On the way through the cemetery with the dog, I stopped at the blackberry patch. In late August Teckla and I had picked enough berries to make jam. But today it was cold and overcast— the first cold day after many wonderfully warm ones. Many berries had shriveled, but here and there hung a few berries that fell easily into my hand. They were a little soft, but delightfully sweet. It seemed the cold nights had gathered all the sweetness of the summer into the berries. Their sweetness gave me a joy, a stained beard, and a hope for my own October berries.
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