As  we  drove  up  under  the  pines,  the  proprietor  of  the
farm  welcomed  us  with  a  cordial  hospitality,  which  he  may
have  acquired  in  part  from  his  residence  in  the  South.  On
the  porch  stood  a  slender  lady,  whose  girlish  grace  and
delicate  beauty  at  once  captivated  the  artists  of  our  party.
There  was  the  farm  we  had  come  to  see,  stretching  away
before  us  in  hundreds  of  green,  level  acres.  As  we  drove
to  a  distant  field  in  which  the  pickers  were  then  engaged,
we  could  see  the  ripening  berries  with  one  side  blushing
toward  the  sun.  Passing  a  screen  of  pines,  we  came  out
into  a  field  containing  thirteen  acres  of  Wilson  strawberries,
and  then  more  fully  began  to  realize  the  magnitude  of  the
business.  Scattered  over  the  wide  area,  in  what  seemed
inextricable  confusion  to  our  uninitiated  eyes,  were  hun-
dreds of  men,  women,  and  children  of  all  ages  and  shades
of  color,  and  from  the  field  at  large  came  a  softened  din  of
voices,  above  the  monotony  of  which  arose  here  and  there
snatches  of  song,  laughter  mellowed  by  distance,  and  occa-
sionally the  loud,  sharp  orders  of  the  overseers,  who  stalked
hither  and  thither,  wherever  their  "  little  brief  authority  "
was  most  in  requisition.
We  soon  noted  that  the  confusion  was  more  apparent
than  real,  and  that  each  picker  was  given  a  row  over  which
he  —  or,  more  often,  she  —  bent  with  busy  fingers  until  it
was  finished.  At  central  points  crates  were  piled  up,  and
men  known  as  "  buyers  "  received  the  round  quart  baskets
from  the  trays  of  the  pickers,  while  wide  platform  carts,
drawn  by  mules,  were  bringing  empty  crates  and  carrying
away  those  that  had  been  filled.
