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Papa will get better like the potato boy's father. I'll say it in my prayers. Dear mamma, I won't forget. And I will try to be good and not tear my frocks nor speak without thinking. The tears were coming now, but Biddy knew mamma did not like her to begin to cry, and truly it was no wonder, for once she began it was by no means easy to say when she would leave off!
How I envied my father for having enjoyed these luxuries! I have now enjoyed them all, and I have found like much greater men on much more important occasions, that all is vanity. A plantain is very like a rotten pear, so like that I would lay twenty to one that a person blindfolded would not discover the difference. A yam is better. It is like an indifferent potato.
For Potato Purée use six large or ten medium sized potatoes, boiled and mashed fine; then stirred into the milk, and strained; a large tablespoonful of chopped parsley being put in the tureen. For a Green-Corn Soup use the milk without straining; adding a can of corn, or the corn cut from six ears of fresh boiled corn, and an even tablespoonful of sugar, and boiling ten minutes.
Turning to other quarters of the world; in Java, a yellow, not a white girl, is considered, according to Madame Pfeiffer, a beauty. A man of Cochin China "spoke with contempt of the wife of the English Ambassador, that she had white teeth like a dog, and a rosy colour like that of potato- flowers."
Few of the flowers merely meant for ornament are so ethereal as a potato. A kitchen garden is as beautiful as an orchard; but why is it that the word "orchard" sounds as beautiful as the word "flower-garden," and yet also sounds more satisfactory? I suggest again my extraordinarily dark and delicate discovery: that it contains things to eat.
As thus; I will work out for you a suggestion given in the encyclopaedia, that you may see what strictly scientific methods of reasoning may lead to: Perhaps the two plant names most universally met with in all Aryan languages, European or Asiatic, are potato and tobacco.
Upon this the smooth, beardless face of the youthful Morduine, a face dark and angular like the skin of an unpeeled potato, assumed a resentful frown, and, blinking his eyes, he muttered: "Yes, here we may have to sit here where there's neither food nor money! Other folk will be enjoying themselves, but we shall have to remain hugging our hungry stomachs like a pack of dogs!"
It was no longer a pleasure and a delight to sit outside on the door-slab and look out over his lands and be the owner of it all. There was the potato field flowering madly, and drying up; let the lichen stay where it was what did he care? That Isak!
If you believe that the body feels you must be prepared to explain where in the process of digestion and assimilation the beefsteak and potato you ate for dinner become conscious, because to feel they must be conscious. We know that the fluids and solids composing the body have no sensation when they are taken into the body, nor do they ever become sentient.
The smallest leguminous seed, if barely bigger than a pin's head, nourishes its weevil; a dwarf which patiently nibbles it and excavates a dwelling; but the plump, delicious haricot is spared. This astonishing immunity can have only one explanation: like the potato and the maize-plant, the haricot is a gift of the New World.
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