“I shall not come home till the middle of the afternoon. I’ll take a little lunch with me, and eat in the pasture.”
So Harry started out, pail in hand, for the berry pasture. It was about a mile away, and was of large extent, comprising, probably, thirty acres of land. It was Harry’s first expedition of the kind in the season, as his time had been so fully occupied at the store that he had had no leisure for picking berries.
The berries were not so plentiful as they had been somewhat earlier, but they were still to be found in considerable quantities.
Harry was not alone. Probably a dozen other persons were in the pasture, engaged in the same way as himself. All knew Harry, and some, who had not heard of his loss of place, were surprised to see him there.
“And how is it you are here, Harry?” asked Mrs. Ryan, a good-natured Irish woman, who was out, with three of her children, reaping a harvest of berries. “And how can Mr. Mead spare you?”
“Because he’s got another boy,” answered Harry.
“Shure it was mane to send you away, and your mother nadin’ your wages.”
“He couldn’t help it. He had a nephew that needed the place. But, perhaps, I can make a fortune, like you, picking berries.”
“And shure you’d have to live a hundred years to do that, and have berries ripe all the year round. It’s hard work, Harry, and poor pay.”
“You have the advantage of me, Mrs. Ryan. You’ve got three children to help you.”