As Fred was wonderfully exact in keeping accounts, he was ready to tell us, the moment our last picking had been made, how much our half-acre had produced. I sometimes thought it a sort of useless trouble, however, this keeping an account, because every one of the family seemed to have the figures by heart from the very day when the first picking occurred. They were talked over so often at table, that we all remembered what they were, nor was there any difficulty in our carrying forward the sum-total from day to day, as the amount ran up after each successive picking. What had we to remember that was half so interesting as this? But as what the sum-total would be was gradually becoming manifest, Fred was compelled to come down from the magnificent calculations as to profit with which he had set out. He had insisted that we were to get the same high prices all through the season, not reflecting that we had many competitors, nor that, though our early pickings were really very superior, yet there must necessarily be many that would be quite otherwise. Still, his persistency had had its effect on all of us; nor was it until we got halfway down the column of our daily receipts, and noticed the perceptibly diminishing figures, that we were thoroughly undeceived. As I had never been over-sanguine, I was not greatly disappointed. My study had been to ascertain whether it was possible for a family of inexperienced sewing-women to produce strawberries for market at a fair profit, the whole labor to be performed by themselves. If our first effort were tolerably successful, I was sure we could do better the next time, as successful horticulturists are not born, but made. Well, the result was, that we had produced a little over four hundred quarts, of which the widow had sold enough to bring us a hundred and thirty dollars, after deducting her commission. It was not much, I confess, but it was a beginning that fully satisfied me. Our half-acre had never before yielded so large a profit. THE WILLOW. O willow, why forever weep, As one who mourns an endless wrong? What hidden woe can lie so deep? What utter grief can last so long? The Spring makes haste with step elate Your life and beauty to renew; She even bids the roses wait, And gives her first sweet care to you. The welcome redbreast folds his wing To pour for you his freshest strain; To you the earliest bluebirds sing, Till all your light stems thrill again. The sparrow trills his wedding song And trusts his tender brood to you; Fair flowering vines, the summer long, With clasp and kiss your beauty woo. The sunshine drapes your limbs with light, The rain braids diamonds in your hair, The breeze makes love to you at night,-- Yet still you droop, and still despair.