THE children had each a tin pail, which they filled with peas, and emptied into Gill’s large basket. How busy and happy they were in the early morning, amid the vines! The fresh green pods hung thick and full, and here and there was a delicate blossom of white, tinged with pink and purple.

“How pretty!” said Sally, picking a couple of flowers, and hanging them upon her ears, where they shone among her light-brown curls. Then she pressed the edge of a pod, and open sprung the doors, and showed the “seven little sisters, all dressed alike in pea-green,” and looking as happy and contented as could be in their narrow house. How they enjoyed their peep at the world, and their glimpse of little Sally Reed’s pretty plump face, I can not tell; but I know that the child was pleased enough, as she put her finger upon each round head, as a sort of gentle greeting to the pease children, who had never before looked outside their mother’s door.

Gill was full of life. He was glad to have the little people with him. Beside the help from their nimble hands, there was something refreshing in their cheerful prattle, and he was never weary of imparting what he knew; so that the big tongue and the little tongues were about as busy as the big hands and the little hands; and Gill and the children were all gainers, for a grown person forgets his knowledge unless he has somebody now and then to tell it to. Nothing can grow and flourish, if you shut it up from the light and air.

Thoughts as well as plants, need space for expansion, and should never be kept in a cramped and dark place. Gill told the children about the maritime pea, that grows wild upon the sea-shore, both in Europe and in the Northern part of the United States.

“It is like our cultivated vine in form,” he said, “but has large reddish or purplish flowers, in racemes or clusters. The seeds, as the peas are called, are bitter and disagreeable, but in times of scarcity have been used for food.”

“People eat almost any thing when they are hungry, starving hungry, I mean,” said Ben. “Do they not?”

“Yes, indeed, we don’t know what it is to lack bread. God has given us such a plenty in our country.”

“Do you like pea-soup, Gill?” asked Sally.

“When I can not get green peas,” said the Scotchman. “They make that mostly in winter. You know we get split dried peas at the grocer’s. You have to soak them over night, and boil your soup two hours at least, to have it nice. The dried peas are freed from the husks and split in a mill. When they are young and green, it takes very little time to cook them, not more than fifteen or twenty minutes, and you season them for the table with butter and salt and pepper, and a pinch of white sugar, and I don’t want a better vegetable. There is a kind which has a soft pod without the leathery lining. It is boiled pod and all, as we cook kidney beans.” Gill opened a pod, and showed the children why these that they were picking could not be eaten. He was never in too great haste to stop his work for a minute, if there was any thing to explain. “You’ll find the other sort in the old country,” he said.

“I’ve picked six kettles full already,” said little Sally, as she emptied her pail into the two-bushel basket.

“That’s enough,” said Gill. “It is good heaped-up measure, you see. We must get the beans now; they and the peas won’t quarrel, for they belong to the same family; though I’m sorry to say that brothers and sisters and members of the same household are not always as kind and gentle to each other, as they ought to be.”

“Gill,” said Ben, “do you recollect when I fell over the fence last summer and bruised my upper lip, and you ran for the pea-vines, and bound some fresh green leaves upon the bruise, and the swelling all went down, so that there was no soreness nor scar?”

“Yes, pea-leaves are good for that.”

Mr. and Mrs. Reed saw the children as they looked from their chamber window. “I like to have Ben and Sally up in the early morning,” said the mother. “There’s nothing better for health than to shake off sleep, and get out with the sun and the birds.”

“What a plight Sally’s clothing will be in, though,” said the father. “The vines are so wet with the dew.”

“Never mind that,” said Mrs. Reed.

“The child knows enough to dress for the occasion; and I’ll warrant, she will be all right, when she comes in at prayer time,—she’s such a neat little thing.”

Lucy was milking Brindle and Flash. She was the smartest creature in the world, and always helped Gill on market-days. She tied Jack in a little chair in the old cart, so that he could just peep over the edge, and see the cows. It amused the baby to watch the white streams and to hear the pleasant music as the milk flowed into the tin pail. Lucy would have a tin pail for the milking. “‘Tis nicer to keep clean than wood is,” she said. “I scald it, and put it out in the sun, and it is fresh and sweet; but wood will soak, and get a stale odor after a while.”

Gill led the children to the poles where the beans were climbing. The green tendrils crept up and clasped the firm support, and the leaves clustered thickly around, and the white and scarlet blossoms, not unlike those of the pea in form, shone prettily against the dark mass, and the pods in various stages of growth hung in little bunches.

“Pick only the young, tender ones,” said Gill. “Mrs. Beth shall never say that I take poor, tough produce to market. The pods should be brittle, and break clear of strings. When they are too old, you have to cut away half to prepare them for cooking, and that is a waste.”

“The leaf is not as pretty as the pea leaf,” said Sally, “but it looks something like a little heart, so I think I prefer it.” Gill smiled,—Sally had a way of talking that was very womanly for her age. That came from being so much alone with grown people, and no little sister to share her play and her prattle. Ben was in her eyes almost a man. She looked upon him as next to her father in wisdom. Of course, he never played with her as little girls play together, with dolls and beads, and patch-work; and when Sally was in the house, mother was her chief companion.