This morning, the 3d of June, the Undine from Green River rose
above the waves.

The strawberry bed is almost under their windows. I had gone out
to pick the first dish of the season for breakfast; for while I
do not care to eat except to live, I never miss an opportunity of
living upon strawberries.

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?"