THE POTATO AT HOME 305 



my father would laugh and say: "This one 

 weighs fourteen ounces and a half; this fifteen 

 and three-quarters; this one just turns the balance 

 at sixteen, and this one seventeen ounces. What 

 do you say to that? " The other would reply that 

 he couldn't have believed it if he hadn't seen and 

 handled the potato himself, and my father would 

 be happy and triumphant. 



Not only were the potatoes of that land as large 

 as any in the world, but they were probably the 

 best in the world to eat. They were beautifully 

 white and mealy, with that crystalline sparkle of the 

 properly cooked potato in them which one rarely 

 sees in this country. Strange to say, our Spanish 

 neighbours, even those who had a garden, did not 

 grow or eat them; they were confined to the 

 English settlers and a few foreigners of other 

 nationalities. 



Here I will venture to relate an incident which, 

 though trivial, goes to show how little our native 

 neighbours knew about the potato, which was so 

 important to us; and at the same time it will 

 serve to illustrate a trait common to the native of 

 that land the faculty of keeping his face. 



A young girl of about twelve, the child of poor 

 natives living in a small ranch a couple of miles 

 from us, was invited by a little sister of mine to 

 come and spend a day with her, to look at dolls 

 and other treasures, eat peaches, and enjoy herself 

 generally. We were a big family, but my sister's 

 little guest, Juanita, took her place at table as if 



