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."