A lull of expectation fell upon all; even Mavering sat down on the rocks near the fire, and was at rest a few minutes, by order of Miss Anderson, who said that the sight of his activity tired her to death.
“I wonder why always boiled ham at a picnic!” said the lady who took a final plate of it from a basket. “Under the ordinary conditions, few of us can be persuaded to touch it.”
“It seems to be dear to nature, and to nature's children,” said Mrs. Brinkley. “Perhaps because their digestions are strong.”
“Don't you wish that something could be substituted for it?” asked Miss. Cotton.
“There have been efforts to replace it with chicken and tongue in sandwiches;” said Mrs. Brinkley; “but I think they've only measurably succeeded—about as temperance drinks have in place of the real strong waters.”
“On the boat coming up,” said Mavering, “we had a troupe of genuine darky minstrels. One of them sang a song about ham that rather took me—
“'Ham, good old ham! Ham is de best ob meat; It's always good and sweet; You can bake it, you can boil it, You can fry it, you can broil it—Ham, good old ham!'”
“Oh, how good!” sighed Mrs. Brinkley. “How sincere! How native! Go on, Mr. Mavering, for ever.”
“I haven't the materials,” said Mavering, with his laugh. “The rest was da capo. But there was another song, about a coloured lady—”
“'Six foot high and eight foot round, Holler ob her foot made a hole in de ground.'”