This morning, the 3d of June, the Undine from Green River rose
above the waves.
The strawberry bed is almost under their windows. I had gone out
to pick the first dish of the season for breakfast; for while I
do not care to eat except to live, I never miss an opportunity of
living upon strawberries.
I was stooping down and bending the wet leaves over, so as not
to miss any, when a voice at the window above said, timidly and
playfully,
"Are you the gardener?"
I picked on, turning as red as the berries. Then the voice said
again,
"Old man, are you the gardener?"
Of course a person looking down carelessly on the stooping figure
of _any_ man, and seeing nothing but a faded straw hat, and arms
and feet and ankles bent together, might easily think him decrepit
with age. Some things touch off my temper. But I answered, humbly,
"I am the gardener, madam."
"How much do you ask for your strawberries?"
"The gentleman who owns this place does not sell his strawberries.
He gives them away, if he likes people. How much do you ask for
_your_ strawberries?"
"What a nice old gentleman! Is he having those picked to give
away?"
"He is having these picked for his breakfast."
"Don't you think he'd like you to give me those, and pick him some
more?"
"I fear not, madam."
"Nevertheless, you might. He'd never know."
"I think he'd find it out."
"You are not afraid of him, are you?"
"I am when he gets mad."
"Does he treat you badly?"
"If he does, I always forgive him."
"He doesn't seem to provide you with very many clothes."