At the
farm of our nearest neighbors, the Edwardses, there were five greengage
trees that bore delicious plums. For three summers in succession Alfred
and Harvey stole nearly every plum on those trees--at least, there was
little doubt that it was they who took them.
They also took the old Squire's pears in the walled pen. Twice Addison
and I tracked them home the next morning in the dewy grass, across the
fields. Time and again, too, they took our Bartlett pears and plums.
Addison wanted the old Squire to send the sheriff after them and put a
stop to their raids, but he only laughed. "Oh, I suppose those boys love
pears and plums," he said, forbearingly. But we of the younger
generation were indignant.
One day, when the old Squire and I were driving to the village, we met
Alfred; the old gentleman stopped, and said to him:
"My son, hadn't you better leave me just a few of those pears in the old
pound this year?"
"I never touched a pear there!" Alfred shouted. "You can't prove I did,
and you'd better not accuse me."
The old Squire only laughed, and drove on.
A few nights afterward both pear-trees were robbed and nearly stripped
of fruit.
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