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Updated: July 5, 2025
Here 'two weeks ago coffee and butter-cakes were a banquet. But why dig up the past, and I reiterate the remark, 'Let the dead bury its dead. If anybody mentions Mink's to me I am liable to throw a foaming fit and fall in it. Every time I pass a bread line I am filled with sorrow for the poor unfortunates, while heretofore I got sore because they had beaten me to it.
They were all too busy eating. They had a grand supper. There was roast turkey and fried chicken, and mutton and rice and potatoes and peas and beans and baked apples and cabbage and hot biscuits and muffins and butter-cakes and golden syrup. When they had finished eating, it was quite dark, and they all went home, even Br'er Possum, and they left Li'l' Hannibal sitting there all by himself.
Professor Salazar will stay at home for me, and very likely Mrs. Salazar has made butter-cakes and coffee, and here am I floundering in the woods! I 'll sit down under these trees and do a bit of Spanish, while I 'm resting for the walk back." Just at this moment a chorus of voices sounded in the distance, then some loud talking, then more singing.
"Butter-cakes?" we queried. "That is what they call a rich, round, tumid product of the griddle, which they serve very hot, and open to close again upon a large lump of butter. For two of those cakes and his coffee my unknown friend paid fifteen cents, and made a supper, after which I should not have needed to break my fast the next morning.
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