“I remember,” said Ben. “It was such a comfort last year.”
Gill held a large white globe in his hand. He seemed so proud of its beautiful shape. Then he showed the children a long root that he called a ‘tankard.’ “There are a great many varieties of the white turnips,” he said, “and also of the yellow. They tried to make a sort of meal of the Swedish turnips, for man and for cattle, by pressing out the juice and grinding the root; but it would not keep long enough to pay.”
“I wonder if they could make good johnny-cake of it!” said Sally.
“Not quite like corn meal,” said Gill.
“Sheep eat turnips, don’t they?” asked Ben.
“Yes, we feed them to sheep, and hogs, and other animals, and we give them the tops sometimes; but they do not nourish them as the roots do.”
Gill left the turnip-bed, and went to the cabbages. These stood in soldierly array, looking top heavy, as the large bearskin caps make some of our military companies appear.
“What fine ‘drum-heads’ these are,” said Gill.
They were as round and firm as could be, with the many leaves folded in, one upon another, from the delicate tiny central, to the coarser outside covers. Gill cut off some of the heads from the finest stumps, and put the roots carefully aside.
“Why do you save those?” asked Ben.