“Yes, sugar is sometimes made from beets. The French have large manufactories for that purpose. They crush out the juice, and give the dry substance to the cattle.”
“Can we not make some beet-sugar, just to try?” asked Ben.
“Easy enough,” said Gill. “All we have to do is to take some of these white roots, wash them clean, and grate them to a powder, and press the juice from them and boil it down to a thick syrup, which will form sugar when cool. I will get Lucy to make the experiment for you.”
“Oh, thank you!—that will be very nice!” said the children.
“The French have so cultivated the sugar-beet, that it grows to a great size,” said Gill. “The red beet is used oftener for the table. We eat both the young roots and the tops for greens. Many people prefer them to spinach, Mrs. Beth says.”
“Don’t you like the bright-red beet sliced in vinegar? I do,” said little Sally.
“But vinegar is not good for children; the simplest food is the most proper for them,” said Gill.
“You think just as mamma does,” said Sally. “She never allows us to use pepper or vinegar or spice. She says when people are used to such things in their childhood, they are very apt to be intemperate in their eating and drinking when they grow up.”
“Mamma has reason and good sense in all things,” said the Scotchman. “You may well thank God for such a guardian. It is not every mother who knows how to govern her children in the matter of food for the body, as well as food for the soul.” Gill went and took a survey of his onions. The green, hollow stems of such as were allowed to run to seed, bore up round, brownish globes. The cylindrical leaves of the others had bowed themselves down to the earth, and the bulbs were ripe for the market. Gill pulled one, and showed the children how beautiful it was with its many delicate folds.
“If only it had not such a dreadful odor!” said Sally.