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Updated: May 4, 2025
Good, plain, common cookin', Jinny'll do; make a good pone o' bread, bile her taters far, her corn cakes isn't extra, not extra now, Jinny's corn cakes isn't, but then they's far, but, Lor, come to de higher branches, and what can she do? Why, she makes pies sartin she does; but what kinder crust? Can she make your real flecky paste, as melts in your mouth, and lies all up like a puff?
After a few more minutes, during which the old wife composedly tells me of all the children she has buried she has to think twice before she can recollect the exact number and in the same breath remarks, "How gallus bad their 'taters were last year," I take my departure, and leave the old man still nodding his weak old head, and chuckling to the kettle.
I don't mean with their teeth, but with their eyes. They're safe enough, sir. They've been well-fed on Soup and Taters I mean them two black messmates of ourn's talked to 'em till they understands about being under the Union Jack, and all that sort o' thing." "I hope they do, Tom, for it makes me very uneasy." "Course it do, sir.
Then 'e took out a pound or two o' taters and some crusts o' bread and other things, and at last 'e gave it back to Sam Jones and shook 'is head at 'im, and told 'im if he wasn't very careful he'd spoil the shape of it.
I'm going to give 'im a licking every day, and when we get to Fairhaven I'm going to foller 'im 'ome and tell his wife about 'im walking out with my sister." "She walked me out," said the skipper, with dry lips. "Put 'em up," vociferated the "Bruiser." "Don't you touch me, my lad," said the skipper, dodging behind the wheel. "Go an' see about your work go an' peel the taters."
Dat 'ar gyarden, sah, is black with richness jest black. It's a forchen for a pusson what kin contrive an' make fren's, an' trade, an' kin flourish a spade. Dar's fruit-trees an' grape-vines dar an' room enuf to plant anything an' richness enuf to make peas an' taters an' beets an' cabbages jest jump out o' de yarth.
The young gentleman in brown interrupted him. "You're mistaken," he said, "I was never there." Then, turning to his friend, he added, with an elaborate "Josh Whitcomb" accent: "Monty, 'taters must be lookin' up. All aour folks have come to town to spend their money."
Soup and Taters were summoned, and grasped the idea readily enough, with the result that in a very short time they had under their command six of the blacks keeping watch and ward against surprise, leaving the weary crew opportunity for getting up the anchor when the tide turned.
I told him, as majestically as I could, that I wasn't in the humour for a fowl. 'Ain't you? said the waiter. 'Young gentlemen is generally tired of beef and mutton: have a weal cutlet! I assented to this proposal, in default of being able to suggest anything else. 'Do you care for taters? said the waiter, with an insinuating smile, and his head on one side.
Weary were the beasts of burden that ascended that hill of difficulty. There was the itinerant marketer, with his overladen cart, and his white horse, very much winded. He was a Yorkshire man, and he cried with a loud voice his appetizing wares: "Cabbage, taters, onions, wild duck, wild goose!" Well do I remember the refrain.
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