Fritz.—Father, it no longer runs a single drop; may we not now set about making the dough?
Father.—I have no objection; but it would be more prudent to make only a small cake, at first, by way of experiment, which as I said before we will give to the monkey and the fowls, and wait to see the effect, instead of exhausting our whole store at once.
We now opened the bag, and took out a small quantity of the pollard, which already was sufficiently dry; we stirred the rest about with a stick, and then replaced it under the press. The next thing was to fix one of our iron plates, which was of a round form, and rather convex, so as to rest upon two blocks of stone at a distance from each other; under this we lighted a large fire, and when the iron plate was completely heated, we placed a portion of the dough upon it with a wooden spade. As soon as the cake began to be brown underneath, it was turned, that the other side might be baked also.
Ernest.—O how nicely it smells! what a pity that we may not eat some of it immediately!
Jack.—And why not? I would eat some without the least fear; and would not you, Francis?
Father.—Hah, hah! What is then become of our terrible fear of being poisoned, which made you even throw your grater from you? Ah, I see how it is; the passion of gluttony is stronger than your fear.—However, I certainly believe that in this case it might be gratified without doing you an injury; nevertheless it is better perhaps to wait till the evening, and not run a greater risk than the loss of one or two of our fowls and of the monkey; and we may say this trial of the cake will be the first service he has rendered us.
As soon as the cake was cold, we broke some of it into crumbs, and gave it to two of the fowls, and a larger piece to the monkey, who nibbled it with a perfect relish, making all the time a thousand grimaces to testify his content, while the boys stood by envying the preference he enjoyed.
Fritz.—Now tell me, father, how the savages manage to grate their manioc, for surely they have not, like us, an instrument fitted for the operation:—and tell me also, if they call their composition by the name of cake or bread, as we do?
Father.—The savages having no such article as bread in their bill of fare, have consequently no word in their language to express it. At the Antilles, the bread from the manioc is called cassave; the savages make a kind of grater with sharp stones, or shells; or when they can get nails, on which they set a high value, they drive them into the end of a plank, and rub the manioc upon it. But now, I pray you, good wife, give us quickly some dinner, and we will afterwards resume the baking trade, provided our tasters show no signs of the colic or swimming in the head.
Fritz.—Are these, then, the only effects of poison, father?