"If you are too zealous you may never
see France again." Lescarbot laughed and dug a little grave in his
plantation. "What in heaven's name are those?"
"Potatoes," answered the lawyer-gardener. "The Peruvian root they are
planting in Ireland."
"But you do not expect to get a crop this year--and in this climate?"
"I don't expect anything at all. I am making the experiment. If they
come up, good; if they do not, I have seed enough for next year."
The potatoes came up. It was an unusually hot summer, and the situation
was favorable. If Lescarbot had known the habits of the vegetable he
might not have thought of putting them into the ground on the last day
of July, but they grew and flourished, and their odd ivory-and-gold
blossoms were charming. Lescarbot worked all day in the bracing sunlit
air, and now and then he hoed and transplanted by moonlight. In the
evening he read, wrote, or planned out the next day's program.
September came, with cool bright days and a hint of frost at night; the
lawyer marshalled his forces and harvested the crops. The storehouses,
already stocked with Pontgrave's abundant provision, were filled to
overflowing, and they had to dig a makeshift cellar or root-pit under a
rough shelter for the last of their produce. The potatoes were carefully
bestowed in huge hampers provided by Membertou's people, who were
greatly interested in all that the white men did.
Pages:
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316