190 HOME LIFE IN FLORIDA. 



'' Have you got any potatoes?" 



The salesman's face expanded into a delighted smile. 

 ''Yes, he had got some potatoes, very fine ones," and he 

 brought them out to show. AVe gazed at them, at him, at 

 the door ; this thing was becoming monotonous. We had 

 asked for potatoes, distinctly; we had not j^refixed ''sweet" 

 to our query, yet he had brought us sweet potatoes. 



"Not sweet potatoes, white potatoes!" we whispered 

 faintly. 



" You said potatoes, and these are potatoes. How could 

 I know you meant Irish potatoes ? " said he, with mild, re- 

 proachful indignation. 



And then we learned another lesson, that while in the 

 North we speak of Irish potatoes as simply "potatoes," 

 and of sweet potatoes by their full title, the reverse is the 

 case in the South ; white potatoes are Irish potatoes, sweet 

 potatoes are distinctively "potatoes." 



Another time we wanted a one or two-gallon kerosene 

 oil-can, and a one-gallon stone jug, but could only find a 

 half-gallon kerosene can and a two-gallon jug. Again, a 

 stove was wanted, and when found, there was no pipe 

 nearer than two hundred and fifty miles. There was no 

 sewing-silk, except black ; no zephyrs, only inferior cali- 

 coes of antiquated patterns, and very little of other kinds 

 of dry goods. There was no meat market, no ' ' fresh " 

 market, we should say, only we confess we are not properly 

 educated even yet. Once in a while a cart was brought to 

 one's house, in which reposed a whole or half a " beef," just 

 killed by a neighbor, and shaded from the sun by palmetto 

 leaves or pine boughs. And then the family, drawn forth 

 en masse by so rare and exciting an arrival, would collect 

 around the cart and watch the amateur butcher saw and 

 cut, and slash and hack, in a manner painful to behold, to 

 eyes accustomed to the neat, trim, carefully cut steaks and 



