CHAPTER XI. GILL’S ROSES AND CANDLES.
FASTER than even the wheels of the old market-cart could go round, the summer went by with its rich treasures of vegetables and fruit; and now the autumn had come, and Gill and the children were in the midst of the late produce. Gill was pulling carrots, and Ben helped him in his toil; and Sally kept time to their labor with the tinkle, tinkle of her little silver tongue.
“What beauties!” said she, as the golden spirals came out of the black earth, “and what pretty feathery leaves they have!”
“Yes,” said Gill. “No wonder the ladies used to wear them for feathers. To my taste they are much prettier. Pity they wilt so soon! As long as they are fresh they are elegant.”
“They are the most beautiful leaves in the garden,” said Ben, closely observing the delicate filagree; “the leaf of the parsnip is something like them, but coarser.” Gill was eloquent in his admiration. “When they first shoot up, they are like fine ferns,” said he. “I’ll cut off the thick end of this root, and put it into a shallow vessel with water, and it will unfold its leaves, and thus you can have green things all through the winter.”
“Thank you; that will be lovely!” said Sally. “My Aunt Martha puts it in a white or pink vase, and sets it in her window, and it looks beautiful.”
“Gill, will you please tell us where the carrot comes from?” said Ben.
“It is a native of Britain,” said the
Scotchman, “When it grows wild it is small and dry and white and strong-flavored; but if we take pains to cultivate it, it loses the disagreeable taste and is mild and sweet, and of a pale straw-color, or r rich golden-yellow. It is excellent as a flavor for soups, and for beef-stews; but people do not like it much as separate dish It is used more to feed horses and cattle, than for the table.”
“Lucy makes splendid beef-stews,” said Ben.
“Mother tells us not to say splendid, when we speak of food,” said little Sally “She says ‘splendid’ is for the eyes, and not for the mouth.”
Ben corrected himself. “I meant delicious,—that is mother’s word for Lucy’s good cookery.”
“I cut up the carrots for Dobbin and Flash and Brindle,” said Gill. “They like them mixed with their hay. In the old country the deer are fed with the roots, and the tops are dried for hay.”
“The root is very sweet,—can we get sugar from it?” asked Ben.
“It does not give us sugar. People have tried to make it, but have not succeeded very well. It yields ardent spirits, which is a poor use to put it to; and I am sorry when any body turns it to such an evil purpose.”
“Pity!” ejaculated little Sally.
“I like the carrots best when they are waving their green plumes in the air,” said Gill. “They have pretty, innocent, white flowers, and rough, bristly seeds, and then there is the gold down below. Sometimes people make a syrup of the root for coughs, and sometimes they scrape it, and make it into a poultice for cancerous ulcers; and sailors have a sort of carrot marmalade for scurvy, when they are far away at sea, and cannot obtain fresh vegetables.”
“I didn’t know it was so useful a plant,” said Ben.
“We have to look at things all around to find out their real worth,” said Gill. “If you were to ask people what this was, most of them would say ‘a carrot,’ to be sure; but there would be nothing to them in the word except the yellow root before their eyes,—no picture in the mind, of the wild thing that was trained and cultured to shoot up green feathers, and flourish pure blossoms, and hide a golden treasure in the earth.”
Gill always grew poetic over his vegetables, there was nothing common-place to him in the garden plat that was thick with the variety of growth. His soul could feel the sublime mysteries all about him, and from the time that he put spade or plow into the earth, at early spring, until he gathered in the late ripe harvest, he was filled with wonder at the silent work that was going on. He thought it such an honor that the unseen Power, who gives the increase, should make him a co-worker. A co-worker with God! It was a great thought with Gill, as he intelligently planted and watered. He did not say to himself,—“God could do all this without me. I am not worthy to be his helper.” He knew that the truest humility is to do exactly what we are told to do by one high in authority and office; so he did his part faithfully, and was blessed in it.
“Shall you pull any parsnips to-day?” asked Ben.
“Yes, parsnips, and cabbages, and turnips. Mrs. Beth likes variety, and there is a call for all now.”
Gill had time enough to loiter over his work and amuse the little people, since there was no haste now lest the fruits and vegetables should decay before he could get them off his hands.
“What are you doing?” asked Ben, as the Scotchman took out his knife, and began to scrape away and whittle upon a parsnip.
“We shall see. Wait awhile,” said Gill. The children were curious to know what would come from his skillful hand, and, presently he delighted them with a cluster of white roses,—the petals curling one over the other so naturally and gracefully that the little bunch of flowers would have deceived almost any body in the world into thinking them real roses.
“These are for Sally,” said Gill.
“Oh, thank you! I will give them to mamma for the blue vase on the bracket, she will be so pleased.”
Sally always thought of mamma, the very first thing, when she had any pleasure. That was but fair since mamma’s first thought was always of her little girl, when her own heart was made glad in any way. If we dearly love any body, we must share with that person every joy.
“I will make something for Ben, now,” said Gill. “He can have some fun with it this evening.”
It was but a minute before he handed a perfect imitation of a candle to the lad.
“You must blacken the wick as if it had been burnt,” said Gill, “and give it to Lucy to light for you before you go to bed. How she will wonder why the thing is so slow in catching!”
“You are very good to think of our sport; it will be real fun,” said Ben, putting the candle safely into his deep pocket.
“Now for work,” said Gill, pulling at the parsnips that came quickly out of their dark bed-room.
“When these grow wild,” said he, “the leaves and stem are hairy; but when cultivated they are smooth, and the root is sweeter, and larger. The flower is yellow. We use the parsnip as we do the carrot, more for cattle than for the table. It makes the cows’ milk richer, and gives a fine color and flavor to the butter. All domestic animals—cows, oxen, and horses, like it; and people think it very nice when it is boiled, and then fried brown in butter. The parsnip is not afraid of Jack Frost. It bears the cold nicely, and is not hurt by the winter, if it is left in the ground. There’s a species called ‘the rough parsnip,’ that is a native of the Levant, and grows wild in the south of Italy, France and Greece. From it we obtain a gum resin, called by the druggists ‘opopanax,’ and used by the doctors as a medicine.”
CHAPTER XII. THE CHILDREN’S GUESTS
MR. and Mrs. Reed came out to see what Gill and the children were about. Mr. Reed was at home for the day, which was not a very frequent event, and it was quite a treat to him to leave all thought of his ledger behind him, and live for a few free hours amid the things of nature, that lead the mind to higher thoughts than are begotten by business speculations, and accounts. The parents stood a little aloof, and heard what Gill was talking about.
“We owe much to this intelligent Scotchman,” said Mrs. Reed. “He has taught the children so many things from this garden book, that would have lost half their interest if they had been printed upon paper.”
“Oh, yes, I like this sort of school very much,” said the father. “One never forgets the knowledge gained in this way; but I am glad that Ben and Sally are none the less diligent over the printed lessons, when you call them in to their studies.”
“They always apply themselves earnestly. I have no fault to find with them,” said mamma. “I have spoken to them so constantly of the mind as a talent given by God to be improved to his honor and glory, that I think they have a conscientious motive in their efforts to learn.”
“There are papa and mamma,” said Sally, espying the beloved ones.
The children ran to meet their guests, and to take them the round of the garden. They felt themselves to be host and hostess, and wished to do all honor to their distinguished visitors. The Elysian fields, with their beautiful meadows, and groves, and cloudless sky, and sweet music, and soft celestial light, could have been no more beautiful to the imagination than was the reality of Gill’s vegetable garden to these children, with the adjoining pasture where Brindle and Flash were serenely chewing the cud, and the late butterflies were flitting hither and thither, and the chirp of the cricket came pleasantly to the ear, and the warble of birds, making ready for their autumn flight, brought back the sense of the early spring.
The sky was blue and bright, and there was no chill in the air, and the grass was still green upon the earth, and the leaves upon the trees had not changed to russet and crimson and gold.
There was so much to exhibit. Mr. Reed had to examine with eye and hand the garden growth, and then Gill was left to pull alone at the parsnips for a while, and the little people took their guests into the meadow to stroke the glossy red cows, and to take in the sweet milky breath, that mamma loved so, and thought so healthful.
Brindle was gentle as a lamb, and held her face close to her mistress, and looked at her with her great pensive eyes, and rubbed her nose against Sally’s face, and stood patient and loving, for the caresses that she seemed to prize.
Flash, a little younger and more antic, frisked about for a few minutes, but came at last to a stand-still beside Mr. Reed, and allowed him to, lead her by the horn, as if she were a docile child. Ben and Sally were as pleased as though they were responsible for her courteous behaviour, and they knew something “how a father and mother must feel when their children do them justice by correct and polite manners. Sally praised Flash when she had a sly chance, and Ben and her parents were engrossed by something else. .
“I’m just as proud of you as can be,” said she, giving the cow a good hug, and patting her head gently. “I was afraid you were going to forget, yourself altogether; but you came to your senses in time to show a proper breeding to my company,—that’s a good Flash. Now go on chewing your cud, and think how happy you have made me.”
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Flash seemed to be whispering it all to Brindle just after. They had their heads close together, and were as cosy and loving as could be; and they looked around now and then at the party in the distance, as if they were sorry ever to lose such kind and appreciative friends from view.
Mr. and Mrs. Reed lingered under an old apple-tree where the market-cart was standing. Gill had brought it there the night before, thinking to gather the apples to-day. Above it the branches spread out with a wealth of ruddy fruit.
“Let us rest here for awhile,” said mamma. “It is so pleasant.”
Papa helped her up into the cart, and got in beside her; and the children followed, and all sat upon the edge, as humble as the little turkeys that aspired to the topmost bough of the tree, yet were content with their lowly position. The turkeys had been exalted long before now, and sat every night on their lofty perch, with the heavens and the stars nearer. I suppose that always happens when one humbles himself, and then is lifted up,—the glory comes surely closer to him.
But about my little party in the meadow! Was there ever such pleasure to the children? To see papa and mamma sitting with them on the edge of the cart, as happy and contented as if it were a throne!
That is the beauty of older companionship,—when grown people can come down to the tiny level, and really enjoy the descent.
“You look about as young as Sally,” said Mr. Reed, observing the fresh color in his wife’s cheeks, and the sparkle in her eye.
“It is rejuvenating to be out here with the children,” returned she.
“What is that, mamma?” asked Sally.
To be made youthful again. I feel quite like a little child. That is the way we should always feel in spirit, though I do not know that I should care to go back bodily to my little girlhood,—I have such a happy home, and such a dear husband, and such good, loving children!
Papa and the little people looked as if they felt this compliment very precious, and they could not help giving mamma a kiss under the shadow of the old apple-tree. But those were not the only caresses that the green leaves had been witness to; for months ago, in the bright springtime, there was such a happy family in the robin’s nest, and often and often the father and the young brood had kissed the mother-bird, as they told each other how blest a tie it was that bound them, and how perfectly contented they were in their sweet and hallowed relationships.
The breeze rustled the green leaves to-day and made a soft melody, and the red fruit spoke out in praises of the sun and the rain and the air, that had helped it to grow up from its babyhood to a ripe and mellow age. So many voices all about if one could but hear them!
Mamma sat thoughtful, listening. She always had an ear for every sound in nature; and what was said reached down deep into her soul, and made it very thankful,—thankful to him who gives such beauty to the earth, and promises still better things in heaven to those who love him and strive to keep his commandments.
“Can we not sing something?” asked papa. “I wish we could have a little music out here in the open air. It is so delightful to hear singing when there is no ceiling to deaden the sound.”
Mamma spoke to the children, and then all burst forth in that beautiful anthem:—
“The strain upraise, of joy and praise, Alleluia!
To the glory of their King
Shall the ransomed people sing, Alleluia!
And the choirs that dwell on high
Shall re-echo through the sky, Alleluia! Alleluia!
They in the rest of paradise who dwell,
The blessed ones with joy the chorus swell, Alleluia!
The planets beaming on their heavenly way,
The shining constellations join and say, Alleluia!
Ye clouds that onward sweep, ye winds on pinions light,
Ye thunders echoing loud and deep, ye lightnings
wildly bright,
In sweet consent unite you, Alleluia!
Ye floods and ocean billows, ye storms and winter
snow,
Ye days of cloudless beauty, hoar frost and summer
glow,
Ye groves that wave in spring, and glorious forests, sing,
Alleluia!
First let the birds, with painted plumage gay,
Exalt their great Creator’s praise and say, Alleluia!
Then let the beasts of earth, with varying strain,
Join in creation’s ‘hymn, and cry again, Alleluia!
Here let the mountains thunder forth sonorous, Allelluia
There let the valleys sing in gentle chorus, Alleluia!
Thou jubilant abyss of ocean, cry, Alleluia!
Ye tracts of earth, and continents, reply, Alleluia
To God who all creation made,
The frequent hymn be duly paid, Alleluia!
This is the strain, the eternal strain the Almighty loves,
Alleluia!
This is the song, the heavenly song, that Christ the King
approves, Alleluia!
Wherefore we sing both heart and voice awaking, Alleluia!
And children voices echo, answer making, Alleluia to
the Lord!
With Alleluia evermore,
The Son and Spirit we adore.
Praise be done to the Three in One,
Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia, Amen!”
How sweet the anthem was as it floated over the meadow and upward toward God! The cows stood quietly listening; and Gill stopped his work to hear the strain, and Lucy came to the kitchen door with Jack in her arms, and Dobbin pricked up his ears and forgot his hay, and the birds joined the concert, and the crickets chimed in with their cheerful notes,—and, really, the old market-cart standing under the apple-tree with, the thills resting upon the bar of the fence, seemed almost like a church, with the blue and crimson and green overhead, and the worshipers swelling out this hymn of praise to the great Creator.
“It sounds so very sweet,” said little Sally. “Mamma sings like an angel, I should think.”
Mamma put her hand on the child’s head. “We must all try and learn the angel’s song,—Glory be to God on high, and on earth peace, good will toward men!” she said.
CHAPTER XIII. LITTLE SALLY’S SICKNESS
WHY in the world doesn’t it light!” said Lucy, as she wasted match after match upon Ben’s candle.
Ben and Sally stood watching and waiting, and Gill sat with Jack upon his knee. He was pretending not to notice; but, by and by, Lucy got tired, and before Gill could know what she was about, she put the candle into his hand, and took the baby from him.
“Do light it, please, Gill,” she said. “I’ve tried and tried to no purpose. The wick must have been wet, I think.”
Gill had a comical expression upon his face. He did not expect the laugh to turn upon him.
“Ah, well,” he said, “it is not the first time a man has fallen into the pit that ha had digged for others. You may fetch another candle, Lucy, for the night would wear away without a glimmer from this.”
“What a perfect cheat it is!” said Lucy, as she smelled the parsnip to make sure that it was not tallow, after all.
Jack wanted it for a plaything; but his mother said it would be the very way to make him grasp at the real candle, and so come to mischief and harm. The better way was not to meddle with even the semblance of that which would bring him to evil, however innocent the thing might be in itself; so the fictitious candle was laid upon the kitchen shelf, and Ben went up to bed by the light of one of Lucy’s “dips,” as she called it. The good woman could not get out of her old housewifely ways, and she stored up and melted the mutton-tallow, and had a long stick with wick twisted over it, and, every little while, she dipped ten or a dozen short candles to save the wax-lights, which she thought too good for common use.
Sally was not able to rise from her bed the next morning. She had taken a serious cold, and one of her lungs was badly congested. Her fever was raging for several days, and the doctor pronounced her a very sick child; and mamma thought the time had come when her little daughter would be called to rest above, and she and papa would be left here below to listen for the sweet voice that would surely speak to their hearts through the dimness.
There were moments when Sally’s mind wandered; but it always dwelt upon the beautiful things of nature. She spoke of the pretty blossoms, and of the birds and butterflies, and of God’s goodness in making such a bright world for us to live in; and it taught her parents the value of a pure and healthful training which would never lose its hold on the mind and spirit, though one had no control over one’s brain. It was very sweet to listen to the child’s words, as she lay at twilight with her burning hand clasped in her mother’s cool, soft palm.
“Are you an angel?” she asked, as the face of love bent gently over her. “How white and beautiful your forehead is! and you have blue eyes like the sky! Can you sing that song which the shepherds heard when the child Jesus was born at Bethlehem? It begins:—
‘Glory be to God on high;’”
and then the little voice sang, tremblingly, the first faint strain. Mamma had to join, though she was almost choking with grief; for she thought, “Surely, my little daughter is going away from me to the world of light and joy!”
To the world of light and joy! and yet, sad, O mother, that seems so strange!
When some familiar tone made the little sick child say “mamma,” there was such a thrill of delight in Mrs. Reed’s heart! It was sweeter to be mamma than to be even an angel. Mothers will understand that well,—such mothers as feel the majesty and worth of the little immortal spirits that have been sent to them to nurture for God.
Thanks to the great Physician, and to the good doctor, and to mamma’s faithful nursing, little Sally was not long in bed; but was out very soon again with Ben and Gill, to learn something more in this lower world before she would be ready for the higher life and the higher teaching.
She seemed so happy to be able to breathe with free lungs, and to feel no pain. Every thing looked new and charming to her, and her feet were so light, that she almost flew over the meadow to greet Brindle and Flash. She carried her doll wherever she went, and shared with it every pleasure,—there had been such a long separation, almost a week, when she had taken no notice of her pet.
“Jennie has not forgotten me,” she said to Lucy, as she hugged her baby to her breast. “The little creature put out her arms at once when she saw me, though I had grown so thin and pale. It takes a great change to make babies forget their mothers, does it not, Lucy?”
“Yes, indeed,” replied the Scotchwoman, “my little man knew me when I had been a month out of his sight; but you haven’t lost much, lassie. The roses are blooming afresh on your cheeks, and your eyes are as bonny as ever.”
Dobbin heard the tones which he had missed, and whinnied for Sally to come to the barn and speak a word of greeting to him, and he ate from her hand, and moved his head up and down as if he would never tire of saying, “How d’ye do how d’ye do.” As for the dear old market-cart, Sally could have put her arms right around it, for joy, if it had been possible to hug and caress it; and many a word was spoken to the great wheels that had gone their way so often while she lay sick in the house, and had brought her such fresh oranges, and bananas, and figs, and other goodies.
CHAPTER XIV. MORE GARDEN TALKS
GILL was pulling turnips, and the little girl ran away from every thing else to see the roots come out of the ground. How large and white they were,—tinged here and there with violet! Gill took hold by the long leaves and shook the roots from the earth. He cut into the white flesh and tasted it,—“How nice and pungent it is!” ‘he said. “I like these better than the ruta-baga, or Swedish turnip. That is yellow in color, and has a stronger flavor; this is more delicate to the palate.” The turnips stood in rows in the ground, and made a very pretty appearance where the yellow blossoms of those that were kept for seed shone amid the green.
“They belong to the same family as the cabbages,” said Gill. “But what is very singular is that this branch has its best qualities partly hidden, while the cabbages flaunt theirs in open air.”
Ben laughed. “You funny Gill!” said he. “Don’t forget how good the white turnip is for chilblains,” said the Scotchman. “It cured Lucy’s hands last winter, and it cured my feet, and the remedy is so simple that I want every body to know it.”
“Let me see; you slice it, do you not?” asked Ben.
“Yes; cut it in slices, and put salt upon them, and as the juice runs out, drain it into a bottle, and rub it upon the frozen parts.”
“I remember,” said Ben. “It was such a comfort last year.”
Gill held a large white globe in his hand. He seemed so proud of its beautiful shape. Then he showed the children a long root that he called a ‘tankard.’ “There are a great many varieties of the white turnips,” he said, “and also of the yellow. They tried to make a sort of meal of the Swedish turnips, for man and for cattle, by pressing out the juice and grinding the root; but it would not keep long enough to pay.”
“I wonder if they could make good johnny-cake of it!” said Sally.
“Not quite like corn meal,” said Gill.
“Sheep eat turnips, don’t they?” asked Ben.
“Yes, we feed them to sheep, and hogs, and other animals, and we give them the tops sometimes; but they do not nourish them as the roots do.”
Gill left the turnip-bed, and went to the cabbages. These stood in soldierly array, looking top heavy, as the large bearskin caps make some of our military companies appear.
“What fine ‘drum-heads’ these are,” said Gill.
They were as round and firm as could be, with the many leaves folded in, one upon another, from the delicate tiny central, to the coarser outside covers. Gill cut off some of the heads from the finest stumps, and put the roots carefully aside.
“Why do you save those?” asked Ben.
“For seed,” replied the Scotchman. “I shall set these out next spring, and they will sprout, and run up and bear yellow blossoms and little round black seeds. I keep the seed from spring to spring, and sow a corner bed, and transplant from that to my great square patch the most promising of the shoots.”
“You always have splendid cabbages!” said Ben.
“I try to have the best of every thing. To be sure it takes care and labor; but then it does honor to Him who condescends to work with us.”
“You mean honor to God,” said little Sally.
“Yes,” said Gill. “His part is always performed to perfection, and it seems a great dishonor done to Him when the garden fails of its beauty, because of our carelessness or neglect.”
Ben was silent for a few minutes and very thoughtful. He remembered a period of drought in the summer time, when the little patch that was especially his own had suffered, merely because he was too lazy to carry water from the well, until the heavens should drop down moisture.
Presently he said, “Gill, you worked very hard in that dry time. Is that the reason why your vegetables have not dwindled away as mine did?”
“To be sure,” said Gill. “It was but for a little while that I had to put forth my own hand; surely I could do that much for him who is never weary of helping us.”
Ben was getting a good lesson concerning the gracious Providence that helps those who work with it. “I will never again think that I have nothing to do but to receive,” said the lad. “I will work with my might whatever my hands find to do.”
“That is a good resolution, my boy!” said Gill.
Sally was examining the adjoining bed of cauliflowers. Gill pointed out to the children the different varieties. “These all belong to the same family,” said he; “the common cabbage which is so generally in use on our tables, the more delicate cauliflower, the broccoli with its loose heads, the khol-rabi or turnip-stemmed cabbage, and the kale, with no head, but with purple, branching leaves.”
“Every body likes cabbage, it seems to me,” said Ben.
“Yes, in some form or other,” returned the Scotchman; “either boiled, or sliced raw, and eaten with vinegar, or made into sour-crout, as the Germans prefer it.”
“How is that?” asked Ben.
“They slice it and put a layer in the bottom of a barrel, and salt it well and pound it with a pestle, or tread it down with heavy boots, till the barrel is half filled with froth. Layer after layer of cabbage and salt are added, and bruised until the barrel is pretty nearly full, when some cold water is poured in, and the top of the barrel pressed down with heavy stones. The contents ferment for a week or two, during which time the brine is drawn off and new brine poured in; and, when it is perfectly clear, the mass is fit for use. It should be kept under the brine all the time.”
“It sounds like vile stuff,” said Ben.
Gill thought so too. “I never eat it,” he said; “but many people think it very nice. You know I told you that snakes were considered good food by the heathen Africans; and rats and dogs and caterpillars, are great luxuries with some nations.”
“Ugh!” ejaculated both the children.
“I must get some beets now,” said Gill, going to the other end of the garden, and unearthing the red and white roots.
“These white ones are as sweet as sugar,” said Ben. “We had some for dinner yesterday. You get sugar from these, do you not, Gill?”
“Yes, sugar is sometimes made from beets. The French have large manufactories for that purpose. They crush out the juice, and give the dry substance to the cattle.”
“Can we not make some beet-sugar, just to try?” asked Ben.
“Easy enough,” said Gill. “All we have to do is to take some of these white roots, wash them clean, and grate them to a powder, and press the juice from them and boil it down to a thick syrup, which will form sugar when cool. I will get Lucy to make the experiment for you.”
“Oh, thank you!—that will be very nice!” said the children.
“The French have so cultivated the sugar-beet, that it grows to a great size,” said Gill. “The red beet is used oftener for the table. We eat both the young roots and the tops for greens. Many people prefer them to spinach, Mrs. Beth says.”
“Don’t you like the bright-red beet sliced in vinegar? I do,” said little Sally.
“But vinegar is not good for children; the simplest food is the most proper for them,” said Gill.
“You think just as mamma does,” said Sally. “She never allows us to use pepper or vinegar or spice. She says when people are used to such things in their childhood, they are very apt to be intemperate in their eating and drinking when they grow up.”
“Mamma has reason and good sense in all things,” said the Scotchman. “You may well thank God for such a guardian. It is not every mother who knows how to govern her children in the matter of food for the body, as well as food for the soul.” Gill went and took a survey of his onions. The green, hollow stems of such as were allowed to run to seed, bore up round, brownish globes. The cylindrical leaves of the others had bowed themselves down to the earth, and the bulbs were ripe for the market. Gill pulled one, and showed the children how beautiful it was with its many delicate folds.
“If only it had not such a dreadful odor!” said Sally.
The little girl was always very choice in her words. She had been so much with her mother, and Gill was not like a common laborer; for he dignified toil by improving his mind while he cultivated the soil.
“The white onion is milder than the red,” he said. “It is nice when boiled in milk. We call it ‘silver-skin.’ There is a species of onion which is a native of Syria, and which was brought to other parts of the world. It is called ‘echalotte’ and has awl-shaped, hollow leaves, and purplish-yellow flowers, and very agreeable roots. And there is the leek, with its tall, purple stem, and large seed-balls, and mild bulbs, which some people prefer to our onions. And there is garlic, with its grass-like leaves, and white flowers, and the stem with a head composed of little bulbs, and the root divided into several parts called ‘cloves’ wrapped up in one common membrane. They are turned out of their blanket and strung together, and hung about the market-stalls.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve seen them,” said Ben; “but they taste like our onion, do they not?”
“They are stronger,” said the Scotchman. “In the old countries, especially in Spain, garlic is used in almost every dish. It is very easy to cultivate, as it is a very hardy plant. The doctors give preparations of this plant for various diseases, and the juice makes a strong cement for broken glass or china. Even its bad odor is useful; for it drives away snails and worms and moles, and other voracious creatures, if placed near their haunts.”
“I suppose onions are very nice,” said little Sally; “but it makes my eyes ache to stand so near this bed. I am going to play with Jack for a while now. You and Ben can pull the vegetables, if you like.”
“We shall have a resting-spell, after a while,” said Gill. “The potatoes are all in the bin, and I have only the pumpkins to get in; and then no more jogging to the the city, day after day, for a long time to come.”
“What will you do all winter?” asked Ben.
“I shall find work as the hours come, if it please God to spare my life,” said Gill. “I’ve never yet seen the time when there was nothing to occupy me. Even the ground, that seems to lie idle during the frost and cold, is secretly making ready for the spring, and I shall be as busy as it, with bulbs and plants and seeds, and plans for their future growth. I have to look to it that they do not sprout too soon in the cellar, and that they are in a proper state of dryness or moisture; and I must enrich the land, and arrange so that the crops shall not exhaust it. Never fear. I shall have enough to do without going every day to market in the old cart.”
CHAPTER XV. MRS. BETH’S REQUEST
THE Reed family were at breakfast. Lucy had peeled some potatoes, and baked them brown in the oven, and they were very delicious, the children thought,—so much better than with the skins on.
“Gill dug the potatoes while I was sick,” said Sally. “I am sorry, for we lost our lesson.”
“Maybe papa will tell us about them,” said Ben:
“I think you must know nearly as much as I do about this common vegetable,” said Mr. Reed. “Did you not help to plant it?”
Sally recollected that she and her mother were with Gill when he put the tubers into the hills, and that he told her how each little “eye” in the potato was a germ of life, and would sprout, and send up a new plant to spread out its green leaves, and display its purple and white blossoms and its little clusters of green seed balls, as big as some of Ben’s marbles. She and Ben went down cellar when they had finished their meal, to see the different varieties. The “early rose” and the “mercer” and the “pink-eyes” and the “blue-noses” and the “ladies’ fingers.”
“These big fellows Gill cuts in pieces to plant,” said Ben. “And he takes care to have two eyes or buds in each piece, for fear one might fail. He planted some seeds from the ‘apples’ as he calls the potato-balls, and there were tubers as large as a hen’s egg this first year. He says they will bear nice potatoes, fit for food, the third year. He has put them away as very choice seed.”
Mr. Reed told the children about the wild potato, which belongs to South America. He said, “It is a great blessing that it was transplanted to various parts of the world, and that it bears so well its exile from its native land, and gives nourishment to so many people.”
He told the children also that the potato plant is of the same family as the woody nightshade, which has purple flowers and red berries, and the garden nightshade, which has white flowers and black berries, and the deadly nightshade or belladonna, with its reddish flowers and purple berries.
“It is only the tubers that are wholesome,” said Mr. Reed. “The leaves and blossoms are narcotic, and produce a similar effect to the poisonous belladonna and henbane and stramonium.”
“Fortunately, there is very little danger of any body’s eating potato leaves, or flowers; for both taste and smell are disagreeable,” said Ben.
Mamma called the children. “It is too damp down there for Sally,” she said.
Papa had but a moment for them, but it was long enough to give them a few more facts about potato starch, and potato yeast and bread and cheese.
“Cheese! potato cheese!” exclaimed the children.
“Yes,” said papa. “The potatoes must be mashed to a paste, and curd and salt added, and some other ingredients, and the whole pressed together in a mold.”
Gill was off to market. The old cart was heaped-up—baskets of turnips and carrots, parsnips, beets, and potatoes on the bottom; and above these the great drum-heads and the yellow pumpkins.
Dobbin felt brisk and cheery as he trotted along in the fresh autumnal air, and the Scotchman was as blithe as a lad of seventeen, who looks only upon the bright side of life. Gill was thinking of the old country far away, where he used to play among the heather, and of the day when he first met bonny Lucy in the dingle. He cast no regretful looks across the waters to the old home and the former times; but he thanked heaven that he and Lucy and Jack were under this free blue American sky, and that they had health of body and vigor of mind, and that they were all traveling toward the beautiful city that lies beyond the great sea. He touched the ripe vegetables with a gentle, almost a caressing hand. “Well done!” said he. “Well done! The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and you have made good use of sun and air and rain, and here you are in the perfection of your beauty. I am proud to call you mine.”
His words seemed to impress him strangely. He thought of himself in connection with this produce that he was bearing away to market.
“Am I ripening for the great harvest?” said he. “Will the Master look upon me with approving eye, and say, ‘Well done! well done! ‘”
Gill’s heart was full of sweet trust. He was trying to do the very best that he could, and he knew that the blessed Saviour would do all the rest for him, and that God would count it as his own righteousness. This was what made him so blithe as he jogged along toward the market-place.
“Tib” did an unusual thing as she heard the familiar “whoa” outside the door. She shook the folds of her black silk gown, and tripped along in her white satin slippers to meet him, as if she knew that he would not come very soon again, and as if she wanted to do him all the honor she could by ushering him in. For you must know that it is always a beautiful courtesy when we open the door for a guest, rather than leave it to a servant to do; and I suppose you have learned long, ago that it is true politeness to accompany a friend to the portals of your house, when he must leave you, and bid him adieu, as he goes out from under your roof. “Adieu,”—that is a precious prayer in a word,—think of it always when it escapes your lips, and be sure that it comes from your earnest heart. “I commend you to God, who is able and willing to take care of you.” That is what it means.
Mrs. Beth made Gill drink from her tin coffee-kettle, and gave him a buttered roll to eat. She and Tib vied with each other in hospitality. He thought he had never seen her with such light in her eyes as on this morning; but then you must remember that his own soul was particularly bright and sunny, and we often see the reflection of ourselves in other faces. That is a good thing to know, for it will lead us to take especial care as to what is within us; for we must surely desire the very best and happiest reflection. Nobody likes an ugly image of himself. I want to sit again, and again, when the photographer shows me a disagreeable picture, and I always turn away from my mirror when it does not give my very best expression. I wonder if one can not have the very best expression all the time, if the heart is full of sweet and pure and holy thoughts. It is worth trying.
Gill did not stop long in the market. It was never his way to loiter after his errand was finished. He put the baskets of vegetables upon the bench around the stall, and the crisp green cabbages and purple kale and nice cauliflowers upon the table, and turned to go away; but Mrs. Beth had another word to say. She took off her spectacles, and wiped them, and put them on her nose again. Then she lifted Tib upon her knee and stroked gently the creature’s head.
“If any thing should happen to me,” said she, “I should like for Tib to have a good home where they will treat her as one of the family. She’s been a faithful companion to me, and I should feel easy about her if you will promise to take her to the farm, and care for her, if she ever needs other care than mine; will you?”
To be sure the Scotchman said, “Yes,” for he knew that Sally would go almost wild with joy over such a cat as Tib; but he wondered all the way home what was the matter with the old market-woman that she should be so eager to provide a home for her pet. Not all the way home, for when he had reached the first few rods of the last mile there was a poor man by the wayside half dead from fatigue, and Gill helped him into the cart, and talked to him the rest of the way, so that Mrs. Beth faded quite out of his mind. The man was old and very feeble, and had no friends. He had been a soldier, and had outlived all who loved him,—all but One. We can neither outlive Him, nor his boundless love. It was that almighty and everlasting Friend, who sent Gill to lift him into the cart at the very moment when his own strength had failed him. The children ran to meet Gill as he drove into the yard. They saw the old gray head, and had pity. They walked beside the soldier as Gill led him to a seat in the kitchen, and talked pleasantly to him as Lucy refreshed him with a cup of tea, and a biscuit, and the old man blessed them, and called them “God’s angels.” How beautiful a name!
Mamma came out with her arms full of clothing, and said that she would give him shelter and food, until he could be taken to the “Home.” That was an institution not far away for aged and poor men. But you should have heard little Sally, as she talked to the old market-cart, rehearsing its good deeds and giving it a well merited praise.
“You dear old body!” said she, as she brushed away the dust preparatory to moving in from the corn-crib, with her little family. “I don’t know what you haven’t done in your life, and what you haven’t been! Ever since I was born you’ve been going, going, with a great burden on your back,—not your own burden either, but every body’s else,—carrying food for hungry mouths, and bringing home good things for us; and you’ve been such a splendid house for Jennie and me, and such a grand church for us all,—don’t you remember? under the apple tree by the fence, when we sang that hymn of praise. And to-day, you’ve been,—what do you call it? an—am—ambulance, to bring the sick soldier in, and now you are my home once more, and my baby and I are going to live here always, always, for I love you better than any thing in the world, next to mother and father and Ben, and Gill and Lucy and Jack.” Lucy brought out the old comforter, and spread it on one side of the cart floor, and put Jack upon it with his playthings, and left him with Sally; and Gill and Ben got some of the white beets, and were pressing them and boiling them over the kitchen fire to see what sort of sugar they would make. They told Sally; but she preferred her housekeeping, and was too tired with moving, she said. “She could taste the sugar when it was ready.”
Lucy was stuffing a turkey for dinner. She had mixed the bread-crumbs and water, and put in a little salt, and an egg, and some sweet marjorum, and pepper, and summer-savory; and had plumped out the creature with it, and sewed up the openings with strong linen thread, and put a link of sausages around the neck, and laid it in the dripping-pan to roast. The poor old man sat looking on, and thinking of the time when he had a home of his own, and a wife to get good cheer for the table, and sons and daughters round about the board when the viands were smoking.
“All gone now,” he muttered to himself, “all gone,—wife, and children, and home.”
But Lucy caught him up there in his speech.
“The home is waiting,” she said, “with the wife and children in it,—waiting for us all. What if the wife and children have gone a little while before us? To be sure the heart may be sick with its yearning after them; but it is a sickness that is good for us, since it weans us from the things of this world.”.
“You speak like my Mary,” said the old man. “She had always a holy sermon on her lips.”
“And you seem like my dear old father, who used to dandle me upon his knee when I was merry, and sing sweet, sacred songs to me when the evening came on, and I was content to be quiet for an hour,” said Lucy. “He has gone, and my oldest sister and my little brother, and the home is all the brighter and more attractive for it. Gill and baby and I shall try to follow.”
So they talked together, while Gill and Ben were absorbed in their sugar-making, and Sally and Jack and Jennie kept house in the old cart.
When Mr. Reed came from the city at night, he had a great, square sheet, folded, and sealed with a wafer, and addressed simply:—
“Gill the Scotchman.
“At Mr. Reed’s.”
It had been sent to the office, just before the cars left, and all the letter said was,—
“Come for Tib.
“Mrs. Beth.”
Of course, Gill was off betimes next morning, taking the old soldier to the Institution on his way. He went directly to the pleasant room, under the French roof, where the one window looked out upon the sweep of houses and spires, and up to the deep, fathomless sky. The plants were fresh and green upon the stand, and a new rose had just blossomed, filling the room with its fragrance; but the old market-woman sat by the window with her head upon her hand. She had lost the bloom of the previous day, and looked withered and weary.
“I’m tired of the market-place,” she said. “I think I shall be permitted to go to my husband and my baby before long; but I could not go easily until you had taken the cat. Thank you for coming so soon.”
Gill tried to persuade her that she was only slightly ailing, and that she would be out again by to-morrow; but she held Tib in one long, close embrace, and then put her in the cradle and turned her back, while Gill took the cat down stairs and drove away.
She had nothing more to live for now. Not that she had lived for this little animal alone,—Mrs. Beth was gentle and kind to every thing and every body; but her days were fulfilled, and God took her up to be with himself and her beloved ones, and somebody else sat in the stall by the old broken lantern. Tib mourned for a a little while, and seemed lost in the new place, but soon grew content; for she had the same old cradle, and Gill and the market-cart, which she had long been accustomed to. She liked her new mistress, and Ben and Jack, very much indeed. Mr. and Mrs. Reed and Lucy petted her, and Dobbin and Flash and Brindle allowed her to get almost under their heels and purr about them.