Yesterday morning I sent them a large dish of strawberries, with a note asking whether they would walk during the day over to my woodland pasture, where the soldiers had a barbecue before setting out for the Mexican war.  The mother and Sylvia accepted.  Our walk was a little overshadowed by their loss; and as I thoughtlessly described the gayety of that scene—­the splendid young fellows dancing in their bright uniforms, and now and then pausing to wipe their foreheads, the speeches, the cheering, the dinner under the trees, and, a few days later, the tear-dimmed eyes, the hand-wringing and embracing, and at last the marching proudly away, each with a Bible in his pocket, and many never, never to return—­I was sorry that I had not foreseen the sacred chord I was touching.  But it made good friends of us more quickly, and they were well-bred, so that we returned to all appearance in gay spirits.  The elder daughter came to meet us, and went at once silently to her mother’s side, as though she had felt the separation.  I wondered whether she had declined to go because of the memory of her father.  As we passed my front gate, I asked them to look at my flowers.  The mother praised also the cabbages, thus showing an admirably balanced mind; the little Sylvia fell in love with a vine-covered arbor; the elder daughter appeared to be secretly watching the many birds about the grounds, but when I pointed out several less-known species, she lost interest.

What surprises most is that they are so refined and intelligent.  It is greatly to be feared that we Kentuckians in this part of the State are profoundly ignorant as to the people in other parts.  I told Mrs. Walters this, and she, seeing that I am beginning to like them, is beginning to like them herself.  Dear Mrs. Walters!  Her few ideas are like three or four marbles on a level floor; they have no power to move themselves, but roll equally well in any direction you push them.

This afternoon I turned a lot of little town boys into my strawberry bed, and now it looks like a field that had been harrowed and rolled.  I think they would gladly have pulled up some of the plants to see whether there might not be berries growing on the roots.

It is unwise to do everything that you can for people at once; for when you can do nothing more, they will say you are no longer like yourself, and turn against you.  So I have meant to go slowly with the Cobbs in my wish to be neighborly, and do not think that they could reasonably be spoiled on one dish of strawberries in three weeks.  But the other evening Mrs. Cobb sent over a plate of golden sally-lunn on a silver waiter, covered with a snow-white napkin; and acting on this provocation, I thought they could be trusted with a basket of cherries.

So next morning, in order to save the ripening fruit on a rather small tree of choice variety, I thought I should put up a scarecrow, and to this end rummaged a closet for some last winter’s old clothes.  These I crammed with straw, and I fastened the resulting figure in the crotch of the tree, tying the arms to the adjoining limbs, and giving it the dreadful appearance of shouting, “Keep out of here, you rascals, or you’ll get hurt!” And, in truth, it did look so like me that I felt a little uncanny about it myself.