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"Ah, but it would be twice as good if you could hear her read it," said Edith, fluttering over the leaves of the magazine, "she reads it so well. It's so funny about the coffee and buckwheat cakes." "What is that, Edith?" said her mother. "Something Mr. Carleton is going to read for me, Mamma." "Don't you trouble Mr. Carleton." "It won't trouble him, Mamma; he promised of his own accord."
Soup of buckwheat, a large pot of boiled corn, some slices of roast horse meat, although all without salt, formed a meal which we thought delicious." Von Brandt describes how they took off their garments, or their wrappings which served as garments, to clean and repair them; how some of his men found leather with which they enveloped their feet.
Interspersed with these are advertisements of his eatables also exhortations such as, "Try our buckwheat cakes, 10 cents;" "Try our doughnuts and coffee;" between the two exhortations, a third bidding one flee from the wrath to come; but the most fetching of all are two companion cards.
The box was getting rather empty now, but there was still something in it, bulbs and seeds and printed directions, and a strange mixed smell of greyish-brown paper and buckwheat husks and the indescribable smell of Dutch barns. It had come from Holland, from the Van Heigens; it was Mijnheer's present to the disgraced companion who had been so summarily dismissed.
Buckwheat cakes is very good, but to keep your own counsel is a heap better so when you go home don't you go to telling about that ere pig-pen business, or the time when the old hen flewed at you, or tumbling off the old horse.
The only produce that brought in any money was the cheese, which most of them carried in small baskets to Grenoble or its outskirts. The richer or the more energetic among them sowed buckwheat for home consumption; sometimes they raised a crop of barley or oats, but wheat was unknown. The only trader in the place was the mayor, who owned a sawmill and bought up timber at a low price to sell again.
And if in all Yorkburg there was a cheerfuller room or a happier lot of children that Christmas Day than we were, we didn't hear of it. I don't believe there was, either. The reason we enjoyed this Christmas so was because it was on Christmas Day. Our celebrations had always been after Christmas, and Christmas after Christmas is like cold buckwheat cakes and no syrup.
I found quiet in an overgrown graveyard, with charming views down stream and up the near hillsides cultivated in tiny scallops to the very top, although the slopes were so steep that each plot was shored up with a strong stone wall to keep the crop of maize and buckwheat from slipping down into the river.
A buckwheat stubble, conspicuous by its deep ruddy hue, and two or three brown pastures divided by high fences, along the lines of which flourished a copious growth of cat-briers and sumacs, with here and there a goodly tree waving above them, made up the centre of the picture.
She found several men lying asleep on the sidewalks or in the gutters. She turned each one over, just as she did buckwheat cakes on the griddle, to see if this man or that was hers. At last she discovered her worthless husband, but no shaking or pulling could awake him. He was dead.
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