GILL was pulling turnips, and the little girl ran away from every thing else to see the roots come out of the ground. How large and white they were,—tinged here and there with violet! Gill took hold by the long leaves and shook the roots from the earth. He cut into the white flesh and tasted it,—“How nice and pungent it is!” ‘he said. “I like these better than the ruta-baga, or Swedish turnip. That is yellow in color, and has a stronger flavor; this is more delicate to the palate.” The turnips stood in rows in the ground, and made a very pretty appearance where the yellow blossoms of those that were kept for seed shone amid the green.

“They belong to the same family as the cabbages,” said Gill. “But what is very singular is that this branch has its best qualities partly hidden, while the cabbages flaunt theirs in open air.”

Ben laughed. “You funny Gill!” said he. “Don’t forget how good the white turnip is for chilblains,” said the Scotchman. “It cured Lucy’s hands last winter, and it cured my feet, and the remedy is so simple that I want every body to know it.”

“Let me see; you slice it, do you not?” asked Ben.

“Yes; cut it in slices, and put salt upon them, and as the juice runs out, drain it into a bottle, and rub it upon the frozen parts.”

“I remember,” said Ben. “It was such a comfort last year.”

Gill held a large white globe in his hand. He seemed so proud of its beautiful shape. Then he showed the children a long root that he called a ‘tankard.’ “There are a great many varieties of the white turnips,” he said, “and also of the yellow. They tried to make a sort of meal of the Swedish turnips, for man and for cattle, by pressing out the juice and grinding the root; but it would not keep long enough to pay.”

“I wonder if they could make good johnny-cake of it!” said Sally.

“Not quite like corn meal,” said Gill.

“Sheep eat turnips, don’t they?” asked Ben.

“Yes, we feed them to sheep, and hogs, and other animals, and we give them the tops sometimes; but they do not nourish them as the roots do.”

Gill left the turnip-bed, and went to the cabbages. These stood in soldierly array, looking top heavy, as the large bearskin caps make some of our military companies appear.

“What fine ‘drum-heads’ these are,” said Gill.

They were as round and firm as could be, with the many leaves folded in, one upon another, from the delicate tiny central, to the coarser outside covers. Gill cut off some of the heads from the finest stumps, and put the roots carefully aside.

“Why do you save those?” asked Ben.

“For seed,” replied the Scotchman. “I shall set these out next spring, and they will sprout, and run up and bear yellow blossoms and little round black seeds. I keep the seed from spring to spring, and sow a corner bed, and transplant from that to my great square patch the most promising of the shoots.”

“You always have splendid cabbages!” said Ben.

“I try to have the best of every thing. To be sure it takes care and labor; but then it does honor to Him who condescends to work with us.”

“You mean honor to God,” said little Sally.

“Yes,” said Gill. “His part is always performed to perfection, and it seems a great dishonor done to Him when the garden fails of its beauty, because of our carelessness or neglect.”

Ben was silent for a few minutes and very thoughtful. He remembered a period of drought in the summer time, when the little patch that was especially his own had suffered, merely because he was too lazy to carry water from the well, until the heavens should drop down moisture.

Presently he said, “Gill, you worked very hard in that dry time. Is that the reason why your vegetables have not dwindled away as mine did?”

“To be sure,” said Gill. “It was but for a little while that I had to put forth my own hand; surely I could do that much for him who is never weary of helping us.”

Ben was getting a good lesson concerning the gracious Providence that helps those who work with it. “I will never again think that I have nothing to do but to receive,” said the lad. “I will work with my might whatever my hands find to do.”

“That is a good resolution, my boy!” said Gill.

Sally was examining the adjoining bed of cauliflowers. Gill pointed out to the children the different varieties. “These all belong to the same family,” said he; “the common cabbage which is so generally in use on our tables, the more delicate cauliflower, the broccoli with its loose heads, the khol-rabi or turnip-stemmed cabbage, and the kale, with no head, but with purple, branching leaves.”

“Every body likes cabbage, it seems to me,” said Ben.

“Yes, in some form or other,” returned the Scotchman; “either boiled, or sliced raw, and eaten with vinegar, or made into sour-crout, as the Germans prefer it.”

“How is that?” asked Ben.

“They slice it and put a layer in the bottom of a barrel, and salt it well and pound it with a pestle, or tread it down with heavy boots, till the barrel is half filled with froth. Layer after layer of cabbage and salt are added, and bruised until the barrel is pretty nearly full, when some cold water is poured in, and the top of the barrel pressed down with heavy stones. The contents ferment for a week or two, during which time the brine is drawn off and new brine poured in; and, when it is perfectly clear, the mass is fit for use. It should be kept under the brine all the time.”

“It sounds like vile stuff,” said Ben.

Gill thought so too. “I never eat it,” he said; “but many people think it very nice. You know I told you that snakes were considered good food by the heathen Africans; and rats and dogs and caterpillars, are great luxuries with some nations.”

“Ugh!” ejaculated both the children.

“I must get some beets now,” said Gill, going to the other end of the garden, and unearthing the red and white roots.

“These white ones are as sweet as sugar,” said Ben. “We had some for dinner yesterday. You get sugar from these, do you not, Gill?”

“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.

The little girl was always very choice in her words. She had been so much with her mother, and Gill was not like a common laborer; for he dignified toil by improving his mind while he cultivated the soil.

“The white onion is milder than the red,” he said. “It is nice when boiled in milk. We call it ‘silver-skin.’ There is a species of onion which is a native of Syria, and which was brought to other parts of the world. It is called ‘echalotte’ and has awl-shaped, hollow leaves, and purplish-yellow flowers, and very agreeable roots. And there is the leek, with its tall, purple stem, and large seed-balls, and mild bulbs, which some people prefer to our onions. And there is garlic, with its grass-like leaves, and white flowers, and the stem with a head composed of little bulbs, and the root divided into several parts called ‘cloves’ wrapped up in one common membrane. They are turned out of their blanket and strung together, and hung about the market-stalls.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve seen them,” said Ben; “but they taste like our onion, do they not?”

“They are stronger,” said the Scotchman. “In the old countries, especially in Spain, garlic is used in almost every dish. It is very easy to cultivate, as it is a very hardy plant. The doctors give preparations of this plant for various diseases, and the juice makes a strong cement for broken glass or china. Even its bad odor is useful; for it drives away snails and worms and moles, and other voracious creatures, if placed near their haunts.”

“I suppose onions are very nice,” said little Sally; “but it makes my eyes ache to stand so near this bed. I am going to play with Jack for a while now. You and Ben can pull the vegetables, if you like.”

“We shall have a resting-spell, after a while,” said Gill. “The potatoes are all in the bin, and I have only the pumpkins to get in; and then no more jogging to the the city, day after day, for a long time to come.”

“What will you do all winter?” asked Ben.

“I shall find work as the hours come, if it please God to spare my life,” said Gill. “I’ve never yet seen the time when there was nothing to occupy me. Even the ground, that seems to lie idle during the frost and cold, is secretly making ready for the spring, and I shall be as busy as it, with bulbs and plants and seeds, and plans for their future growth. I have to look to it that they do not sprout too soon in the cellar, and that they are in a proper state of dryness or moisture; and I must enrich the land, and arrange so that the crops shall not exhaust it. Never fear. I shall have enough to do without going every day to market in the old cart.”