`Out of my magic bag, of course!' replied she. `And each time I have gone for potatoes, I have sown seeds in the ground which was dug up to get them; and I have planted potatoes also.'
`Well done, you wise little woman!' I exclaimed, `Why, you are a model of prudence and industry!'
`But,' continued she, `I do not half like the appearance of those tobacco-graters you have brought. Is it possible you are going to make snuff? Do, pray, let us make sure of abundance of food for our mouths, before we think of our noses!'
`Make your mind easy, my wife. I have not the remotest intention of introducing the dirty, ridiculous habit of snuffing into your family! Please to treat my graters with respect, however, because they are to be the means of providing you with the first fresh bread you have seen this many a long day.'
`What possible connection can there be between bread and tobacco-graters? I cannot imagine what you mean, and to talk of bread where there are no ovens is only tantalizing.'
`Ah, you must not expect real loaves,' said I. `But on these flat iron plates I can bake flat cakes or scones, which will be excellent bread; I mean to try at once what I can do with Ernest's roots. And first of all, I want you to make me a nice strong canvas bag.'
This my wife willingly undertook to do, but she evidently had not much faith in my powers as a baker, and I saw her set on a good potful of potatoes before beginning to work, as though to make sure of a meal without depending on my bread.
Spreading a large sailcloth on the ground, I summoned my boys and set to work. Each took a grater and a supply of well-washed manioc root, and when all were seated round the cloth—`Once, twice, thrice! Off!' cried I, beginning to rub a root as hard as I could against the rough surface of my grater. My example was instantly followed by the whole party, amid bursts of merriment, as each remarked the funny attitude and odd gestures of his neighbours while vehemently rubbing, rasping, grating and grinding down the roots allotted to him. No one was tempted by the look of the flour to stop and taste it, for in truth it looked much like wet sawdust.
`Cassava bread is highly esteemed in many parts of the New World, and I have even heard that some Europeans there prefer it to the wheaten bread of their own country. There are various species of manioc. One sort grows quickly, and its roots ripen in a very short time. Another kind is of somewhat slower growth. The roots of the third kind do not come to maturity for two years. The two first are poisonous, if eaten raw, yet they are preferred to the last, which is harmless, because they are so much more fruitful, and the flour produced is excellent, if the scrapings are carefully pressed.'
`What is the good of pressing them, father?' inquired Ernest.