As every parsonage had some glebe land, the parson could raise at least a
few vegetables to supply his table. One minister, prevented by illness from
planting his garden, complained with bitterness that, save for a few rare
gifts of vegetables from his parishioners, his family had no green thing
all summer save "messes of dandelion greens" which he had dug by the
roadside, and the summer's succession of wild berries and mushrooms. The
children had gathered the berries and had sold them when they could, but of
course no one would buy the mushrooms, hence they had been forced to eat
them at the parsonage; and he spoke despitefully and disdainfully of the
mean, unnourishing, and doubtfully healthful food.
In winter the parson's family fared worse; one minister declared that he
had had nothing but mush and milk with occasional "cracker johnny-cakes"
all winter, and that he had not once tasted meat in that space of time,
save at a funeral or ordination-supper, where I doubt not he gorged with
the composure and capacity of a Sioux brave at a war feast.
Often the low state of the parsonage larder was quite unknown to the
unthinking members of the congregation, who were not very luxuriously fed
themselves; and in the profession of preaching as in all other walks of
life much depended on the way the parson's money was spent,--economy and
good judgment in housekeeping worked wonders with the small salary.
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