The strawberry is always the hope of the invalid, and sometimes, no
doubt, his salvation. It is the first and finest relish among fruits,
and well merits Dr.Boteler's memorable saying, that "doubtless God
could have made a better berry, but doubtless God never did."

On the threshold of summer, Nature proffers us this her virgin fruit;
more rich and sumptuous are to follow, but the wild delicacy and fillip
of the strawberry are never repeated,--that keen feathered edge greets
the tongue in nothing else.

Let me not be afraid of overpraising it, but probe and probe for words
to hint its surprising virtues. We may well celebrate it with festivals
and music. It has that indescribable quality of all first things,--that
shy, uncloying, provoking barbed sweetness. It is eager and sanguine as
youth. It is born of the copious dews, the fragrant nights, the tender
skies, the plentiful rains of the early season. The singing of birds is
in it, and the health and frolic of lusty Nature. It is the product of
liquid May touched by the June sun. It has the tartness, the briskness,
the unruliness of spring, and the aroma and intensity of summer.

Oh, the strawberry days! how vividly they come back to one! The smell
of clover in the fields, of blooming rye on the hills, of the wild
grape beside the woods, and of the sweet honeysuckle and the spiræa
about the house. The first hot, moist days. The daisies and the
buttercups; the songs of the birds, their first reckless jollity and
love-making over; the full tender foliage of the trees; the bees
swarming, and the air strung with resonant musical chords. The time of
the sweetest and most, succulent grass, when the cows come home with
aching udders. Indeed, the strawberry belongs to the juiciest time of