THE summer advanced, the weeks came and went, came and went so swiftly. Ben and Sally and Gill had a constant succession of business, for Mrs. Beth plied them diligently. She must have green gooseberries and currants for tarts, and the little fingers were often among the shining round balls, and the long links with the beads upon them. And she wanted strawberries, and early-pears, and summer sweetings, and all sorts of melons. Whatever Gill could gather from orchard or garden, Mrs. Beth would find a market for.

The children called Gill’s lessons to them part of their regular school instruction, and Mr. and Mrs. Reed said, “It was worth more than the general school teaching, because it was so freely given, for the mere love of imparting.”

Ben wished to know where the currant-bushes came from, and Gill said, “They grow wild in woods or thickets, in various parts of Europe and America; and we cultivate them in our gardens because the fruit is so agreeable and healthful. The juice of the ripe currant is a useful remedy in obstructions of the bowels, and in fevers it furnishes a grateful and cooling drink.”

“I know that,” said little Sally. “I remember how delicious it tasted last summer when I was sick. Mamma made what she called ‘currantade,’ and nothing could have been nicer.”

“Then we can press out the juice, and add an equal weight of loaf sugar, and boil it down to a jelly and keep it for the winter; and it helps us when we have colds and coughs,” said Gill.

“Yes, and mother puts it between thin loaves of cake, to make jelly-cake,” said Sally; “and she pours boiling water on the jelly to make a syrup for the baked pudding, which Ben and I like so well; and she sends glasses of the jelly to the sick, whenever she hears of any body who wants it.”

“And father had some currants pressed for wine, don’t you remember?” said Ben. “He’s going to keep it as long as he can. He says it will be far better twenty years from this time, and it is not like the poisonous stuff which the distillers make, and which brings such sorrow and disgrace upon the people who drink it; though father says it is wiser and better to take no wine at all, except in sickness, and when the doctor orders it for old or feeble persons.”

“Even the currant-bush is good for something,” said Gill. “The inner bark is boiled in water, as a remedy for jaundice, and other diseases.”

Ben did not like the taste of the black currant. It is disagreeable to some people, but it is said to be useful in cases of sore throat. Indeed it has been called the “quinsy berry.” It grows to the size of a hazel-nut, in Siberia, and is made into wine and jelly, and “rob,” or syrup. The leaves are fragrant, and make a pleasant beverage, and the young roots furnish a medicine for eruptive fevers. Ben asked Gill about the dried currants that are sold at the grocer’s.

“These are small grapes,” said Gill.

“They are imported from the old country, and are known there as ‘Corinth raisins’.”

“Gooseberries are harder to pick than currants,” said Sally; “the bushes have so many thorns, they tear my hands.”

“Put your gloves on,” said Gill, “or be careful how you take hold. You can draw a branch away with one hand, and pick with the other.”

“I think people are very foolish to eat green gooseberry tarts,” said Ben. “The berries are so much nicer when they are fully ripe.”

Gill thought so to; but he said there was no accounting for tastes. For his own part, he would never eat snakes; but the savage Africans would devour them with a hearty relish. The children made a little expression of disgust; and, having finished their task, Gill put the berries in a cool place until the morning; and Ben and Sally went to give Jack a ride in the old cart. It was a great help to Lucy to have them look after and amuse the baby for an hour or two; and the little fellow was perfectly delighted when Sally appeared at the kitchen-door.

Children like the companionship of their kind. That is the reason why. the mother of a large family finds her task easier than when there is but one; for the little creatures depend upon each other, and are always diverted and contented.

Sally was like an old woman in her nursing,—she was so tender and thoughtful of Jack. She spread a worn shawl over the hay in the cart lest the child should get it in his eyes by the jolting, and she put cushions round him to prevent his being hurt by a sudden bump; for the little dumpling would roll and tumble about with every motion.

What a merry time they had in the lane that led from the barn to the field! Ben drew the vehicle, and Sally pushed, chirruping all the way that Jack might know how near she was; for the baby was quite shut off from a view of her and Ben by the deep sides of the cart.

That is often the way with us, some one drawing us, and some one pushing us,—invisible loved ones. If we can not see them, we seem to hear the voices, and we are passive in their hands, and glad to be as a little child, without care, or without responsibility.

Baby Jack liked best, however, to see Sally’s curly head, as she peeped over the back of the cart; and when she and Ben clambered up and got in to sit beside him on the cushions, and show him pictures from Mother Goose, or sing pretty songs, or bring their play down to his tiny capacity, he was forgetful even of mother, who came often to the kitchen door to listen and know whether he was crying for her.

Crying, indeed? Not he. In his fat fist he held a cracker to try his two pearly teeth upon, and Sally had a cup of milk in the “corner cupboard,” as she called one part of the cart, so the baby could not be hungry.

It was pretty to see how generous he was with his morsel, holding it up to Sally and to Ben, after every nibble of his own little mouth. There was no satisfying him unless they would put their lips down to make believe, and would say “good, good.”

Ah me! if only this free spirit would cling to us through life! Pleasures are always sweeter when we share them with others. Baby Jack made the right beginning when he pressed part of his cracker upon his young playmates.

When the evening drew nigh, and the old cart stood in its place with the thills upon the stone wall, the young turkeys made it their roost. It was in vain for them to try to fly to the high branches of the butternut tree, where their ancestors perched.

“I am glad to see that you aspire to the very topmost bough,” said their mother. “There’s nothing wrong in that, if you are willing to rest patiently in a more lowly place until you are fitted for this dignity. Many a one has broken his neck, by trying too lofty a flight before his wings were in a condition to sustain him. Be humble, my dear children, and you will be pretty sure to attain your proper station.”

The little things listened attentively, and watched to see what their parents would do; and, to set them an example, the old turkeys, both father and mother, hopped upon the cart, and composed themselves to sleep as contentedly as if they were at the very summit of the tree. Then there was such a fluttering and chirping among the young brood, and such emulation as to who should be the first to imitate the parents. Pretty soon, by dint of great perseverance on the part of the little turkeys, and encouragement on the part of the old, all were settled for the night, some on the thills, and some on the edge of the boards that formed the body of the cart, and the stars looked down upon a very happy and contented family.