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Updated: May 3, 2025
As it was, a slow, sullen, heavy Scotch wrath rose in her breast. Maymeys from Cuba. The wantonness of it! Peaches? Yes. Grapes, even, and pears and cherries in snow time. But maymeys from Cuba why, one did not even know if they were to be eaten with butter, or with vinegar, or in the hand, like an apple. Who wanted maymeys from Cuba?
A couple of hot murphies from Ireland, served with a lump of butter, would look good enough to me." "Do you suppose any one buys them?" marveled Jennie. "Surest thing you know. Some rich dame coming by here, wondering what she can have for dinner to tempt the jaded palates of her dear ones, see? She sees them Cuban maymeys. 'The very thing! she says.
In the center of that wonderful window was an oddly woven basket. In the basket were brown things that looked like sweet potatoes. One knew that they were not. A sign over the basket informed the puzzled gazer that these were maymeys from Cuba. Maymeys from Cuba. The humor of it might have struck Jennie if she had not been so Scotch, and so hungry.
Still standing on the sidewalk before the fruit and fancy goods shop, gazing at the maymeys from Cuba. Finally her Scotch bump of curiosity could stand it no longer. She dug her elbow into the arm of the person standing next in line. "What are those?" she asked. The next in line happened to be a man.
He was a man without an overcoat, and with his chin sunk deep into his collar, and his hands thrust deep into his pockets. It looked as though he were trying to crawl inside himself for warmth. "Those? That sign says they're maymeys from Cuba." "I know," persisted Jennie, "but what are they?" "Search me. Say, I ain't bothering about maymeys from Cuba.
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