face was so wofully long that even at a considerable distance his embarrassment was plainly visible. “Thou hast deceived me,” cried she; “where is the basket? I have been seeking it an hour without success.”
“Dear mistress of my heart,” replied the Gnome, in faltering accents, “Canst thou forgive my want of foresight? I have promised what it is not possible for me to perform. Through the whole country have I been in search of turnips, but they have all long been gathered, and lie withering or rotting in the cellars. The fields are mourning, the valleys filled with snow; it is only in the scenes blessed by thy presence that spring is perennial; it is only under thy feet that flowers are ever springing up. Have patience but for three months, and thy companions shall be restored to thee.” But ere the Gnome had done speaking, Emma had already turned her back on him, and had run to shut herself up in her boudoir. He immediately proceeded to the next market town in the guise of a farmer, bought an ass, which he loaded with sacks of turnip seed, enough for a whole acre; which having carefully sowed, he gave the field in charge to one of his ministering spirits, with orders to keep up a good subterranean fire beneath its whole surface, so as to bring forward these turnips with the rapidity of pineapples in a hot-house.
The seed shot vigorously out, and gave promise
