Mrs. Larry laughed joyously over her recital that night. “Evidently the early bird has come back into style,” was her husband’s comment. “Are you game for the early market?” “Indeed I am,” declared Mrs. Larry. “Just think! I didn’t save a penny to-day--lost time and money--because I didn’t know enough to dig out your old suit-case. Anyhow, I think it is cowardly to market with a bag or suit-case. My grandmother and aunts carried a market basket, and so shall I.” “Hurrah!” shouted Mr. Larry. “A fig for convention-bound neighbors. But do you own one?” “I just do,” responded Mrs. Larry proudly. “Aunt Myra sent it to me last fall, packed with pickles and jelly.” And the next morning, after wafting a kiss to the sleeping Mr. Larry and stealing a glimpse at the rosy-cheeked small Larrys, she drank a cup of hot coffee, munched a roll, and by eight o’clock was at the Queensboro Bridge market. But she was not accompanied by Claire on this trip. The girl’s enthusiasm was beautiful to see, but Mrs. Larry was a cautious person. She did not want to kill it by drawing on it at seven A. M. The family of Pierce were not early risers. “Ah, this is something like,” she sighed as she saw the groups of farm wagons from Long Island, with tanned lean men handling poultry, eggs and vegetables. She bought with enthusiasm fowl that she knew were fresh killed and picked, at the price often charged for cold storage poultry; vegetables that were firm and fresh; fruits at close to wholesale prices. The farmers and dealers helped her pack her basket compactly. All around her were comfortable-looking, well-dressed women. Beyond the line of wagons, push carts and stands was a second line of automobiles, many of whose owners were marketing at her elbow. “It’s the automobile folks that are saving money,” said a farmer’s helper, as he packed a crisp head of lettuce into the last corner of her basket. “You’d die to see how it riles their chauffeurs to have to come for the baskets.” The baskets, of course--and Mrs. Larry suddenly realized that her arm throbbed like the proverbial toothache. She had a full block to walk to the car, a transfer to make, and two blocks to walk at the other end of the line. The prospect was not cheering. She sought out the man who had contracted to deliver baskets at ten cents each. “What time shall I get these goods?” she asked. “Before nightfall,” answered the man. “But this chicken is for dinner,” she said. “I must have it by two o’clock.” “Then you had better take it with you,” said a by-stander, a competent-looking woman. Mrs. Larry unpacked the basket, had the fowl, some sweet potatoes and celery done up in a big paper sack which she could carry, and turned the balance of her marketing over to the delivery men.