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VI
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?”
