FASTER than even the wheels of the old market-cart could go round, the summer went by with its rich treasures of vegetables and fruit; and now the autumn had come, and Gill and the children were in the midst of the late produce. Gill was pulling carrots, and Ben helped him in his toil; and Sally kept time to their labor with the tinkle, tinkle of her little silver tongue.

“What beauties!” said she, as the golden spirals came out of the black earth, “and what pretty feathery leaves they have!”

“Yes,” said Gill. “No wonder the ladies used to wear them for feathers. To my taste they are much prettier. Pity they wilt so soon! As long as they are fresh they are elegant.”

“They are the most beautiful leaves in the garden,” said Ben, closely observing the delicate filagree; “the leaf of the parsnip is something like them, but coarser.” Gill was eloquent in his admiration. “When they first shoot up, they are like fine ferns,” said he. “I’ll cut off the thick end of this root, and put it into a shallow vessel with water, and it will unfold its leaves, and thus you can have green things all through the winter.”

“Thank you; that will be lovely!” said Sally. “My Aunt Martha puts it in a white or pink vase, and sets it in her window, and it looks beautiful.”

“Gill, will you please tell us where the carrot comes from?” said Ben.

“It is a native of Britain,” said the

Scotchman, “When it grows wild it is small and dry and white and strong-flavored; but if we take pains to cultivate it, it loses the disagreeable taste and is mild and sweet, and of a pale straw-color, or r rich golden-yellow. It is excellent as a flavor for soups, and for beef-stews; but people do not like it much as separate dish It is used more to feed horses and cattle, than for the table.”

“Lucy makes splendid beef-stews,” said Ben.

“Mother tells us not to say splendid, when we speak of food,” said little Sally “She says ‘splendid’ is for the eyes, and not for the mouth.”

Ben corrected himself. “I meant delicious,—that is mother’s word for Lucy’s good cookery.”

“I cut up the carrots for Dobbin and Flash and Brindle,” said Gill. “They like them mixed with their hay. In the old country the deer are fed with the roots, and the tops are dried for hay.”

“The root is very sweet,—can we get sugar from it?” asked Ben.

“It does not give us sugar. People have tried to make it, but have not succeeded very well. It yields ardent spirits, which is a poor use to put it to; and I am sorry when any body turns it to such an evil purpose.”

“Pity!” ejaculated little Sally.

“I like the carrots best when they are waving their green plumes in the air,” said Gill. “They have pretty, innocent, white flowers, and rough, bristly seeds, and then there is the gold down below. Sometimes people make a syrup of the root for coughs, and sometimes they scrape it, and make it into a poultice for cancerous ulcers; and sailors have a sort of carrot marmalade for scurvy, when they are far away at sea, and cannot obtain fresh vegetables.”

“I didn’t know it was so useful a plant,” said Ben.

“We have to look at things all around to find out their real worth,” said Gill. “If you were to ask people what this was, most of them would say ‘a carrot,’ to be sure; but there would be nothing to them in the word except the yellow root before their eyes,—no picture in the mind, of the wild thing that was trained and cultured to shoot up green feathers, and flourish pure blossoms, and hide a golden treasure in the earth.”

Gill always grew poetic over his vegetables, there was nothing common-place to him in the garden plat that was thick with the variety of growth. His soul could feel the sublime mysteries all about him, and from the time that he put spade or plow into the earth, at early spring, until he gathered in the late ripe harvest, he was filled with wonder at the silent work that was going on. He thought it such an honor that the unseen Power, who gives the increase, should make him a co-worker. A co-worker with God! It was a great thought with Gill, as he intelligently planted and watered. He did not say to himself,—“God could do all this without me. I am not worthy to be his helper.” He knew that the truest humility is to do exactly what we are told to do by one high in authority and office; so he did his part faithfully, and was blessed in it.

“Shall you pull any parsnips to-day?” asked Ben.

“Yes, parsnips, and cabbages, and turnips. Mrs. Beth likes variety, and there is a call for all now.”

Gill had time enough to loiter over his work and amuse the little people, since there was no haste now lest the fruits and vegetables should decay before he could get them off his hands.

“What are you doing?” asked Ben, as the Scotchman took out his knife, and began to scrape away and whittle upon a parsnip.

“We shall see. Wait awhile,” said Gill. The children were curious to know what would come from his skillful hand, and, presently he delighted them with a cluster of white roses,—the petals curling one over the other so naturally and gracefully that the little bunch of flowers would have deceived almost any body in the world into thinking them real roses.

“These are for Sally,” said Gill.

“Oh, thank you! I will give them to mamma for the blue vase on the bracket, she will be so pleased.”

Sally always thought of mamma, the very first thing, when she had any pleasure. That was but fair since mamma’s first thought was always of her little girl, when her own heart was made glad in any way. If we dearly love any body, we must share with that person every joy.

“I will make something for Ben, now,” said Gill. “He can have some fun with it this evening.”

It was but a minute before he handed a perfect imitation of a candle to the lad.

“You must blacken the wick as if it had been burnt,” said Gill, “and give it to Lucy to light for you before you go to bed. How she will wonder why the thing is so slow in catching!”

“You are very good to think of our sport; it will be real fun,” said Ben, putting the candle safely into his deep pocket.

“Now for work,” said Gill, pulling at the parsnips that came quickly out of their dark bed-room.

“When these grow wild,” said he, “the leaves and stem are hairy; but when cultivated they are smooth, and the root is sweeter, and larger. The flower is yellow. We use the parsnip as we do the carrot, more for cattle than for the table. It makes the cows’ milk richer, and gives a fine color and flavor to the butter. All domestic animals—cows, oxen, and horses, like it; and people think it very nice when it is boiled, and then fried brown in butter. The parsnip is not afraid of Jack Frost. It bears the cold nicely, and is not hurt by the winter, if it is left in the ground. There’s a species called ‘the rough parsnip,’ that is a native of the Levant, and grows wild in the south of Italy, France and Greece. From it we obtain a gum resin, called by the druggists ‘opopanax,’ and used by the doctors as a medicine.”