“They did!” whispered Jack and Mother in one breath, and, sure enough, some lodged in the Banda Islands, others in the West Indies.
“Some of us live in South America,” and she lightly tossed a few more balls, all of which clung to their native lands.
“What do you mean by poor relations?” asked the Stick Doll.
“I mean the poorer quality of nutmegs. The Brazilian nutmeg brings oil for hard soap and candles.
“I am the better quality, and am the kernel of a fruit which is round and about the size of a walnut.
“The outside coat is two inches across before it splits open, and the nutmeg, of course, comes out, just as the chestnut falls from the burr. A network of tiny fibres is wound about it, and this second coat is dried and ground and called mace.
“The olive-shaped nut, about an inch in length, is turned over every day for two months, and treated with lime to preserve it. Then it is the nutmeg which you see before you.”
“What are you good for, please, Mam?” asked the Vinegar Cruet with a sour expression.
“What am I good for?” she cried indignantly. “What am I not good for? Look in the cook-book on the pantry shelf and see if there is anything worth while that hasn’t a dash of me in it.