mean—but which, I am thankful to say, have been washed away in the blood of Jesus.
Messages of God’s Love 11/9/1919