"Get up and come home," said Hortense. But Lowboy would not move.
"I've eaten so many strawberries that I can't budge," said he.
"Then we'll have to leave you," Hortense replied.
"There are worse fates than fifteen years of such strawberries," said Lowboy. "Perhaps, though, I'll get away sometime and find the road home."
"Where's Highboy?" Hortense demanded.
"Over there in the raspberry patch," said Lowboy, "but I fear he's in as bad shape as I am."
And so it proved, for when they came upon Highboy in the middle of the patch he was seated on the ground, lazily picking berries from the stems about his head.
"Get up and come with us," Hortense commanded.
Highboy shook his head.
"I must serve my sentence," said he. "After that, if I'm not turned into a raspberry tart, I'll try to find my way home. The only thing is that I find it hard to write poetry when I've eaten so much. Poetry should be written on an empty stomach. I can't think of a rhyme for raspberry."