ite for cherries
and their zeal for pleasure had overcome their indignation at his
usury. But at last Silas's greed got the better of his financial
shrewdness; he increased his price for cherries every season, and the
year after the tavern closed it became so preposterous that there was
a rebellion. It was headed by Thomas Payne, who, as the squire's son
and the richest and most freehanded young man in town, could incur no
suspicion of parsimony. Going one night to the old tavern to make
terms with Silas for the use of his cherry orchard, for a party which
included some of his college friends from Boston and his fine
young-lady cousin from New York, and hearing the preposterous sum
which Silas stated as final, he had turned on his heel with a strong
word under his breath. "You can eat your cherries yourself and be
damned," said Thomas Payne, and was out of the yard with the gay
swagger which he had learned along with his Greek and Latin at
college. The next day Silas saw the party in Squire Payne's big
wagon, with Thomas driving, and the cousin's pink cheeks and white
plumed hat conspicuous in the midst, pass merrily on their way to a
cherryless picnic at a neighboring pond, and the young college men
shouted out a doggerel couplet which the wit of the party had made
and set to a rough tune.

"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. H