“Eat one. They are the most delicious and juicy fruit known in the whole world,—just like wine,” said Moro.
I bit eagerly into one, and at once threw it far away. Everybody laughed at my strange action.
“Why, it’s turpentine; it’s paint,” I said. “I didn’t think you’d do this to me, Moro.”
“Swallow it anyway. That turpentine smell lasts only a second,” explained Filippa.
I tried another mango, and found it to be the juiciest and sweetest fruit that I ever ate, dripping wine, full of refreshment in a hot climate, food and drink and medicine in one.
“What do you do with its large seed, as hard as iron?” I inquired.
“I’ll show you,” replied Moro.
The bright boy at once lighted a fire, and roasted the hard seed in the ashes. Then he brushed and washed it clean; and handed it to me, when it became somewhat cool, saying: “Eat it too; it is really chocolate toast now.”
And such I found it to be.
“Your mango then is a whole breakfast,—toast, drink, and fruit,” I said.