"'Fender Saint Grease!' sez Cap'n Peleg Mahoney, jess like that, the same bein' French fur 'I sart'nly are supprised.'
"'How'd ye like to pluck some o' 't an' see the grain?' axes the other Cap'n.
"'Goot!' sez Willum Smitzer, sez he.
"So the other Cap'n he pulls off a stalk an' han's it to Cap'n Peleg Mahoney, w'ich the same he husks out a grain, an' we all stood a-starin' at it as ef we see a ghost."
"Why?" demanded George.
"W'y, cos it weren't nothin' more or less nor a hard clam."
"A hard clam in wheat!" exclaimed both boys.
"That are wot," replied the Old Sailor, solemnly. "Every grain o' that 'ere wheat were a hard clam. The other Cap'n sez he to Cap'n Peleg Mahoney, sez he, 'That are the way wheat comes up out here. We grinds them grains up into flour an' makes reg'lar ginuwine sea-biscuit out o' them. They tastes o' the sea fur sure. Come over this way an' I'll show you our rye.' He tuk us along to a field o' rye, an w'en we opened one o' them stalks wot d'ye s'pose were in 'em?"
"Oysters?" inquired George.
"Not so werry good," answered the Old Sailor; "sardines—bloomin' little oily sardines. It were the ryest rye I ever see. Then the other Cap'n he tuk us over to his orchard. He sez, sez he, 'I set out here some young peach-tree slips wot I had aboard, an' the trees growed right up sixty feet high in two days. The third day they was in blossom, an' in two weeks they commenced fur to bear, an' they bin bearin' ever since. Have a peach?' An' with that he reached up an' picked—wot d'ye s'pose?"