THE STRAWBERRY PICKER.

Auckland Star, Volume LVIII, Issue 275, 21 November 1927, Page 6

THE STRAWBERRY PICKER.

We are being constantly reminded that summer is approaching—that it is at our very doors—and people are ready to welcome it with a joyousness reserved only for such few glorious occasions as this is. With summer come the strawberries, combined with hard toil for the seemingly tireless grower—toil which lasts from morning till night. Yet he is tired often, and he must of necessity work on through his fatigue while daylight lasts in order to get in all his ripe fruit. Under summer time he will have still one more hour for toil and one less for his hard-earned rest.

Can you hear that banging, jangling sound? Five or six kerosene tins suspended on a line leading from the house over the strawberry bed are clanging in response to a vigorous tug on the cord from the house. Four blackbirds and two thrushes making a juicy meal quite close to the tins take to their wings and make a hasty flight. By now they are well accustomed to this noise, and they know it is perfectly harmless, so they will not be long away from the lure of the bed. Nor does the scarecrow standing erect half-way up the slope with one arm outstretched and the other clutching a gun cocked skywards have any effect on them. Birds are often seen hopping around his feet, and even perching on his head and shoulders. One small boy who has been sleeping for five minutes between the rows opens his eyes with a start when he hears the noise of the tins, and with a groan and an ill-concealed yawn returns to -work. His companions are ncaring the top of the row, and he must hurry to catch up with them. The owner, a big, tali, bronzed man, is coming up the patch, so all turn to work with an energy hitherto unthought of. True, one lad glances carefully in his direction, and, finding all safe, opens his mouth and disposes of one of the largest, ripest and juiciest of all the ones he has picked. The man takes aim with his gun, and hang! one of those carefree birds will trouble the strawberries no more. The master advances to it, looks at it for a moment thoughtfully, and hangs it up on the line with the tins as a fair warning to its mates. "That's nine chips now, and that will be ninepence. Let me see: three ice-creams. How I should like them now; it is so hot " The boy meditates on this extremely interesting subject for a while, and then with a jerk comes back to the present.

1 was once a small boy myself, and I can well remember my days in "the "boiling sun picking strawberries, and longing the while to get to the cool lagoon, and think only of the refreshing nature of it. I see them still, in fancy, hard at it, and sometimes I feel a tugging at my heartstrings and a longing to be amongst it once more with a healthy tanned facc and strong sunburnt arms and legs. —J.M.