THE OLD MARKET-CART.

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.

[Original]

“You’re a beautiful creature, Tib,” said Eliza Beth. “You hunt out and pursue mischief, and put an end to it. I can tell by your contented purr that there is one thief less in the market since you have been away from me. Only keep on ferreting out evil, and destroying it, and you’ll be a blessing to your day and generation.”

Tib stretched her delicate limbs and sprang up into her mistress’ lap, and composed herself for the rest that was well earned. Now and then she licked the hand that lay near her, and it was a pleasant caress to the widowed and childless woman.

“I have but you in the world, Tib,” said Mrs. Beth. “We’ll stand by each other to the end, will we not?”

The cat blinked at her with its yellow eyes, as if to say, “There’s never a doubt of that,” and then fell asleep to dream of the two little mice over in Susan Mack’s stall; the two little mice that escaped an hour ago through a hole in the floor, and would come out at night to nibble at the crumbs of cheese that were scattered here and there.

People smiled to see the good-natured market-woman, with the sleeping cat upon her lap.

“That’s a soul to be trusted,” said a gentleman, as he passed the stall. “Any body who is tender to an animal, must have a good heart toward all mankind, it seems to me.”

CHAPTER VI. BABY JACK

THE summer advanced, the weeks came and went, came and went so swiftly. Ben and Sally and Gill had a constant succession of business, for Mrs. Beth plied them diligently. She must have green gooseberries and currants for tarts, and the little fingers were often among the shining round balls, and the long links with the beads upon them. And she wanted strawberries, and early-pears, and summer sweetings, and all sorts of melons. Whatever Gill could gather from orchard or garden, Mrs. Beth would find a market for.

The children called Gill’s lessons to them part of their regular school instruction, and Mr. and Mrs. Reed said, “It was worth more than the general school teaching, because it was so freely given, for the mere love of imparting.”

Ben wished to know where the currant-bushes came from, and Gill said, “They grow wild in woods or thickets, in various parts of Europe and America; and we cultivate them in our gardens because the fruit is so agreeable and healthful. The juice of the ripe currant is a useful remedy in obstructions of the bowels, and in fevers it furnishes a grateful and cooling drink.”

“I know that,” said little Sally. “I remember how delicious it tasted last summer when I was sick. Mamma made what she called ‘currantade,’ and nothing could have been nicer.”

“Then we can press out the juice, and add an equal weight of loaf sugar, and boil it down to a jelly and keep it for the winter; and it helps us when we have colds and coughs,” said Gill.

“Yes, and mother puts it between thin loaves of cake, to make jelly-cake,” said Sally; “and she pours boiling water on the jelly to make a syrup for the baked pudding, which Ben and I like so well; and she sends glasses of the jelly to the sick, whenever she hears of any body who wants it.”

“And father had some currants pressed for wine, don’t you remember?” said Ben. “He’s going to keep it as long as he can. He says it will be far better twenty years from this time, and it is not like the poisonous stuff which the distillers make, and which brings such sorrow and disgrace upon the people who drink it; though father says it is wiser and better to take no wine at all, except in sickness, and when the doctor orders it for old or feeble persons.”

“Even the currant-bush is good for something,” said Gill. “The inner bark is boiled in water, as a remedy for jaundice, and other diseases.”

Ben did not like the taste of the black currant. It is disagreeable to some people, but it is said to be useful in cases of sore throat. Indeed it has been called the “quinsy berry.” It grows to the size of a hazel-nut, in Siberia, and is made into wine and jelly, and “rob,” or syrup. The leaves are fragrant, and make a pleasant beverage, and the young roots furnish a medicine for eruptive fevers. Ben asked Gill about the dried currants that are sold at the grocer’s.

“These are small grapes,” said Gill.

“They are imported from the old country, and are known there as ‘Corinth raisins’.”

“Gooseberries are harder to pick than currants,” said Sally; “the bushes have so many thorns, they tear my hands.”

“Put your gloves on,” said Gill, “or be careful how you take hold. You can draw a branch away with one hand, and pick with the other.”

“I think people are very foolish to eat green gooseberry tarts,” said Ben. “The berries are so much nicer when they are fully ripe.”

Gill thought so to; but he said there was no accounting for tastes. For his own part, he would never eat snakes; but the savage Africans would devour them with a hearty relish. The children made a little expression of disgust; and, having finished their task, Gill put the berries in a cool place until the morning; and Ben and Sally went to give Jack a ride in the old cart. It was a great help to Lucy to have them look after and amuse the baby for an hour or two; and the little fellow was perfectly delighted when Sally appeared at the kitchen-door.

Children like the companionship of their kind. That is the reason why. the mother of a large family finds her task easier than when there is but one; for the little creatures depend upon each other, and are always diverted and contented.

Sally was like an old woman in her nursing,—she was so tender and thoughtful of Jack. She spread a worn shawl over the hay in the cart lest the child should get it in his eyes by the jolting, and she put cushions round him to prevent his being hurt by a sudden bump; for the little dumpling would roll and tumble about with every motion.

What a merry time they had in the lane that led from the barn to the field! Ben drew the vehicle, and Sally pushed, chirruping all the way that Jack might know how near she was; for the baby was quite shut off from a view of her and Ben by the deep sides of the cart.

That is often the way with us, some one drawing us, and some one pushing us,—invisible loved ones. If we can not see them, we seem to hear the voices, and we are passive in their hands, and glad to be as a little child, without care, or without responsibility.

Baby Jack liked best, however, to see Sally’s curly head, as she peeped over the back of the cart; and when she and Ben clambered up and got in to sit beside him on the cushions, and show him pictures from Mother Goose, or sing pretty songs, or bring their play down to his tiny capacity, he was forgetful even of mother, who came often to the kitchen door to listen and know whether he was crying for her.

Crying, indeed? Not he. In his fat fist he held a cracker to try his two pearly teeth upon, and Sally had a cup of milk in the “corner cupboard,” as she called one part of the cart, so the baby could not be hungry.

It was pretty to see how generous he was with his morsel, holding it up to Sally and to Ben, after every nibble of his own little mouth. There was no satisfying him unless they would put their lips down to make believe, and would say “good, good.”

Ah me! if only this free spirit would cling to us through life! Pleasures are always sweeter when we share them with others. Baby Jack made the right beginning when he pressed part of his cracker upon his young playmates.

When the evening drew nigh, and the old cart stood in its place with the thills upon the stone wall, the young turkeys made it their roost. It was in vain for them to try to fly to the high branches of the butternut tree, where their ancestors perched.

“I am glad to see that you aspire to the very topmost bough,” said their mother. “There’s nothing wrong in that, if you are willing to rest patiently in a more lowly place until you are fitted for this dignity. Many a one has broken his neck, by trying too lofty a flight before his wings were in a condition to sustain him. Be humble, my dear children, and you will be pretty sure to attain your proper station.”

The little things listened attentively, and watched to see what their parents would do; and, to set them an example, the old turkeys, both father and mother, hopped upon the cart, and composed themselves to sleep as contentedly as if they were at the very summit of the tree. Then there was such a fluttering and chirping among the young brood, and such emulation as to who should be the first to imitate the parents. Pretty soon, by dint of great perseverance on the part of the little turkeys, and encouragement on the part of the old, all were settled for the night, some on the thills, and some on the edge of the boards that formed the body of the cart, and the stars looked down upon a very happy and contented family.

CHAPTER VII. STRAWBERRIES.

WHILE the turkeys were having their night’s rest outside the farmhouse, and big people and little dreamed sweetly within, the strawberries lay in their broad bed, with their rosy faces upturned to the brilliant heavens. They were awaiting the coming of the dawn, and were whispering to each other, as they snuggled closely together, cheek to cheek, about the great event that was to happen in the morning.

“We are going to the city,” said the elder sisters, to the little ones that were half-hidden under the coverlet.

“We have to do our part in the world now that we are ready. Our kind Creator has given us wondrous opportunities for improvement, and we have made the most of his sunshine, and his showers. How we have drank in all his benefits! And now we, in our turn, are to bless others. We are to refresh the sick and fevered, and to make eye and heart brighten at our presence. You, dear little sisters, will stay at home for a while longer until you are perfected in the virtues that are needful to your success in an outside ministry. Think pleasantly and lovingly of us when we are gone, and try so to grow in goodness, that you may soon follow us on the mission that is appointed to all the worthy members of our family.”

The little ones were tearful in the darkness, but they did not break out into sobbing, for they knew that what God ordains is all right, and they were very glad that their sisters and themselves were to be sent on errands of cheer to mankind. Still it was natural enough, and by no means wrong to weep at the separation that must occur; so they clung to each other all the night, and the elders bent down and kissed them over and over again, and were so gentle and loving, and said such words of hope and cheer, that, when Gill and Ben and Sally came to the bed before the sun-rising, they said, “How bright and beautiful the strawberries look this morning! It makes one laugh to look at their glad faces.”

And, sure enough! the big ones were all ready for their journey, and the little ones seemed contented as they bade their sisters good-by, and crept under the coverlet to take one more nap before the sun should be up; for the very young need more sleep than the vigorous youth or maiden needs, we know.

“Aunt Maud can have nothing to do with strawberries; is it not a pity?” said Ben. “She says they make her skin prickle, and irritate her tongue and throat so that they itch dreadfully, and they give her a sort of fever, as the roses do,—that is very queer.”

“Not so very,” said Gill, when one understands that the strawberry belongs to the rose family.

“Does it?” said the children, in surprise, “we did not know that,—the leaves do look something like a rose-leaf.”

“Yes,” said the Scotchman. “Both the strawberry and the raspberry belong to the rose family, and people who are affected with the ‘rose cold’ are seldom able to eat these fruits. It must be a sad deprivation.”

“I should hate to be obliged to go without strawberries,” said Sally. “I think there is nothing so nice in all the world.”

“‘Doubtless God could have made a better berry, but doubtless God never did,’”, said Gill, who was fond of quoting whatever he had read, if it happened to please him.

“I know from whom you got that,” said Ben. “I heard mamma read it from Isaac Walton the other day.”

“He did not say it, though,” said Gill. “He took it from Doctor Boteler, but it is true enough whoever said it; for never was there a better fruit than the strawberry.”

Gill held up a stem with a cluster of the scarlet berries, and looked at them with admiration.

“How luscious they are!” he said, “and how beautiful, too, in form and color! See how the little yellow seeds contrast with the red pulp, and what a pretty green cup holds the fruit, and how gracefully the berry hangs from the stem.”

Gill was always eloquent over the productions of the earth. “They are our heavenly Father’s handiwork,” he said. “No wonder there is so much glory and perfection!”

The Scotchman took great pains with the strawberry-bed. He planted the roots in rows and hills, and when the creeping shoots made new stocks, he transplanted these to another place, never letting them run thickly together and form a tangled mass. His strawberry-vines were large and fine, and the triple leaves were broad and green, upon their long foot-stalk and in the midst of them shot up silky stems, with pure white blossoms, like snowflakes, at the top, and, by and by, the snowflakes vanished, and the little pale-green berries appeared, and grew, and grew, and changed into the perfect scarlet fruit which is so delicious of itself, and yet is varied by being eaten with cream and sugar, and by being made into jam and short-cakes and other dishes. It seems almost an insult to this lovely berry to add any thing to it, as if we thought it capable of improvement. For my part, I think it never so delicious as when it is eaten off the vines while the dew is upon it. Only it makes one feel a trifle sorrowful, if one sees in the dew the tears of the little sisters and the big, as if they wept at the thought of the separation that was to come. But, then, we must not expect all joy and sweetness in the things of this world. We ought to be willing to take the evil with the good. I mean what we call evil; for there is no evil for any of us in what comes from God’s hand. It must be all good to us, whatever it may seem to our poor, half-blind hearts and eyes.

Gill and the children had so many little wooden baskets filled with the rich, ripe fruit! It shone through the side-slits right temptingly, and was covered at the top with fresh, green leaves. The gooseberries and currants were none the worse for being picked over night. It would be different, by and by, when they should be softened and made ruddy by the ripening sun.

The turkeys knew enough to vacate the old market-cart before Gill came along with Dobbin, though one had the impudence to hop up, when the Scotchman’s back was turned, and stick his bill under a green leaf, and get one of the very nicest of the scarlet berries. Gill drove him away, and there was a great scampering, for the berry shone red in his mouth, and all the brothers and sisters wanted it—ill-gotten gains, though it was—and, after all, he had to keep such watch, and was so worried before he could get away by himself into a sly corner, that he had poor enjoyment of it I am sure. But then we must not forget that he was only a turkey, and, of course, knew nothing of the wrong of picking and stealing.

CHAPTER VIII. HOME LOVE

YOU need not suppose that Mr. and Mrs. Reed lost sight of their children altogether, because I am telling you so much about their hours with Gill. Oh, no! It would be a singular father and mother that could trust such precious plants as a little son and daughter, to any other culture and training than their own.

“It is good for the children to be out a great deal with nature,” said these wise parents. “Their bodies need the sun and air to make them thrifty and vigorous, and their minds and souls will be all the more healthy for this vigor of body.”

But then, at a certain call from the tongue of the bell, the little people left verdure and flowers and birds, and ran to the study where mamma sat with books and work around her. They made themselves very nice before they came into her gentle presence, and, as they entered the room, there was such a sweet recognition as all well-bred children must show, whenever they come before father or mother.

There is nothing so beautiful to see in all the world, as this loving respect and reverence to parents. I know a little boy and three little girls, close at hand, who always show it, and I am so well pleased with them that I wish to put them here in this book, that is to go out among other little people.

“Only four children that pay a proper respect and deference to their parents! Are these all that you know?” I seem to hear you ask.

Oh, no, not all, thank God! There are others in my mind, but very few so pretty and gentle in their manners as these to whom I desire to do honor, and whom I wish you to imitate. Ben and Sally Reed were like them.

Mamma was carefully and well dressed, and was polite to the little son and daughter too. That need not surprise you. Mothers are sent to be an example to their children; and Mrs. Reed felt this responsibility.

Parents should be like brother and sister to their young brood, when they are mingling familiarly and playfully with them, and like the divine Friend and Teacher, (I speak this very reverently), when they have to govern and guide; and children should look up to father and mother, as they would look up to their heavenly parent and never dare to say a rebellious or disrespectful word. It must be so very sweet for son or daughter, when it can be said of them, “They have never given me a pang.” I have known a mother to say this of a grown-up son, and I looked upon the man with a sort of envy; for I am sorry to remember that I was not so gentle a little girl as I might have been, and I am afraid I shall have to stand beside the many thoughtless children, instead of with Ben and Sally Reed, and with the pleasant four, and the few other dear ones whom I have in my mind. However that may be, we that have not done quite as well as we ought heretofore can only be very sorry for the past, and begin at once to amend our ways. This is all that a gracious God requires for any fault,—that we repent sincerely for it, and do as well as we possibly can for the future.

Ben and Sally were deeply interested in their studies, and in the course of reading which their mother had marked out for them; for young as they were, there were juvenile histories, and books upon the natural sciences that were adapted to their tender minds; and Mrs. Reed chose these rather than the simple stories which had in them no useful facts. She said, “It is just as easy to give the children a taste for the right sort of knowledge, as to cultivate in them a desire for a light and trashy literature.” So she taught them about real characters who have lived in the world, and talked to them of the riches that are upon the earth, and in the seas, and they were as happy as could be during school hours, and were almost always sorry when the time was over.

Mr. Reed had his opportunity with them in the evening. That was a very joyous time. There was so much of the day’s events, to be gone over on both sides! Papa made the most of every incident from which he could draw a moral; and the little children had more than they could possibly tell, and generally left a good deal for the next day. Often, after they were in bed, Ben would call quietly from across the dim hall,—

“Are you awake, sister?”

“Yes, Ben.”

“Well, we forgot to tell father something.”

Then he would say what it was, and Sally would call back again, “We must be sure to think of it in the morning.”

Mamma did not object to their speaking softly to each other in the dimness. It was pleasant to her to hear the little loving voices up above, as she sat below engaged in some household work of mending or sewing. She said to papa one evening, as the music of her children’s prattle came floating down to her, “I wonder if mothers, who have put their little children in bed, and themselves are left up and doing here below, ever listen for the pleasant voices from above? There can be no doubt that the precious ones are talking happily together, and it seems to me that if all others are deaf to the sound, it must reach a mother’s ears, and make her heart very contented and blessed.”

Mr. Reed looked at his wife with some surprise. “What made you think of that just now?” asked he.

“I can not tell, except that whenever Ben and Sally are speaking together in the dark, it gives me a pleasant feeling about the night that must come to all, both little and big; and I think, perhaps, if my children should be called to their last sleep before us, we might be comforted by the conviction that they have sweet companionship and communion.”

“I hope God will spare our darlings to be the joy of our old age,” said Mr. Reed. “We will try to train them in his holy ways, however, and then, whether they stay here or are called up to him, we shall be blest and satisfied.”

Ben had a little room that looked out upon the orchard, and he could hear the twitter of the birds as they awoke from time to time, and asked their mothers to tuck the feathers closer around them,—for, summer though it was, the tender young creatures wanted a warm shelter from the night dews. Then, in the very early dawn, the flutter of their wings as they made their morning toilet sounded through the open casement, and when they were quite dressed, there was such a burst of song as started the lad to his feet, and made him hasten out where every thing that had breath seemed to be praising the Lord.

Sally’s bed was a cot beside father and mother. She was the baby still, and it was sweet to them to keep her under their wing as long as possible. But, like the little birds, she was awake at the peep of day, and poured forth thanksgiving to him who had watched over her through the darkness. Then she and Ben went out to help Gill, or to speak to Dobbin, or to play amid the green until Lucy’s bell called to them to make ready for breakfast.

Dobbin always expected a visit before sunrise. Animals and children are very happy companions, and seem to understand each other well. This “son of a jackass” was a noble fellow, and stood upon his own merits, whatever his father was before him. He had such a genial nature, that his eyes would brighten, and his ears prick up for joy, when the little people stepped over the threshold of the barn, and he would give a pleasant whinny that meant to them, “Good morning, I am very happy to see you. I hope you have passed a refreshing night, and that the day will be one of great blessedness and peace to you.”

And the children would say: “How d’ye do, Dobbin? What an early breakfast you are having all alone here! If we could only eat hay, we would share it with you. I suppose you have to go to town as usual, and carry something to Mrs. Beth. No doubt she sits by this time in her stall, waiting for you and Gill to bring the fresh fruit and vegetables.”

Then Ben would take the curry-comb, and smooth the shaggy coat, and Dobbin would seem as pleased as a little child at being made so nice and respectable for the jaunt to the city.

“You must hold up your head,” Sally would say, “and let the city horses see that you are well-bred, and have nothing to be ashamed of; and, whatever you do, Dobbin, try and keep a sure footing in the slimy streets. ‘Tis dreadful to fall down in such mud and mire! I should be sorry if you came home with your nice coat soiled, and maybe an inward hurt that would be harder to get over.”

Sally did not know what a fine moral there was to her little speech, for every body that goes from the freshness and purity of a country home to the slippery places of the great and wicked city.

CHAPTER IX. GARDEN RICHES.

LITTLE Sally stood in the midst of the tomato-vines, eating a great scarlet “love-apple,” as she would insist upon calling it.

“That is what it used to be called,” said Gill. “You can just as well say it, if you like.”

The child smacked her lips over the delicious fruit. “‘Tis better than an apple when one is thirsty,” she said. “The leaf looks like the potato-leaf, does it not, Gill?”

“And well it may,” the Scotchman answered; “it belongs to the same genus. The potato and the tomato and the eggplant, are near relations.”

Ben laughed. “How funny you are, Gill,” said he. “You speak of these things just as if they were people.”

“Well, God has set them in families, and they are kind and agree together, and seem almost like people to me,” returned Gill. “You know I live among them, and talk to them and they to me. They speak marvelous things to me sometimes.”

The children looked amused. “What does the tomato say to you?” asked Sally.

“It says—‘I have come from South America, in my beautiful scarlet and orange dress. I love my own country with its snow-capped mountains, and its great rivers, and its fertile lands; but I thought I might as well travel to other parts of the earth, and let other people know my worth. One has not always the most honor in one’s own land. I lose a little of my acid and brisk flavor by coming away from home; but I gain in size and beauty by the care that is taken of me.’”

Ben made a face as he touched the leaves. “They have a vile odor,” he said.

“Let the leaves go,” said Gill, “and think of the good fruit. Never speak of faults, if you can help it; but rather find out every good quality. I think the tomato-vine very beautiful, as I train it against the trellises, and watch the green leaves spreading broader and broader, and the yellow blossoms in thick bunches, and then the fruit with its bright, shining skin. In Italy, England, and America, and in many other parts of the world, it is now considered a great luxury. We can eat it as Sally does, as if it were an apple; or, we can slice it, and have only salt upon it, or vinegar, or sugar, just as people fancy; and we can stew it, or bake it, or use it as a sauce for fish and meats. There never was a vegetable that we can employ in so many ways.”

Gill picked the ripe fruit very carefully and put it into baskets. “Mrs. Beth’s mouth will water when she sees these,” he said. “They are nicer than ever, it seems to me.”

Then he picked some of the egg-plant. He had famous skill with this. The vines had come to great perfection. The children had watched them from the beginning, and had noticed their oval cottony leaves, and the large white and purple flowers, and the violet and yellow and white fruit, for Gill had every variety. He told the children that in India it is served up with sugar and wine, or simply sugared water, and in the south of France with olive oil.

Sally liked the white fruit which looked like a pullet’s egg, but Ben preferred the large violet-colored, that Lucy sliced and fried brown in butter.

Gill said, “One must be careful about the white, for there is a species resembling it, that is poisonous, and some people have confounded it with the harmless thing.”

The children followed the Scotchman as he left the egg-plant, and walked amid the rustling corn, and gathered the green ears.

“I feel as if I were in the cool woods, when I get here,” said Sally.

The tall plants were high above her head, and the broad leaves shaded her delightfully, and she liked to hear the crisp sound as Gill and Ben broke the ears from their stalks.

“I put the little grains into the hillocks myself, remember, Gill,” said the child.

“Yes, indeed, you were a great help to me, for I could cover it with my hoe as you dropped the corn, and we got on very fast indeed.”

“Don’t you know how we came out here every day, brother, to see if the grains had sprouted?”

“Yes.”

“And how pleased we were when the first tiny blade came through the earth?”

“Yes,” said Ben, “and we wondered how it could have strength enough to push off the brown coverlet and put its head out of bed.”

“After it saw the light it shot up fast enough,” said Gill, “and it put forth leaf after leaf, and now here we are in this great forest, we who stood upon the bare ground dropping the tiny kernels, and shutting them up in their prison houses,—oh, it is wonderful! so wonderful!” Gill lifted his hat reverently as he said this, and looked up to heaven, in grateful recognition of the Almighty Friend who maketh all things to grow for the use of man.

The Old Market-Cart

THE OLD MARKET-CART.

BY Mrs. F. B. SMITH,

Boston:G. T. Day Co.

1870

[Original]

[Original]

[Original]