BY T. S. ARTHUR.
———
“Strawb’rees! Strawb’rees!” cried a poorly clad, tired-looking woman, about eleven o’clock one sultry June morning. She was passing a handsome house in Walnut street, into the windows of which she looked earnestly, in the hope of seeing the face of a customer. She did not look in vain, for the shrill sound of her voice brought forward a lady, dressed in a silk morning-wrapper, who beckoned her to stop. The woman lifted the heavy tray from her head, and placing it upon the door-step, sat wearily down.
“What’s the price of your strawberries?” asked the lady, as she came to the door.
“Ten cents a box, madam. They are right fresh.”
“Ten cents!” replied the lady, in a tone of surprise, drawing herself up and looking grave. Then shaking her head, and compressing her lips firmly, she added —
“I can’t give ten cents for strawberries. It’s too much.”
“You can’t get such strawberries as these for less, madam,” said the woman. “I got a levy a box for them yesterday.”
“Then you got too much, that’s all I have to say. I never pay such prices. I bought strawberries in market yesterday, just as good as yours, for eight cents a box.”
“I don’t know how they do to sell them at that price,” returned the woman. “Mine cost nearly eight cents, and ought to bring me at least twelve. But I am willing to take ten, so that I can sell out quickly. It’s a very hot day.” And the woman wiped, with her apron, the perspiration from her glowing face.