CHAPTER XI. GILL’S ROSES AND CANDLES.
FASTER than even the wheels of the old market-cart could go round, the summer went by with its rich treasures of vegetables and fruit; and now the autumn had come, and Gill and the children were in the midst of the late produce. Gill was pulling carrots, and Ben helped him in his toil; and Sally kept time to their labor with the tinkle, tinkle of her little silver tongue.
“What beauties!” said she, as the golden spirals came out of the black earth, “and what pretty feathery leaves they have!”
“Yes,” said Gill. “No wonder the ladies used to wear them for feathers. To my taste they are much prettier. Pity they wilt so soon! As long as they are fresh they are elegant.”
“They are the most beautiful leaves in the garden,” said Ben, closely observing the delicate filagree; “the leaf of the parsnip is something like them, but coarser.” Gill was eloquent in his admiration. “When they first shoot up, they are like fine ferns,” said he. “I’ll cut off the thick end of this root, and put it into a shallow vessel with water, and it will unfold its leaves, and thus you can have green things all through the winter.”
“Thank you; that will be lovely!” said Sally. “My Aunt Martha puts it in a white or pink vase, and sets it in her window, and it looks beautiful.”
“Gill, will you please tell us where the carrot comes from?” said Ben.
“It is a native of Britain,” said the
Scotchman, “When it grows wild it is small and dry and white and strong-flavored; but if we take pains to cultivate it, it loses the disagreeable taste and is mild and sweet, and of a pale straw-color, or r rich golden-yellow. It is excellent as a flavor for soups, and for beef-stews; but people do not like it much as separate dish It is used more to feed horses and cattle, than for the table.”