“How did the term Irish potato originate?”
“Sir Walter Raleigh is responsible for that, I believe. The potato was planted on his estate near Cork and flourished better in that soil than in any other of Europe.”
The noon hour having arrived and the conversation tending to increase their hunger, the three adventurers looked about for a spring, and in the distance seeing a clump of willows and verdure of unusual brightness, they hastened to the spot and found a little mountain stream rippling over pebbles. As they approached a number of parakeets flew away, chattering, their brilliant plumage causing them to appear as rainbow darts above their heads.
“An ideal spot!” said Hope-Jones.
“And here’s shade. We didn’t want shade this morning, did we?”
“Hardly. But the day has grown warm.”
While speaking they cast knapsacks and burdens one side and threw themselves down on the grass for a brief rest before preparing the noonday meal. The murmur of the brook had as an accompaniment the hum of insects and the piping of finches—for they were nearing the table-land, which pulsated with life; far different from the drear of the early morning, which was punctuated only by the doleful notes of the alma perdida.
“I can almost think myself in an American harvest field,” said Ferguson, rolling on his back and clasping his hands over his head.
Hope-Jones placed a blade of coarse grass between his thumbs, held parallel, then blew upon the green strand with all his might.
“What on earth is that?” exclaimed Ferguson, jumping to his feet, and Harvey came running from the stream.