88 MY GROWING GARDEN 



home, which at that moment seemed notable prin- 

 cipally for the inconvenience of its approaches. 

 As we turned into "Lovers' Lane," then an un- 

 kempt driveway, and came in sight of the west 

 house-door, our neighbor, Mr. H., — whose father 

 had built, thirty-five years before, the old house 

 we were now to hve in, — stepped out of the path 

 to his home, and held up his hand to stop us. 

 Then, saying "Welcome!" he handed me a box 

 of strawberries, just picked, apologizing that they 

 were not larger, and telling us they were the first 

 of the season from his plants. 



Not larger ! Why, there were but sixteen berries 

 in the heaped-up quart of ruddy scarlet, dressed 

 with fresh, soft foliage! And each one was more 

 than a strawberry — it was an event ! The volume 

 of kindliness and friendly courtesy crowded into 

 that quart box could never be measiu^ed in cubic 

 contents; it was beyond any material dimension. 



Of course the sim shone for us instantly, despite 

 the impending rain. Smiles broke out as we 

 thanked this real neighbor for more than he ever 

 knew that he gave, fine though his giving was. 

 BUthely we unloaded the wagon; cheerily we took 

 our way into the yet unordered new home. The 

 evening was rose-colored; the blues had vanished; 

 Breeze Hill was "all right!" 



