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.