“Who lives here?” the basses demanded in grim melody, and the tenors responded, “Old Silas Berry, who charges sixpence for a cherry.”

Silas heard the mocking refrain repeated over and over between shouts of laughter long after they were out of sight.

Rose, who had not been bidden to the picnic, heard it and wept as she peered around her curtain at the gay party.  William, who had also not been bidden, stormed at his father, and his mother joined him.

“You’re jest a-puttin’ your own eyes out, Silas Berry,” said she; “you hadn’t no business to ask such a price for them cherries; it’s more than they are worth; folks won’t stand it.  You asked too much for ’em last year.”

“I know what I’m about,” returned Silas, sitting in his arm-chair at the window, with dogged chin on his breast.

“You wait an’ see,” said Hannah.  “You’ve jest put your own eyes out.”

And after-events proved that Hannah was right.  Silas Berry’s cherry orchard was subjected to a species of ostracism in the village.  There were no more picnics held there, people would buy none of his cherries, and he lost all the little income which he had derived from them.  Hannah often twitted him with it.  “You can see now that what I told you was true,” said she; “you put your own eyes out.”  Silas would say nothing in reply; he would simply make an animal sound of defiance like a grunt in his throat, and frown.  If Hannah kept on, he would stump heavily out of the room, and swing the door back with a bang.

This season Hannah had taunted her husband more than usual with his ill-judged parsimony in the matter of the cherries.  The trees were quite loaded with the small green fruit, and there promised to be a very large crop.  One day Silas turned on her.  “You wait,” said he; “mebbe I know what I’m about, more’n you think I do.”

Hannah scowled with sharp interrogation at her husband’s shrewdly leering face.  “What be you agoin’ to do?” she demanded.  But she got no more out of him.

One morning about two weeks before the cherries were ripe Silas went halting in a casual way across the south yard towards his daughter Rose, who was spreading out some linen to bleach.  He picked up a few stray sticks on the way, ostentatiously, as if that were his errand.

Rose was spreading out the lengths of linen in a wide sunny space just outside the shade of the cherry-trees.  Her father paused, tilted his head back, and eyed the trees with a look of innocent reflection.  Rose glanced at him, then she went on with her work.

“Guess there’s goin’ to be considerable many cherries this year,” remarked her father, in an affable and confidential tone.

“I guess so,” replied Rose, shortly, and she flapped out an end of the wet linen.  The cherries were a sore subject with her.

“I guess there’s goin’ to be more than common,” said Silas, still gazing up at the green boughs full of green fruit clusters.