178 Si'CCESS WITH SMALL FRUITS. 



hour. Were we younger and more romantic, we might 

 select this witching time for a visit to an ancient grave in one 

 of the strawberry fields. 



A mossy, horizontal slab marks the spot, and beneath it 

 reposes the dust of a young English officer. One bright 

 June day — so the legend is told — one hundred and six- 

 teen years ago, this man, in the early summer of his life, 

 was killed in a duel. 



Lingering here, through the twilight, until the landscape 

 grows as obscure as this rash youth's history, what fancies 

 some might weave. As the cause of the tragedy, one would 

 scarcely fail to see among the shadows the dim form and 

 features of some old-time belle, whose smiles had kindled 

 the fierce passion that was here quenched, more than a cen- 

 tury since. Did she marry the rival, of surer aim and cooler 

 head and heart, or did she haunt this place with regretful 

 tears? Did she become a stout, prosaic woman, and end 

 her days in whist and all the ancient proprieties, or fade 

 into a remorseful wraith that still haunts her unfortunate 

 lover's grave? One shivers, and grows superstitious. The 

 light twinkling from the windows of the cottage under the 

 pines becomes very attractive. As we fall asleep after such 

 a visit, we like to think of the meadow-larks singing on the 

 mossy tombstone in the morning. 



During a rainy day, when driven from the field, we found 

 plenty to interest us in the printing-office, smithy, and es- 

 pecially in the huge crate manufactory. Here were piled 

 up coils of baskets that suggested strawberries for a million 

 supper-tables. Hour after hour the mule-power engine 

 drove saws, with teeth sharper than those of time, through 

 the pine-boards that soon became crates for the round quart 

 baskets. These crates were painted green, marked with 

 Mr. Young's name, and piled to the lofty, cobwebbed ceiling. 



