I had bought a number of old Mr. Jamison’s crates, had painted out his name and replaced it with mine.  I now wrote to Mr. Bogart for packages best adapted to the shipping of cherries, currants, and raspberries.  For the first he sent me baskets that held about a peck.  These baskets were so cheap that they could be sold with the fruit.  For currants, crates containing twenty-four quart baskets were forwarded.  These, he wrote, would also do for black-caps this season, and for strawberries next year.  For the red raspberries he sent me quite different crates, filled with little baskets holding only half a pint of fruit.  Limited supplies of these packages were sent, for he said that a telegram would bring more the same day.

The corn and potatoes were becoming weedy again.  This time I made use of a light plow, Merton leading old Bay as at first.  Then, with our hoes, we gave the rows a final dressing out.  By the time we had finished, some of our grass was fit to cut, the raspberries needed a careful picking over, and the cherries on one tree were ready for market.  The children and robins had already feasted, but I was hungry for a check from New York.

I had long since decided not to attempt to carry on haying alone at this critical season, but had hired a man, too aged to hold his own among the harvesters on the neighboring farms.  Mr. Jones had said of him:  “He’s a careful, trusty old fellow, who can do a good day’s work yet if you don’t hurry him.  Most of your grass is in the meadow, some parts fit to cut before the others.  Let the old man begin and mow what he can, every day.  Then you won’t have to cure and get in a great lot of hay all at once, and perhaps, too, when your raspberries most need pickin’.”

So, during the last days of June, old Mr. Jacox, who came at moderate wages, put in his scythe on the uplands.  I spread the grass and raked it up when dry, and, with the aid of Merton and a rude, extemporized rack on the market-wagon, got the hay gradually into the barn.  This labor took only part of the day; the rest of the time was employed in the garden and in picking fruit.

On the last day of June we gathered a crate of early raspberries and eight baskets of cherries.  In the cool of the afternoon, these were placed in the wagon, and with my wife and the three younger children, I drove to the Maizeville Landing with our first shipment to Mr. Bogart.

“We are ‘p’oducers,’ at last, as Bobsey said,” I cried, joyously.  “And I trust that this small beginning will end in such big loads as will leave us no room for wife and children, but will eventually give them a carriage to ride in.”

Merton remained on guard to watch our precious ripening fruit.