142 Success with Small Fruits. 



observed that wherever the old gentleman's umbrella was seen in the 

 field, all went well. 



At four or five in the afternoon, the whole area would be picked over. 

 The fields would be left to meadow-larks and quails, whose liquid notes 

 well replaced the songs and cries of the pickers. Here and there a mule-cart 

 would come straggling in. By night, all signs of life were concentrated 

 around the barns and paying booth ; but even from these one after another 

 would drift away to the city, till at last scarcely a vestige of the hurry 

 and business of the day would be left. The deep hush and quiet that 

 settled down on the scene was all the more delightful from contrast. To 

 listen to the evening wind among the pines, to watch the sun drop below 

 the spires' of Norfolk, and see the long shadows creep toward us; to let our 

 thoughts flit whither they would, like the birds about us, was all the 

 occupation we craved at this 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 sixteen 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 century 

 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 stilt 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 especially in the huge crate 

 manufactory. Here were piled up coils of baskets that suggested straw- 

 berries 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 become crates for the round quart baskets. These crates 

 were painted green, marked with Mr. Young's name, and piled to the 

 lofty, cobwebbed ceiling. 



