hen it'll need a
lot of fertilizing after that. We have to get rid of the grubs in the
old sod--"

"Grubs!" Max sat upright with a jerk. "There you are, at the first drop
of the hat. Grubs--pests--not only after you get your plants out but two
seasons beforehand."

He eyed his friend, as if he had presented a conclusive argument against
strawberry raising. But Jarvis only laughed good-humouredly.

"That's part of the game," said he. "Meanwhile, there are some quick
crops we ought to be able to market the first year. But, after talking
with several city dealers and commission men, I'm confident it will pay
us to go about strawberry culture with the most careful preparation we
can make. Some cities are surrounded by strawberry gardeners, but there's
almost nobody in that business around here. No reason why not--soil and
climate all right enough--so it seems to me it's our chance. The city
gets most of its 'home-grown' strawberries from a hundred miles away,
which means that they can't be marketed as fresh as ours can be. I
propose to build up a demand for absolutely fresh berries, picked at dawn
and marketed before the dew is off, strictly fine to the bottom of the
full-sized basket. Several grades, but our reputation on the big ones, of
course. There's no reason why we can't do it--"

But he had gone as far as could have been expected without an ironic
comment from Max. "Oh, it's all clear as daylight!" that young man
agreed. "Even the grubs that infest the soil now will take to the woods
when they hear of the onslaught that's coming. We've only to set out the
plants, sit on the fence till the gigantic berries are ripe, than haul in
the nets. No May freezes, no droughts, no--"

"You _are_ a pessimist, aren't you?" Jarvis broke in. "I know of only one
thing that will ever work a reformation in you--and that's a summer's
work in the open air."

"Pessimist, am I? Well--"

It was Sally who interrupted, this time. During Jarvis's explanation of
his plan she had been absorbed in the contemplation of a new idea. She
proceeded to launch it against the tide of Max's retort, and her
enthusiastic shriek overbore his deeper-toned growl. "I've a name for
this place!" she cried, clapping her hands. "A name! I've tried and
tried to think of one, you know, Jarvis, and nothing has suited. Uncle
Maxwell never named it anything. Uncle Timothy thinks '_The Pines_'
would be a good name but I'm sure there are hundreds of country place