“Huckleberries! I crave huckleberries.” I whined in the most obnoxious voice that a twelve or thirteen year old could muster. “I want to go berrying with Clarence tomorrow. I love huckleberries. I yearn for huckleberries. He said they are ready to pick right now. Can’t I go to the woods with him? I long for huckleberries!”
“You heard what your father said; The hay in the field will be ready tomorrow and you have to help.” My mother’s quiet and gentle response didn’t convince me.
“But everybody else could do the work and I could go pick huckleberries.” I glanced over at Dad. He didn’t say a word. I had seen that expression before. It was a mixture of incredulity and disgust. I doubted he was going to relent but I had to try again. “Huckleberries are only ripe once a year and I’m hungry for ’em. Ple-as-s-e.”
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