He drove slowly up and down the streets until Betsy wabbled on her legs. Then he left her to rest and walked until he wabbled; and by that time it was dark, so he went home. At the first hint of dawn he was at work the following morning. With loaded baskets closely covered, he started to Onabasha, and began where he had quit the day before. This time he carried a small, crudely fashioned bark basket, leaf-covered, and he rang at the front door with confidence. Every one seemed to have a maid in that part of the city, for a freshly capped and aproned girl opened the door. “Are there any young women living here?” blandly inquired the Harvester. “What's that of your business?” demanded the maid. The Harvester flushed, but continued, “I am offering something especially intended for young women. If there are none, I will not trouble you.” “There are several.” “Will you please ask them if they would care for bouquets of violets, fresh from the woods?” “How much are they, and how large are the bunches?” “Prices differ, and they are the right size to appear well. They had better see for themselves.” The maid reached for the basket, but the Harvester drew back. “I keep them in my possession,” he said. “You may take a sample.” He lifted the leaves and drew forth a medium-sized bunch of long-stemmed blue violets with their leaves. The flowers were fresh, crisp, and strong odours of the woods arose from them. “Oh!” cried the maid. “Oh, how lovely!” She hurried away with them and returned carrying a purse. “I want two more bunches,” she said. “How much are they?” “Are the girls who want them dark or fair?” “What difference does that make?” “I have blue violets for blondes, yellow for brunettes, and white for the others.” “Well I never! One is fair, and two have brown hair and blue eyes.” “One blue and two whites,” said the Harvester calmly, as if matching women's hair and eyes with flowers were an inherited vocation. “They are twenty cents a bunch.” “Aha!” he chortled to himself as he whistled to Betsy. “At last we have it. There are no dark-eyed girls here. Now we are making headway.” Down the street he went, with varying fortune, but with patience and persistence at every house he at last managed to learn whether there was a dark-eyed girl. There did not seem to be many. Long before his store of yellow violets was gone the last blue and white had disappeared. But he calmly went on asking for dark-eyed girls, and explaining that all the blue and white were taken, because fair women were most numerous. At one house the owner, who reminded the Harvester of his mother, came to the door. He uncovered and in his suavest tones inquired if a brunette young woman lived there and if she would like a nosegay of yellow violets. “Well bless my soul!” cried she. “What is this world coming to? Do you mean to tell me that there are now able-bodied men offering at our doors, flowers to match our girls' complexions?”