LITTLE Sally stood in the midst of the tomato-vines, eating a great scarlet “love-apple,” as she would insist upon calling it.

“That is what it used to be called,” said Gill. “You can just as well say it, if you like.”

The child smacked her lips over the delicious fruit. “‘Tis better than an apple when one is thirsty,” she said. “The leaf looks like the potato-leaf, does it not, Gill?”

“And well it may,” the Scotchman answered; “it belongs to the same genus. The potato and the tomato and the eggplant, are near relations.”

Ben laughed. “How funny you are, Gill,” said he. “You speak of these things just as if they were people.”

“Well, God has set them in families, and they are kind and agree together, and seem almost like people to me,” returned Gill. “You know I live among them, and talk to them and they to me. They speak marvelous things to me sometimes.”

The children looked amused. “What does the tomato say to you?” asked Sally.

“It says—‘I have come from South America, in my beautiful scarlet and orange dress. I love my own country with its snow-capped mountains, and its great rivers, and its fertile lands; but I thought I might as well travel to other parts of the earth, and let other people know my worth. One has not always the most honor in one’s own land. I lose a little of my acid and brisk flavor by coming away from home; but I gain in size and beauty by the care that is taken of me.’”

Ben made a face as he touched the leaves. “They have a vile odor,” he said.

“Let the leaves go,” said Gill, “and think of the good fruit. Never speak of faults, if you can help it; but rather find out every good quality. I think the tomato-vine very beautiful, as I train it against the trellises, and watch the green leaves spreading broader and broader, and the yellow blossoms in thick bunches, and then the fruit with its bright, shining skin. In Italy, England, and America, and in many other parts of the world, it is now considered a great luxury. We can eat it as Sally does, as if it were an apple; or, we can slice it, and have only salt upon it, or vinegar, or sugar, just as people fancy; and we can stew it, or bake it, or use it as a sauce for fish and meats. There never was a vegetable that we can employ in so many ways.”

Gill picked the ripe fruit very carefully and put it into baskets. “Mrs. Beth’s mouth will water when she sees these,” he said. “They are nicer than ever, it seems to me.”

Then he picked some of the egg-plant. He had famous skill with this. The vines had come to great perfection. The children had watched them from the beginning, and had noticed their oval cottony leaves, and the large white and purple flowers, and the violet and yellow and white fruit, for Gill had every variety. He told the children that in India it is served up with sugar and wine, or simply sugared water, and in the south of France with olive oil.

Sally liked the white fruit which looked like a pullet’s egg, but Ben preferred the large violet-colored, that Lucy sliced and fried brown in butter.

Gill said, “One must be careful about the white, for there is a species resembling it, that is poisonous, and some people have confounded it with the harmless thing.”

The children followed the Scotchman as he left the egg-plant, and walked amid the rustling corn, and gathered the green ears.

“I feel as if I were in the cool woods, when I get here,” said Sally.

The tall plants were high above her head, and the broad leaves shaded her delightfully, and she liked to hear the crisp sound as Gill and Ben broke the ears from their stalks.

“I put the little grains into the hillocks myself, remember, Gill,” said the child.

“Yes, indeed, you were a great help to me, for I could cover it with my hoe as you dropped the corn, and we got on very fast indeed.”

“Don’t you know how we came out here every day, brother, to see if the grains had sprouted?”

“Yes.”

“And how pleased we were when the first tiny blade came through the earth?”

“Yes,” said Ben, “and we wondered how it could have strength enough to push off the brown coverlet and put its head out of bed.”

“After it saw the light it shot up fast enough,” said Gill, “and it put forth leaf after leaf, and now here we are in this great forest, we who stood upon the bare ground dropping the tiny kernels, and shutting them up in their prison houses,—oh, it is wonderful! so wonderful!” Gill lifted his hat reverently as he said this, and looked up to heaven, in grateful recognition of the Almighty Friend who maketh all things to grow for the use of man.

It impressed the children very sweetly, to see this devout spirit in the Scotchman. It was better to them than any words could have been, and they were sure not to forget it. By and by Gill spoke, as he stood by his full basket, and held a fine ear of corn in his hand. He had parted the husk, and the fresh, milky rows looked out upon Ben and Sally, and the silk tassel hung gracefully at the end.

“What riches in you!” said Gill, as if addressing the grain itself,—“johnny-cake, and hominy, and mush or hasty pudding, and farina, and hulled corn, and samp, and many another nice, palatable dish for the table.”

Then he touched the stalk, and the husks, and continued his speech,—“And you give us sugar, and potash, and writing-paper, and mattresses. Well is it that you have come from your wild home in Paraguay, since you make us so happy and comfortable.”

“I did not know that we could get all these things from corn,” said Ben.

“And I should never have known it, if I had been content to plant and eat, and never ask a question, or look into a book, as some people are satisfied to do,” said Gill. .

“Thank you for telling us,” said Sally. “I must go now and look after my baby; she may be in all sorts of mischief, though I left her asleep in the cart. She’s getting big enough now to stand, but the boards are too high for her to fall over,”—and away went the little girl to her matronly charge. She felt as much care for her doll, as Lucy did for Jack.

It is a beautiful virtue in these little women, that they have the mother love even when they are nursing their rag babies. A child that watches and yearns over her doll, smiling when she conceives it to be well and happy, and crying for its imaginary ills and sorrows, will make the truest and most tender of mothers when there is a living baby in her arms to call forth her joy or her pity.

“Coming, pet,” said Sally, with her arms stretched toward the cart where her “little Jennie lay kicking and crowing,” as she said to Lucy who stood at the wood-pile as she passed.

The child made quick steps, and, climbing into the old vehicle, held her baby to her bosom with as much delight as if she had been parted from it for an age.

“God bless her!” said Lucy. “One of these days I shall see her a good wife, I am sure, with as dear a pet as my little Jack, to care for and to love.”

“We shall have to move,” said Sally to her infant, as if it quite understood all “Gill will be here after this house in a minute, and I must look up another home. You needn’t cry, dearie, I know the prettiest little cottage by a brook, and I think we can get it. We’ll try, at any rate.‘Tisn’t pleasant to move; I should like one house always, but your grandmamma says people used to live in tents, and wander about a good deal oftener than you and I have had to.”

Sally’s cottage was the corn-crib, and the brook was the trough outside the door, where the cattle drank.

The water came from a spring, and was always fresh, and bubbling over with a sort of musical sound. The little girl loved to hear it. She called it her piano, and sang songs to its accompaniment as she rocked her baby, or held her quietly upon her lap.

When Gill came to harness Dobbin, she sat in the door of her cottage and called to him.

“We’re living over here now, Gill,” said she. “We shall want that house again, when you can spare it. This is very well, but we like that a great deal better. You and Ben must come and visit us here, and tell Lucy, if you please, to bring little Jack over. The baby and I are lonesome in our new house.”

Ben laughed. “How funny little girls are!” he said. “Sally acts as if her play were real life. I do believe she would cry her eyes out, if any thing should happen to that doll of hers.”

“I know somebody that makes as great a fuss over a whistle, or a kite, as any little girl over a rag-baby,” said Gill.

Ben perched himself upon the great rock in the corner of the barn-yard, and pulled a piece of willow from his pocket.

“I should not have thought of it, but for you, Gill,” he said. “I can make a very nice whistle indeed, now,—almost like a flute.”

The bell rang to call them to prayers. “I am late for market this morning,” said Gill; “but I shall reach town before nine o’clock. I shall be glad when the fall vegetables are ready, and I can take them a little more leisurely, and not be afraid of their wilting.”