KATHERINE MANSFIELD

We sat on the top of the cliff overlooking the open sea. Our backs turned to the little town. Each of us had a basket of strawberries. We had just bought them from a dark woman with quick eyes—berry-picking eyes.

“They’re fresh picked” said she, “from our own garden.” The tips of her fingers were stained a bright red. But what strawberries! Each one was the finest—the perfect berry—the strawberry Absolute—the fruit of our childhood! The very air came fanning on Strawberry wings. And down below, in the pools, little children were bathing, with strawberry faces…

Over the blue, swinging water, came a three masted sailing ship—with nine, ten, eleven sails. Wonderfully beautiful! She came riding by as though every sail were taking its fill of the sun and the light.

And “Oh how I’d love to be on board!” said Anne. (The captain was below, but the crew lay about, idle and handsome. “Have some strawberries!” we said, slipping and sliding on the rocking decks, and shaking the baskets. They ate them in a kind of dream…) And the ship sailed on. Leaving us in a kind of dream, too. With the empty baskets…