STRAMONIUM 



before I was well aware of it, cajoling me into the 

 improvisation with a clear zest. What would 

 I not give if I had a picture of that pair of vol 

 untary gypsies, sitting there in the glow, under 

 a canopy of smoke, making ogreish shadows and 

 eating their baked potatoes with chop-sticks, as 

 if they were Olympians, the Doctor s own glow 

 outshining the fire, and answering the gust out 

 side with heartier gusts of laughter within. He 

 had to initiate me into the esoterics of baked 

 potato. When he pulled the black lumps out 

 of the fire, and burned his fingers, and danced the 

 cancan, and slapped his flanks before he landed 

 the charcoal on the board, his antic shadow filled 

 me with juvenile mirth, and, wraiths of Arden 

 and ghosts of Lincoln Green, how I laughed ! 



&quot; Charcoal is good for the stomach, I suppose,&quot; 

 I remarked, as I looked at the burned chunks. 



&quot; Charcoal,&quot; he cried, snapping his burnt 

 fingers. &quot; Ambrosia. You take him up in a 

 corn-husk, thus, like a napkin, knock the top off, 

 this way, put in a goodly chunk of butter, and, 

 gods of the cuisine ! tamales and yams and bread 

 fruit hide themselves in tropic insignificance.&quot; 



I have often tried since to restore that potato 

 episode, but it cannot be done without corn-cobs, 

 and, I suspect, a cow-shed. The range oven 

 kills the delicious earthy aroma. The potato 

 must be tumbled into the hot ashes, and all the 

 essences driven in and confined in a jacket of 

 charcoal. &quot; There is just the difference,&quot; said 

 the Doctor, &quot; in eating the fruit this way and 



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