"I'm trying to think it is," said Maggie; "but they do scratch awfully, don't they? and the sun is pretty hot too. How many have you, Bessie?"
"I guess about five hundred,—maybe it's a thousand," said Bessie. "Can you count them?"
"Let's sit down there in the shade and do it," said Maggie. "One, two, three, four,—there's seventeen, Bessie. That's a pretty good many."
"Is it 'most a thousand, Maggie?"
"No," said Maggie, "I'm afraid it will take about fifty more to make a thousand. Here's Bob; we'll ask him," as Bob and Hafed came by with their baskets. "Bob, Bessie has seventeen berries; how many more will it take to make a thousand?"
"Seventeen from a thousand," said Bob, "why it will take—nine hundred—and—and—eighty-three. You haven't the beginning of a thousand there yet."
"Have I enough to make a pot of jam?" asked Bessie, wistfully, looking into her pail. "Your mother said she would make me a pot of my own if I brought enough berries."
"A small pot it would be," said Bob, laughing. "Take two to show the pattern, I guess," and he ran off.
Hafed lingered behind. He understood enough to know that Bessie was disturbed because she had so few berries; and suddenly emptying his basket, which was about a third full, into her pail, he said,—
"Me blackberry pick Missy Bess, all give."