|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.
It impressed the children very sweetly, to see this devout spirit in
the Scotchman. It was better to them than any words could have been, and
they were sure not to forget it. By and by Gill spoke, as he stood by
his full basket, and held a fine ear of corn in his hand. He had parted
the husk, and the fresh, milky rows looked out upon Ben and Sally, and
the silk tassel hung gracefully at the end.
“What riches in you!” said Gill, as if addressing the grain
itself,--“johnny-cake, and hominy, and mush or hasty pudding, and
farina, and hulled corn, and samp, and many another nice, palatable
dish for the table.”
Then he touched the stalk, and the husks, and continued his
speech,--“And you give us sugar, and potash, and writing-paper, and
mattresses. Well is it that you have come from your wild home in
Paraguay, since you make us so happy and comfortable.”
“I did not know that we could get all these things from corn,” said Ben.
“And I should never have known it, if I had been content to plant and
eat, and never ask a question, or look into a book, as some people are
satisfied to do,” said Gill. .
“Thank you for telling us,” said Sally. “I must go now and look after my
baby; she may be in all sorts of mischief, though I left her asleep in
the cart. She’s getting big enough now to stand, but the boards are
too high for her to fall over,”--and away went the little girl to her
matronly charge. She felt as much care for her doll, as Lucy did for
Jack.
It is a beautiful virtue in these little women, that they have the
mother love even when they are nursing their rag babies. A child that
watches and yearns over her doll, smiling when she conceives it to be
well and happy, and crying for its imaginary ills and sorrows, will make
the truest and most tender of mothers when there is a living baby in her
arms to call forth her joy or her pity.
“Coming, pet,” said Sally, with her arms stretched toward the cart where
her “little Jennie lay kicking and crowing,” as she said to Lucy who
stood at the wood-pile as she passed.
The child made quick steps, and, climbing into the old vehicle, held her
baby to her bosom with as much delight as if she had been parted from it
for an age.
“God bless her!” said Lucy. “One of these days I shall see her a good
wife, I am sure, with as dear a pet as my little Jack, to care for and
to love.”
“We shall have to move,” said Sally to her infant, as if it quite
understood all “Gill will be here after this house in a minute, and I
must look up another home. You needn’t cry, dearie, I know the prettiest
little cottage by a brook, and I think we can get it. We’ll try, at any
rate.’Tisn’t pleasant to move; I should like one house always, but your
grandmamma says people used to live in tents, and wander about a good
deal oftener than you and I have had to.”
Sally’s cottage was the corn-crib, and the brook was the trough outside
the door, where the cattle drank.
The water came from a spring, and was always fresh, and bubbling over
with a sort of musical sound. The little girl loved to hear it. She
called it her piano, and sang songs to its accompaniment as she rocked
her baby, or held her quietly upon her lap.
When Gill came to harness Dobbin, she sat in the door of her cottage and
called to him.
“We’re living over here now, Gill,” said she. “We shall want that house
again, when you can spare it. This is very well, but we like that a
great deal better. You and Ben must come and visit us here, and tell
Lucy, if you please, to bring little Jack over. The baby and I are
lonesome in our new house.”
Ben laughed. “How funny little girls are!” he said. “Sally acts as if
her play were real life. I do believe she would cry her eyes out, if any
thing should happen to that doll of hers.”
“I know somebody that makes as great a fuss over a whistle, or a kite,
as any little girl over a rag-baby,” said Gill.
Ben perched himself upon the great rock in the corner of the barn-yard,
and pulled a piece of willow from his pocket.
“I should not have thought of it, but for you, Gill,” he said. “I can
make a very nice whistle indeed, now,--almost like a flute.”
The bell rang to call them to prayers. “I am late for market this
morning,” said Gill; “but I shall reach town before nine o’clock. I
shall be glad when the fall vegetables are ready, and I can take them a
little more leisurely, and not be afraid of their wilting.”