Dear Frank: How surprised you will be to learn that I am now a country boy. We left Boston early last spring, and came out here to go into the business of cranberry raising. It seemed very strange at first to travel along country roads, or through woods and fields, instead of upon the cement walks of our city streets, but we all think the country delightful.

A cranberry farm is a marsh or a bog, so you will see that the vines need a great deal of water. There are both wild and cultivated bogs. Those that are cultivated are provided with a system of ditches, so that they can be flooded from time to time. It is a good deal like irrigation in Southern California, I suppose. We flood the bogs to prevent the berries from freezing, as well as to furnish the vines with water. I will tell you more about that by and by.Father wanted a larger bog than the one he first bought, so, soon after we came, he got another small piece of marsh land which joins it on the west, and started vines on it.

You know that willows, rosebushes, grapevines, and many other plants will grow from cuttings. It is the same with cranberry vines. The lower end of each cutting is pressed into the soil, and it soon begins to grow. They are set in rows about fourteen inches apart. One of our neighbors, who was starting a bog at the same time, cut the vines into pieces an inch or two long, and scattered them over the ground. He then harrowed them in. The vines multiply just as strawberry plants do, by putting out runners.

They tell us that our new bog will produce a crop in three years. Do you have to wait that long for a crop of oranges?

By the middle of June our bog was in full blossom. The flowers are quite small and their color is a little like that of the flesh. I read an interesting thing about them the other day. It seems that the berries used to be called "craneberries," because people thought that the blossoms, just before they opened fully, "resembled the neck, head, and bill of a crane." By dropping the e, we got the present name.

During our harvest time, which lasted from the middle of September to the last of October, we were very busy. We did not commence to go to school until the berries were picked. You see, frost may occur and spoil the crop, so that everybody works as fast as possible until the harvest is over. Father had about twenty pickers some of the time, besides our own family.

When we were ready to begin picking, father took some twine and stretched it back and forth across the bog, fastening it to small stakes. This divided the field into rows. Each picker was given a row, and he was not allowed to change until it was finished.

At first it seemed great fun to get down on the ground and strip off the bright berries, but when one does this day after day it gets pretty tiresome. It must be easy to pick oranges, because you can stand up while you work.

Father paid the pickers twelve cents a pail. It takes about three pailfuls to make a bushel. I averaged about one dollar and a half each day. I bought a suit of clothes and all of my books for the year, and have considerable money left. Some of the pickers who were quite small did not earn very much. Do you recognize Jennie? She worked a part of every day.

Twice during the picking season there was a sharp frost, but we saved the crop.

The government sends out a Weather Map every day. Our teacher gets one, and there is one tacked up in the post office every morning. These maps tell what kind of weather to expect, and father watches them closely. When he saw that frost was likely to occur, he and the men opened the gates which hold back the water, in order to flood the part of the bog where we had not picked. The vines were buried nearly two feet beneath the surface of the water. Father says the water cools so slowly that its temperature is much above that of the surface of the ground or the air near it, so the berries do not get frost-bitten. Soon after sunrise the water was drawn off, and the next day the bog was dry enough for the pickers to work.

I wonder if the Weather Bureau is of any use to farmers in California. I know that the sailors watch for the flags which tell when storms are coming, that they may not go to sea if a violent storm is expected. Father says very many lives and much property are saved every year in this way.

I have not told you what we do with the cranberries after they are picked. Of course we cannot help gathering some leaves and twigs with the berries, and these must be taken out. For this purpose the berries are put into a winnowing machine. I will send you a picture of one. As the man turns the crank, wooden fans within turn rapidly, blowing out the leaves, twigs, and dirt. The berries drop through a screen and run out of a spout into a barrel, as you see. We then put them into crates or barrels for sale. Father tells me that cranberries are shipped from our country to Europe, because those raised here are much better than the European berries.

There are great quantities of cranberries raised in this part of Massachusetts. I have been reading lately that they are produced in New Jersey, on Long Island, in Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota, Canada, and some other sections. From what I have read, I guess they are not raised in Southern California. Wouldn't it seem strange if you were to eat berries raised on our bog, three thousand miles away?

Now I want you to tell me about the orange groves of Southern California, for none of us have ever seen an orange growing.

I wish you all a very "Merry Christmas" and a "Happy New Year."