“Lucy makes splendid beef-stews,” said Ben.
“Mother tells us not to say splendid, when we speak of food,” said little Sally “She says ‘splendid’ is for the eyes, and not for the mouth.”
Ben corrected himself. “I meant delicious,—that is mother’s word for Lucy’s good cookery.”
“I cut up the carrots for Dobbin and Flash and Brindle,” said Gill. “They like them mixed with their hay. In the old country the deer are fed with the roots, and the tops are dried for hay.”
“The root is very sweet,—can we get sugar from it?” asked Ben.
“It does not give us sugar. People have tried to make it, but have not succeeded very well. It yields ardent spirits, which is a poor use to put it to; and I am sorry when any body turns it to such an evil purpose.”
“Pity!” ejaculated little Sally.
“I like the carrots best when they are waving their green plumes in the air,” said Gill. “They have pretty, innocent, white flowers, and rough, bristly seeds, and then there is the gold down below. Sometimes people make a syrup of the root for coughs, and sometimes they scrape it, and make it into a poultice for cancerous ulcers; and sailors have a sort of carrot marmalade for scurvy, when they are far away at sea, and cannot obtain fresh vegetables.”
“I didn’t know it was so useful a plant,” said Ben.
“We have to look at things all around to find out their real worth,” said Gill. “If you were to ask people what this was, most of them would say ‘a carrot,’ to be sure; but there would be nothing to them in the word except the yellow root before their eyes,—no picture in the mind, of the wild thing that was trained and cultured to shoot up green feathers, and flourish pure blossoms, and hide a golden treasure in the earth.”