The Stump-Tree and the Bread-Pine.
“That evening, as we sat around the supper table, my wife announced that the last grain of our coffee was in the pot. This was sad news to all of us. Of the little luxuries that we had brought with us from Saint Louis, our coffee had held out longest; and a cup of this aromatic beverage had often cheered us during our toilsome journey across the prairie desert. Often, too, since our arrival in the valley, had it given a relish to our homely meals.
“‘Well, then,’ said I, by way of reply to the announcement, ‘we must learn to do without it. We have now the materials for making soup; what care we for coffee? How many poor people would be glad to be surrounded with luxuries, as we are! Here we have venison of different kinds; we can have beavers’ tails whenever we want them. There are fish, too in the lake and stream; there are hares and squirrels, which we shall trap in abundance, by-and-by; and, in addition to all, we shall dine often upon ruffed grouse and roast turkey. I wonder, with all these luxuries around us, who is not content?’
“‘But, papa,’ said Harry, taking up the discourse, ‘in Virginia I have often seen our black folks make coffee out of Indian corn. It is not bad, I assure you. I have drunk it there, and thought it very good. Have not you, Cudjo?’
“‘Dat berry coffee dis chile hab drunk, Massa Harry.’
“‘Now, papa?’
“‘Well, Harry, what of it?’
“‘Why should we not use that—the Indian corn, I mean—for coffee?’
“‘Why, Harry,’ said I, ‘you surely do not reflect upon what you are talking about. We have a far worse want than coffee, and that is this very Indian corn you speak of—to make bread. Could I only get a supply of that, I should think very little about coffee or any other beverage. Unfortunately there is not a grain of corn within many an hundred miles of where we are now sitting.’
“‘But there is, papa; I know where there is at least a quart of it; and within less than an hundred yards of us, too.’