"Then we must go; for I can't live as these people do."
"Nor I, either. I was thinking how different they live from us—no tea or coffee; a little thin wine, about as strong as cider: a few olives; and soup made of bread, garlic, and potatoes; not a bit of meat; and oil instead of butter."
"Then their bread," said Ned, "as black as your hat—what do you suppose it is made of?"
"Rye and barley, I guess, or rye and buckwheat."
"But they have some nice things—fruits and preserves."
"I should think, now they've got clear of the seigniors, they might have everything if they would only put in and work—might raise two crops a year. Leroux said those potatoes he gave me were planted after the wheat came off. Now, we don't have any niceties at our house. We are plain, rough people; but, heavens! there's enough. I couldn't help thinking of the difference between their dinner and ours. We have a great pewter platter as big over as half a bushel on the table, with great junks of pork and beef on it. Father will stick the great knife up to the handle into five or six inches of clear pork or a junk of beef all yellow with fat. For vegetables, we had about a peck of potatoes, cabbages, onions, beets, and carrots; hot biscuit, tea and coffee, a great loaf of rye and Indian bread—as much better than their black stuff as white is better than Indian; and then mother will come walking along just as careful with a brimming pan of milk, and say, 'Now, boys, help yourselves.'"
"And butter," said Ned, "good, yellow butter, instead of oil."
"And then, in the fall, when we kill an ox, such soups as are soups; ain't made of bread, water, and garlics. Father'll take a great shin, crack it up with the axe, and great junks of marrow will drop out of it. That's the stuff in a cold day, I tell you. Give a boy plenty of that, and it will make him stretch out and grow; give him strength to put the axe in. We waste more in our family than they eat. I've looked in all their houses; they don't have any swill-pail at the door; eat the swill themselves."
"I'll tell you what I'd like, Wal, and, if I ever get home, I mean to have mother make it—a chicken pie, with real flaky crust, rings all round it, and apple dumplings, with lots of sauce."
"But about going back, Ned—shall we start in the morning?"