THE OLD MARKET-CART.

BY Mrs. F. B. SMITH,

Boston:

G. T. Day Co.

1870

Original

Original

Original

THE OLD MARKET-CART.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. GILL.

CHAPTER II. DAISIES AND THISTLES.

CHAPTER III. THE PEASE FAMILY.

CHAPTER IV. GILL’S GARDEN TALKS

CHAPTER V. MRS. BETH AND HER CAT

CHAPTER VI. BABY JACK

CHAPTER VII. STRAWBERRIES.

CHAPTER VIII. HOME LOVE

CHAPTER IX. GARDEN RICHES.

CHAPTER X. MRS. BETH S HOME.

CHAPTER XI. GILL’S ROSES AND CANDLES.

CHAPTER XII. THE CHILDREN’S GUESTS

CHAPTER XIII. LITTLE SALLY’S SICKNESS

CHAPTER XIV. MORE GARDEN TALKS

CHAPTER XV. MRS. BETH’S REQUEST

CHAPTER I. GILL.

IT stood with its thills upon the low stone wall that separated the barn-yard from the house-yard. There were wedges behind the wheels to keep the cart from rolling back, for it was little Sally Reed’s baby-house just now. She had brought an armful of hay from the barn and spread it upon the floor of her little oblong room, and had put the three-legged milking-stool in one corner, and there she sat nursing her great rag-baby. She felt very grand indeed, up there,—the mistress of a house in the air, and the mother of so precious a child as her black-eyed, black-haired Jessie. How she loved that little bundle of rags, which seemed to her warm heart a living thing and beautiful! and how she loved the old cart, and enjoyed the hours when it was resting!

Whatever has done good service, is entitled to rest, and the old market-cart was no idler. Its strong wheels had often been in swift motion, and many a bundle had it borne safely to the desired destination.

Gill looked upon it with a sort of affection. He was Mr. Reed’s farmer, a Scotchman by birth, and a good-natured, honest, kind-hearted man. His figure was tall and lank and awkward; but such a genial face shone out from under bushy, yellow locks, that little Benjamin and Sally Reed thought him almost handsome. His hair seemed to them quite like the glory which artists put around the heads of their saints, and they never dreamed of criticising Gill’s aspect. To them he was simply “Our Gill;” and when children say this, their heart is in the expression. The Scotchman had been with Mr. Reed ever since Ben and Sally were born, and their world would have been very strange and imperfect without him. Their father was away at business all day in the city, three miles distant, and Gill managed the land—only twelve acres—and made it bring forth enough for family use, and a surplus for the market. He was such a good steward that he took the same interest in the place as if it were his own; and he would have cut off his right hand rather than have proved unworthy of the trust reposed in him.

Gill was in the field hoeing, while Sally occupied the cart; and Ben sat upon a large rock that was in a corner of the barn-yard and served as a salt-lick for the cattle,—a lump of the white substance being kept there for the animals to go to at pleasure. The boy was shaping a handle for his hammer, and was talking with Sally about the virtues of his two-bladed jack-knife, which he was trying for the first time. The barn-door was open, and they could see Dobbin standing in his stall eating, preparatory to a trot to town. Dobbin was a plump creature, with a shaggy mane and tail, and long ears that made people say, “He is the son of a jack-ass;” but that is no disgrace to a horse. When it is said of a lad who is vicious and stubborn, and does not try to overcome an obstinate temper, which is partly inherited from a wicked father, it is a term of reproach or contempt. Dobbin deserved only praise. Good, patient, hardworking Dobbin! Always ready to come and go at Gill’s call,—to take a brisk pace toward the market-place with the heaped-up vegetables behind him; or to carry the bags of grain to the mill; or to hold Ben and Sally on his back, and give them a jaunt up and down the road while the Scotchman was getting the evening mash ready for the animal’s supper. Dobbin also earned his rest, as well as the old cart.

Little Sally hushed her baby to sleep, and laid it down upon the sweet hay. I can not say that dolly had done any work that would merit her repose; but then little babies are only meant to eat and sleep, and gather strength for labor by and by. The toil comes surely enough to most of them in after life. I’m not saying this with any feeling of regret. Oh, no; for “Work is worship,” if it is the work that God designs for us to do, and there is the sweetest pleasure in such worship. The most miserable people I have ever known are those who have nothing to do.

Sally felt that she must find something to occupy her, the moment she had finished her task of hushing the baby. So, while it lay sleeping, she clambered over the edge of the cart, and ran to the kitchen door. A chair was turned down across the sill, and Gill’s little child of nine months old was sitting upon the floor on the other side.

“Mind Jack,” said Lucy, as Sally stepped over, pretty near the little hand that was grasping at the patch of sunlight before him. “I put up the chair to keep him from creeping out; he’s getting a pert little fellow.”

“Give me a doughnut, please, Lucy,” said Sally. “I’m so hungry!”

Lucy was Gill’s wife, who did all the house-work, and the little Jack made a foreign soil like home to the emigrants, who were content to stay under the sky which had first smiled upon their bonnie laddie.

Sally took the nice brown ball from the good housewife, and stepped over the chair again. She gave two or three peeps through the slats, to make Jack crow, and then away she went to find Gill.

The baby pursed up its tiny mouth to cry, as he lost sight of her. He loved Sally so dearly!

“Never mind, little man,” said the mother, leaving her “biggin,” as she called the oat-meal porridge-cup which she was washing, and lifting the child to her shoulder, from whence he could see the little girl’s pink frock in the field, not far away.

Gill was bending to his labor, but now and then he stood erect and looked toward the farm-house, to catch a glimpse of Lucy and the “little man,” to sweeten toil. It makes work so light when one does it for those whom he loves.

“Why do you hoe so often, Gill?” asked Sally. “Won’t the things grow without?”

“Oh, yes, but other things will grow—weeds and things that are not wanted. You see this, don’t you?” pulling up a dockweed, and showing its long tap-roots. “Well, if I didn’t watch and pull, watch and pull all the time, I should have it thick enough pretty soon.”

“Isn’t it good for anything?” asked Sally, noticing its lance-like leaves, “I think this is what Lucy picks sometimes for spinach.”

“Yes, some people like it,” said Gill; “and the doctors have dockroot ointment, and dockroot powder, and dockroot liquid. They know what ‘tis good for, I suppose; but I can’t have it spreading every where among my crops. Then there’s this ragweed; if I let it alone, it will choke out every thing else. To be sure, the birds like the seed, but I have other mouths than theirs to fill.”

“And here’s a mullein, Gill, shall I pull it up?”

“I think your little hands would find it tough work; let me manage it.”

“It seems a pity to pull it up, and throw it away to wilt. What a long, hairy stalk it has, and what pretty yellow flowers, and how woolly the leaves feel,—just like flannel!”

“You can boil them in lard and make an ointment of them, to soften and soothe with. And you can steep the young leaves in water for cough mixtures.”

“You know a great deal about plants, don’t you, Gill?”

“That’s pretty much all I do know. I live among them, and I study them in the books, and out of the books. I like to study them; there’s no better learning than to look into the things that God has made.”

“What’s this?” asked Sally, pulling up a slender green stem, with long “spider legs” branching out from point to point of the stalk, until it looked like a miniature pine tree.

“That is what they call the field horsetail,” said Gill, “but a prettier name is low pine, or pine-weed, as some say. There’s another kind with a long stem of a light-brown color, with a darker-colored sheath at each joint, and, at the top of the stem, a head shaped like a pine cone. You find it on low, damp ground, and among the meadow grass. People fancy that it hurts horses, but Dobbin has eaten quantities of it with the hay, and isn’t any the worse.”

“I hope nothing will ever hurt Dobbin,” said Sally.

“Here’s my enemy, I meet it on every hand,” said Gill, twisting up a tuft of foxtail grass.

Sally admired the hairy brush at the top of the stem. “It does look like a fox’s tail,” she said.

CHAPTER II. DAISIES AND THISTLES.

I’M going into the meadow now for a while,” said Gill. “Would you like to go with me? I have a good deal to do there to get up the useless roots.”

The little girl was ready to go wherever Gill went. He told her so many pleasant things about the natural object’s around them, that it was better than school, she thought. It was playing and learning at the same time.

The beautiful ox-eye daisies dotted the grass. Sally was delighted; but Gill had no mercy on them. He grasped the tall stems, and the large white blossoms fell prostrate to the ground. “You see,” said Gill, “if I don’t uproot these pretty things, they’ll take all the strength out of the soil, and choke out the good, sweet grass; and then what’ll Brindle and Flash do for feed, and where will you and Ben and the rest of us get milk and butter?”

Ben came along with his hammer nicely mended. He was very proud of the new handle which he had made.

Gill said it was well done, almost as well as if he had made it himself, and quite wonderful for a boy nine years old.

“Nine years and six months,” said Ben. At that stage of his life he could not bear to cut off a single day.

“And I’m eight,” said Sally. “I’m nearly as old as brother, I come within three inches of being as tall as Ben.”

“I’ll help you pull weeds,” said the lad. “I can cut them with my jackknife.”

“It will do no good if you leave the roots,” said Gill. “These daisies are wonderful to spread,—one root will have sixty or seventy stalks, and the stalks branch out on all sides, and bear any quantity of seed.”

“They’re lovely,” said Sally, “it seems a pity to destroy them.”

Every little child loves the fine “ox-eye.”

It stands up amid the green, so attractive and beautiful, with the pretty yellow center, and the delicate white petals.

The children wade in the meadow grass, and fill their little hands with daisies, and feel very rich as they run home with them to mother.

“I do not see why they are called ‘ox-eyes,’” said Ben.

“Nor I,” said Gill. “People take strange fancies sometimes. There’s a small cloud that is seen at the cape of Good Hope, once in a while before a dreadful storm. They call that an ‘ox-eye.’ They say it is of that form and size, when it first appears, though it soon grows and overspreads the whole heavens. These flowers do look something like, with the great round pupil, come to think of it.”

Ben tried in vain to get up the roots. The stems broke off in his hands, leaving the roots firm in the ground.

“I’ll have to take them after a rain,” said Gill. “That will loosen them a little. Here’s another tough affair, this Canada thistle. I must put my leather mittens on, before I touch it, or I shall get well pricked. It carries its weapons in its leaves.”

“They’re as thick around the edges as the pins in my pocket cushion,” said Ben, taking out a little leaf made of pasteboard, covered with green velvet, and stuck closely with pins. “See how nice I keep your birthday present, sister.‘Tis always in my jacket pocket next my heart.”

Sally looked pleased. “I’ll make you another when that is worn out,” she said.

Gill tugged at the thistle. By and by up it came at a lusty pull; but the Scotchman landed plump upon the ground. That made sport for the little people, and Gill joined them in their mirth.

“You’re just what you mean, ‘austere’ or ‘harsh,’” said Gill, shaking his fist at the plant, and making believe angry, as he arose to his feet. “You stick your sharp spears into me, and then throw me flat upon my back, without reference to my size, or my age; but I’ll get the better of you yet. You can not stand here and scatter your downy seeds in the air, to fall and vegetate and spring up to make trouble for me by and by. Wait till the autumn comes, and I’ll get my spade and take up every mother’s son of you.”

“The blossom is pretty,” said Sally, touching the feathery purple with her finger tips.

“So it is,” said Gill. “What are common weeds in one country are rare, choice plants in another. Where this does not grow, it would be thought exquisite; but the Canada thistle is wide spread throughout the world.”

“‘Tis enough prettier than the cactus that mother takes such care of,” said Ben.

“Oh, yes, there’s nothing graceful in that plant, with its thick, bristly body. To be sure the blossom is very brilliant; but I like a flower that is set off by graceful green leaves.”

“Where does the cactus belong, Gill?”

“In South America and the West Indies. There are ever so many sorts, but the ‘melon thistles’ are the most curious, with their deep ribs, and the spikes set all over them, and the juicy flesh that is pleasant and acid, and is eaten by the natives. There’s another species called the ‘grandiflorus.’ It is a creeping plant, and the flowers begin to open in the evening between seven and eight o’clock, and are in full bloom by eleven; but they are short-lived and fade away before the morning. It is also called the ‘night-blooming cereus.’ The calyx or cup is nearly a foot in diameter, yellow within and dark-brown without, and the petals are pure white, and the fragrance delicious.”

“That must be lovely.”

“Yes,” said Gill, “but to my eye the daisies and dandelions are just as pretty. God makes every thing beautiful.”

“Don’t you hate to pull them up?” asked little Sally.

“‘Tis not pleasant to see them withering upon the ground where they have stood upright and smiling and fresh; but then you know I must have a clean grass meadow, if I want the cows to thrive, and give rich milk and good butter. Maybe in the new earth the grass and the flowers will grow together, and not hurt, but rather help one another.”

Sally picked a golden dandelion and held it up to Gill. “It is like a little parasol,” she said.

“So it is. We never get tired of this beautiful yellow flower that dots the green. The French call it ‘dent de leon,’ or lion’s tooth, from the resemblance in the jagged leaves to the teeth of that animal. From this has come our word dandelion.”

“I hope I shall know as much as you do when I grow up, Gill,” said Ben.

“That would be little enough,” said the Scotchman. “I search the books whenever I have a minute to spare, and in that way I gather up a good deal in the course of the year; but it is as a drop in the bucket when I think how much there is yet to be learned. It is good of God to give us an eternity in which to study his works, this life is such a speck of time.”

“Is that what we are to do by and by?” asked Ben.

“I think so,” said Gill; “part of our life hereafter at least, to look into the wonderful things of creation, the things that we cannot see here, and that we have not leisure to learn about.”

Sally was running along by the fence which separated the meadow from the field. She espied the children’s delight, “butter-and-eggs,” as little people call it.

“We say ‘toad-flax,’” said Gill, examining the pale-green, narrow leaves, and light-yellow blossoms with a touch of deep orange. “The plant is something like the flax plant, and they say the blossom resembles a toad’s mouth.”

“I shall keep to butter-and-eggs,” said little Sally, “that is what all the children call it.”

“Dobbin is whinnying,” said Gill. “He has finished his hay, and I must be off to town. I have errands enough to do to-night, and I must be up betimes in the morning to pick beans and peas, and get them to market in season.”

“Wake me at four o’clock, if you please,” said Ben, “and I’ll help you.”

“And I will get up and help you,” said the little girl. “‘Tis so lovely out here in the morning. I’ll put on my old frock and my thick shoes, and mother will not mind the dew. I can dress nicely before breakfast.”

Dolly was aroused from her nap, and the hay and the milking-stool were removed from the old cart, and Dobbin stood between the thills, and Ben and Sally watched the wheels go round and round, as Gill drove out of the big gate, and away toward the city.

CHAPTER III. THE PEASE FAMILY.

THE children had each a tin pail, which they filled with peas, and emptied into Gill’s large basket. How busy and happy they were in the early morning, amid the vines! The fresh green pods hung thick and full, and here and there was a delicate blossom of white, tinged with pink and purple.

“How pretty!” said Sally, picking a couple of flowers, and hanging them upon her ears, where they shone among her light-brown curls. Then she pressed the edge of a pod, and open sprung the doors, and showed the “seven little sisters, all dressed alike in pea-green,” and looking as happy and contented as could be in their narrow house. How they enjoyed their peep at the world, and their glimpse of little Sally Reed’s pretty plump face, I can not tell; but I know that the child was pleased enough, as she put her finger upon each round head, as a sort of gentle greeting to the pease children, who had never before looked outside their mother’s door.

Gill was full of life. He was glad to have the little people with him. Beside the help from their nimble hands, there was something refreshing in their cheerful prattle, and he was never weary of imparting what he knew; so that the big tongue and the little tongues were about as busy as the big hands and the little hands; and Gill and the children were all gainers, for a grown person forgets his knowledge unless he has somebody now and then to tell it to. Nothing can grow and flourish, if you shut it up from the light and air.

Thoughts as well as plants, need space for expansion, and should never be kept in a cramped and dark place. Gill told the children about the maritime pea, that grows wild upon the sea-shore, both in Europe and in the Northern part of the United States.

“It is like our cultivated vine in form,” he said, “but has large reddish or purplish flowers, in racemes or clusters. The seeds, as the peas are called, are bitter and disagreeable, but in times of scarcity have been used for food.”

“People eat almost any thing when they are hungry, starving hungry, I mean,” said Ben. “Do they not?”

“Yes, indeed, we don’t know what it is to lack bread. God has given us such a plenty in our country.”

“Do you like pea-soup, Gill?” asked Sally.

“When I can not get green peas,” said the Scotchman. “They make that mostly in winter. You know we get split dried peas at the grocer’s. You have to soak them over night, and boil your soup two hours at least, to have it nice. The dried peas are freed from the husks and split in a mill. When they are young and green, it takes very little time to cook them, not more than fifteen or twenty minutes, and you season them for the table with butter and salt and pepper, and a pinch of white sugar, and I don’t want a better vegetable. There is a kind which has a soft pod without the leathery lining. It is boiled pod and all, as we cook kidney beans.” Gill opened a pod, and showed the children why these that they were picking could not be eaten. He was never in too great haste to stop his work for a minute, if there was any thing to explain. “You’ll find the other sort in the old country,” he said.

“I’ve picked six kettles full already,” said little Sally, as she emptied her pail into the two-bushel basket.

“That’s enough,” said Gill. “It is good heaped-up measure, you see. We must get the beans now; they and the peas won’t quarrel, for they belong to the same family; though I’m sorry to say that brothers and sisters and members of the same household are not always as kind and gentle to each other, as they ought to be.”

“Gill,” said Ben, “do you recollect when I fell over the fence last summer and bruised my upper lip, and you ran for the pea-vines, and bound some fresh green leaves upon the bruise, and the swelling all went down, so that there was no soreness nor scar?”

“Yes, pea-leaves are good for that.”

Mr. and Mrs. Reed saw the children as they looked from their chamber window. “I like to have Ben and Sally up in the early morning,” said the mother. “There’s nothing better for health than to shake off sleep, and get out with the sun and the birds.”

“What a plight Sally’s clothing will be in, though,” said the father. “The vines are so wet with the dew.”

“Never mind that,” said Mrs. Reed.

“The child knows enough to dress for the occasion; and I’ll warrant, she will be all right, when she comes in at prayer time,—she’s such a neat little thing.”

Lucy was milking Brindle and Flash. She was the smartest creature in the world, and always helped Gill on market-days. She tied Jack in a little chair in the old cart, so that he could just peep over the edge, and see the cows. It amused the baby to watch the white streams and to hear the pleasant music as the milk flowed into the tin pail. Lucy would have a tin pail for the milking. “‘Tis nicer to keep clean than wood is,” she said. “I scald it, and put it out in the sun, and it is fresh and sweet; but wood will soak, and get a stale odor after a while.”

Gill led the children to the poles where the beans were climbing. The green tendrils crept up and clasped the firm support, and the leaves clustered thickly around, and the white and scarlet blossoms, not unlike those of the pea in form, shone prettily against the dark mass, and the pods in various stages of growth hung in little bunches.

“Pick only the young, tender ones,” said Gill. “Mrs. Beth shall never say that I take poor, tough produce to market. The pods should be brittle, and break clear of strings. When they are too old, you have to cut away half to prepare them for cooking, and that is a waste.”

“The leaf is not as pretty as the pea leaf,” said Sally, “but it looks something like a little heart, so I think I prefer it.” Gill smiled,—Sally had a way of talking that was very womanly for her age. That came from being so much alone with grown people, and no little sister to share her play and her prattle. Ben was in her eyes almost a man. She looked upon him as next to her father in wisdom. Of course, he never played with her as little girls play together, with dolls and beads, and patch-work; and when Sally was in the house, mother was her chief companion.

CHAPTER IV. GILL’S GARDEN TALKS

WHEN the beans were all picked, Gill pulled some radishes and tied them in bunches. There were the spindle-shaped, and the turnip or top-shaped, white, red, and violet outside; but always white within, and so crisp and nice to the taste. Ben and Sally liked to eat them with salt and bread and butter. Gill told them that this vegetable is healthful, if one is temperate in its use. It is a gentle stimulant and anti-scorbutic. That is a big word; but you may as well learn that it means “against scurvy,” which is a skin disease, and very troublesome to the poor sailors when they have little to live upon excepting salt meats, and are without vegetables. Ben recollected what his mother had read to him about the sufferings of Dr. Kane and his men, when they went to the Arctic regions, and he thought how nice it would have been if they could have had plenty of Gill’s radishes. The Scotchman always contrived to have a succession of these roots, by sowing monthly. He took care that the soil should be loose, and deep. When the heat was great, he watered them often to keep the roots mild and tender. Somehow every thing that Gill planted or sowed came to perfection. Ben and Sally looked with wonder upon the tiny seed as it fell into the place prepared for it.

“It does not seem as if it would ever amount to any thing,” said Ben.

“We shall see,” said Gill; and, sure enough, up pierced the little, tender shoot, and grew to a rough stem of two or three feet high, if left to run to seed, with short hairs upon it, and toothed leaves, and flowers white or purplish in clusters; and, by and by, little pods like a cylinder in form, with a sharp point, and swelling into knots where the little round seeds lay.

The pod does not burst, as some pods do when the seeds are ripe. In China they extract oil from the radish seed, and use it for cooking. Gill told the children that the radish was brought originally from China and Persia. There is the wild radish, or charlock, which grows in our grain fields, and troubles the farmers very much. It has yellow flowers.

“Now for the asparagus bed,” said Gill. “That is all I shall carry to town, to-day.”

“‘Tis nearly time for me to go and change my dress,” said little Sally, “but I want to see you off with your load; and I want you to tell us about the asparagus, as well as of the peas and beans and radishes.”

“It cuts splendidly to-day,” said Gill, as he sent the sharp knife beneath the soil, and laid the tender shoots side by side upon the ground.

“This grows wild upon the pebbly beach near Weymouth, England, and in the island of Anglesey, in the Irish Sea; but its stem there is no larger than a goose-quill, and it grows only a few inches high,” said Gill. “You see what cultivation makes it. Here are these shoots, almost an inch thick; and when I allow them to run to seed, you have the beautiful plant four or five feet high, with the scarlet berries which Sally likes to string for beads and hang around her neck.”

“Yes,” said Sally, “and mother has the branches in the fireplace in summer, and hangs them upon the wall for the flies to alight upon.”

“You put coarse salt on the asparagus-bed, sometimes, don’t you?” asked Ben.

“Yes; the plant likes salt, as it comes from the sea-shore. When I make a bed for this vegetable, I let it lie three years before I cut any, and then it will bear for several years; and, in the winter, I keep it from frost by covering it with straw and litter from the barn.”

“Sally and I will be good farmers; will we not, Gill?” said Ben.

“‘Tis a good thing to know how the table-vegetables are raised, even if you always buy them,” returned the Scotchman. “‘Tis not showing a proper thankfulness to God to sit and eat and never think what a world of pains he has taken to give us such variety for the pleasure of the palate. I never wish to put any thing into my mouth without thanking the Divine hand that gave it, and I hope you children will remember always to do the same, and strive to learn all you can about every good gift that comes from above.”

“You forgot the lettuce,” said Sally. “You carry some of that, do you not?”

“Yes,” said Gill; “I’ll pull it on our way to the barn.”

The leaves were fresh and crisp, and bathed in morning dew. Gill selected the young plants, and left those that were in flower to sport their small, pale-yellow blossoms.

“It is narcotic and poisonous when in flower,” he said.

Little Sally asked, “What is narcotic?” and Gill told her, “Producing sleep or torpor. If one ate too much, it would benumb the brain, and, maybe, we could not rouse it again. All the senses would be stupefied, as when one takes an overdose of laudanum or of opium, and the person might die.”

“I’m always sleepy when I eat lettuce,” said Ben; “and I’ve often wondered at that.”

“The doctors get a soothing medicine from this plant.” said Gill. “The stem is cut, and the milky juice is obtained, and it hardens into little reddish-brown lumps which are sold at the drug-stores. They call it “lettuce opium” sometimes, but they say it is not so harmful as the real opium.”

“Where does that come from?” asked Ben.

“From the poppy,” said Gill. “There is a species of poppy which yields it in large quantities. It grows wild in the south of Europe, and in parts of England; and it is cultivated in India, and Persia, and Asiatic Turkey. The people make a good deal of money out of it. When the plant is young, it is as harmless as the young lettuce, and is eaten as a pot herb. The opium is chiefly extracted from the seed-vessel after the flower has fallen. There are large fields of this poppy, in the countries I spoke of, and men and women go out and make little incisions, or cuts, in the capsule or seed-vessel. Then they leave it for twenty-four hours, and when they come again the juice stands in tears, and they scrape it off with blunt knives. You have heard of opium-eaters?” said Gill.—“Yes,” returned the children; “they are like drunkards, are they not?”

“Just as bad,” said the Scotchman. “When people get this habit, it makes such slaves of them that they seldom shake it off; but if they could know the process of opium-making, I think it might possibly prevent their eating the dirty stuff.”

“Tell us,” said Ben.

“The juice hardens like jelly,” said Gill, “and it is put into small earthen vessels and beaten with a pestle, and moistened now and then with saliva.”

“You don’t mean spittle!” said Ben, who had not forgotten the meaning of the word.

“Precisely so,” said Gill, delighted at the lad’s expression of disgust. “I see you will never care to eat the filthy drug. When it is of the proper consistency, it is wrapped in leaves and sent to market.”

“Ugh!” said little Sally, “don’t say any more about it.”

“We must remember that, under the advice and direction of a physician, it is of great benefit to mankind,” said Gill. “It is used in cases of severe pain, and of continued sleeplessness; but one should never tamper with any such poisons The doctor is the only fit person to administer it.”

Gill was half way to market when Lucy rang the “early bell.” You would not have known the neat little girl and boy who entered the breakfast-room, and gave papa and mamma the morning kiss. Sally had left her garden-shoes in the back entry-way, in a small closet, and had hung her wet frock in the sun to dry; and she had come fresh from the bath, with her cheeks as rosy as could be, and the damp curls brushed smoothly over her forehead, and clustering about her face. Her black, shining boots were laced over white stockings, and she wore a pure white dress and apron. It was a refreshing sight, and her father and mother commended her by saying, “How nice you are, little daughter!”

Ben also had his share of praise, and deserved it; for he had put away his soiled clothing, and appeared in a fresh brown linen suit, and his hands and finger-nails were as nice as if he had not been helping Gill all the morning.

Lucy brought Jack in to prayers. She seated the little fellow upon the carpet, and gave him a string of buttons to play with, and he had already learned that the buttons meant, “Now, my little man, you must be very quiet, and not disturb mother before she has had her lesson from the Holy Book, and her time of communion with God.” The baby understood what was expected of him, and he behaved much better than some people that I have seen in the church, which is the house of prayer.

Only the other Sunday I was almost afraid, there were so many thoughtless young people around me in the sacred place. They did not seem to listen at all when the Bible was being read; but they whispered and laughed together, as if they had come for a frolic; and, even when the people who wanted to be good were upon their knees before God, these wicked boys and girls sat with their faces close together, and their tongues busy with idle words, for which they must give account at last. I was so sorry! so sorry! I hope God will grant what I asked for them,—that they may repent of their sin, so that it may not be laid to their charge.

Ben and Sally were very attentive to the word of life, and their hearts and voices went up to their heavenly Father in earnest prayer for help and guidance through life.

The breakfast never tasted so delicious. They had worked hard enough to give them a good relish for Lucy’s brown bread and fish-balls, and toast and eggs.

CHAPTER V. MRS. BETH AND HER CAT

MRS. BETH was drinking coffee from a tin kettle, as Gill drove up to a side door in the market. She sat in her stall with her bonnet on her head, and her spectacles upon her nose, and her fat face as gleeful and jolly as one need wish to see. It was a pleasure to look at the woman; she put every body in a good humor by her own cheerfulness.

The stall was in the middle of the market-place, and was about twelve feet square,—perhaps not quite so large. There was a sort of table or platform, covered with crisp, yellow-green lettuce, and cresses, and spinach, and young beets with the tops for greens; and below this platform, running around on the outside of the stall excepting at the entrance or gateway, was a bench with baskets of vegetables; beans, peas, summer squashes, etc., etc. Up above were bars with hooks, and suspended from the hooks were red peppers, and garlic, and herbs, (or “medicine” as Mrs. Beth called it). At the gateway was a post with a broken lantern on the top. All around were other stalls with produce, and their salesmen or saleswomen, but nowhere was there a neater place, or a more attractive face, than by the old broken lamp that served as a beacon. Many a time it had lured Gill in the dimness of some cloudy morning; and yet he thought there was little need to light the lantern, so long as the beaming face of the woman was there. He wondered how it was that such multitudes of people hide their sunlight which is radiantly beautiful when it shines clearly through honest and earnest eyes.

He and Mrs. Beth were such fast friends! She watched for the head with the yellow hair, which the Reed children thought a halo; and she felt better all day after it had appeared to her; for Gill always left some Word of blessing that she could think of, and so break the weariness of sitting there hour after hour. She scarcely waited for him to jump from his cart, before she was at the door to lend a hand to the baskets.

“It is all bespoken, every thing that you bring,” she said to the Scotchman. “I could sell bushels on bushels more, if you had the produce. You see it makes all the difference in the world when the vegetables are picked fresh in the morning. They’re worth almost double then.”

“And I’m worth almost double for getting up to pick them,” said Gill. “When I lie in bed longer than I ought, I feel wilted, as the vegetables look when they’ve been long pulled. I remember when I was a little fellow, and my father used to take me out of bed, and set me upon my feet by the window, to hear the June birds sing; and, pretty soon, my eyes would fly open of themselves before sunrise, and I would tumble out of my nest, and run to listen to the early concert. It all comes back to me now, as I stand among the vines—the old home by the river, and the woodbine climbing up to my chamber, and the sweet sounds coming in, and my father and my mother talking to each other as they were dressing. I wouldn’t lose my morning hour for any thing.”

“Isn’t it queer to think of ourselves as little children?” said the old woman. “I often see a little girl, with a yellow frock and a blue apron on, and a great black cat in her arms, as she plays among the hay in the barn. You wouldn’t believe that this old gray Eliza Beth is she; but so it is, and there’s the black cat’s granddaughter at your feet.”

Mrs. Beth had spread a piece of carpet for her pet to lie upon. “I feel a great tenderness for that creature,” she said. “My old Black was such a playmate! she used to let me dress her up in my little baby sister’s clothes, and rock her to sleep in the cradle and she would walk upon her hind legs, as I held her fore paw, and played go to school. There’s something of the same spirit in this grand-kitten. She lets me do whatever I please with her.”

“Well, ’tis good to be young, and ‘tis good to be old,” said Gill. “I don’t care to go back to the early days, except in thought and memory. If we are doing our duty, we are every day nearing the better life; and if we reach that, we shall not look behind us very often, I think.”

There was not much time to talk, for the market was getting full of people, and Mrs. Beth had all that she could do to supply the demands of her customers. She sold every thing at a fair price. There was no higgling to get more than the produce was worth. “An honest profit is what will bring peace,” said she, “‘the peace that passeth all understanding.’ I’d rather have less money, and more of that quietness of conscience, which is a blessing greater than gold.”

The old market woman had the true philosophy; or, rather, the precious gospel principle that keeps this world from being a vale of misery. Her honest, upright soul dwelt amid beauty. Even there in the busy market-place, where most people could see only the perishable’ things of earth, this woman’s spirit beheld the light that comes down from above, and visions of good angels who love to minister to us here below, and, though dimly, the Face that shall be revealed to us by and by in all its wondrous majesty and brightness. Whatever Mrs. Beth did was done in view of this glory that was invisible to others; this cloud of witnesses who note the actions of men, and carry the record of a good deed up to the angels in heaven, where there is great joy over it. I wish we could all be ever conscious of these spectators, and of the interest that they feel in our progress toward God. I am sure it would do much to encourage and help us, when we have not such sympathy as we desire among our fellows, and when we stretch out heart and hand for some answering love and aid. And, more especially, if we see the Divine Face bending down toward us, there will be little need of earthly glory, or of earthly help. In the light of God’s countenance we must be strong, and happy, and satisfied.

However closely Mrs. Beth kept to her stall, Tib felt at liberty to take a wide range. When her nap was over, she shook her glossy black dress, and went lightly about the market in her white satin slippers. It was a marvel to her mistress how she could keep her dainty shoes so pure from soil; but there are those who walk amid the city’s mire and dirt, and yet are free from spot or stain. They need only to wash their feet, and are clean every whit. It is blessed to be of that number; to go with white garments down into the very pollution, and to come out of it undefiled, and to feel that it was because of the robe of Christ’s righteousness upon us, that gives virtue by its contact with the sinner, and never takes soil.