671 
April  1,  I897.J  THE  TROPICAL  AGRICUi  TURIST. 
worth  a rupee  each.’  I must  confess  I felt  rather 
sceptical  on  this  point.  I had  about  a hundred 
trees  growing  on  two  sides  of  my  garden,  and  got 
only  one  bunch  from  them  in  about  three  mouths. 
“ Your  bungalow  servants  perhaps  take  them,” 
she  suggested  : “ every  kind  is  good  for  cooking  if 
cut  before  they  ripen.”  This  was  rather  distress- 
ing. I had  fancied  I knew  something  about  plantains 
and  certainly  lost  no  opportunity  of  pointing  out  to 
Ramasamy  each  flower  as  it  appeared,  but  I re- 
flected sadly  that  a great  many  flowers  had  borne 
no  fruit  for  me.  I continued  my  search  in  hopes 
of  finding  some  vegetable  as  to  which  I might  offer 
hints  of  improved  cultivation,  but  in  vain.  Even 
the  onions,  of  which  my  cooly  had  planted  several 
beds  at  different  times,  with  what  I considered  good 
results,  were  finer  and  much  regular  than  mine, 
” Do  you  make  much  flour  from  your  arrowroot 
plants,”  I asked,  feeling  that  I might  have  a chance 
of  telling  her  how  to  prepare  it.  ‘‘Not  more  than 
you  do,”  she  replied  with  a merry  light  in  her 
eyes,  ‘‘  but  you  grow  yours  in  pots  in  your  veran- 
dah.” “ Yea,”  1 assented,  “ mine  are  merely  orna- 
mental,” and  I began  to  explain  how  the  tubers 
should  be  cleaned  and  converted  into  flour.  “ I 
used  to  make  some  every  yea*-,”  she  said,  with  a 
gracious  air,  ” before  you  came  here,  but  we  can 
get  arrowroot  and  other  things  from  you  whenever 
any  of  the  children  are  ill.  You  sometimes  give 
away  these  things,”  she  added,  “ to  coolies,  who  are 
net  really  ill,”  and  she  mentioned  two  cases  in  which 
my  charity  had  recently  been  evidently  carelessly  ad- 
ministered. 
“ Your  bandahai  plants,”  I observed,  “ seem  to  give 
a large  crop  : it  is  a pity  they  haven’t  a better 
flavour.  “ Oh,”  she  replied,  ‘‘  we  like  them  well 
enough  : the  kaogani  is  very  fond  of  them.”  Per- 
haps your  servant  doesn’t  cook  them  properly. 
Different  vegetables  require  different  curry-stuffs.” 
This  was  a point  I had  never  considered  ; my  appu 
had  unlimited  curry  materials  to  work  with,  but 
there  was  a sameness  about  his  curries  that  made 
them  disgustingly  monotonousand  the  dishes  often  went 
back  to  the  kitchen  ulniost  untasted.  I remembered 
having  once  suggested  that  the  curry  should  be  given 
to  the  fowls,  but  reflected  now  that  I had  rever 
seen  the  poultry  regaling  themselves  on  curry. 
“ What  are  these  plants,”  I asked,  pointing  to 
some  with  broad  ash-coloured  leaves.  ‘‘  Those  are  a 
Very  good  kind  of  yam,”  she  answered  : “ we  eat 
the  stems  and  the  yams  too  when  tlie  porcupines 
don’t  destroy  them.  It  was  to  catch  them  that  rriy 
husband  borrowed  your  large  rat-traps  last  month, 
but  they  wer-e  no  use.  The  porcupines  are  too 
clever,  and  the  only  plan  is  to  shoot  them.  But,  ’ 
she  added,  with  an  assumed  tone  of  regret,  ” we 
caught  your  liorsekeeper’s  dog,  and  it  is  still  very 
lame.”  The  dog  had  done  a good  deal  of  damage 
in  my  own  garden  and  I could  not  conceal  my  delight. 
I failed  to  find  iu  the  garden  anything  of  which 
either  the  roots,  leaves  or  fruits  were  not  edible 
till  we  came  to  a couple  of  low  spreading  plants 
with  long  spikes  of  red  flowers.  ‘‘  'This  is  certainly 
cmamental,”  I observed,  ‘‘  but  perhaps  you  use  it 
for  curry.”  “ No,  for  medicine,”  she  replied ; ‘‘  the 
roots  are  used  iu  certain  cases  by  Tamil  women.” 
1 thought  it  hardly  safe  to  venture  further  enquiry. 
I had  supposed  I knew  something  of  medicine, 
both  Euro^jeau  and  Oriental,  having  experimented 
with  many  hundreds  of  sick  coolies,  usually  very 
successfully,  though  often,  I fear,  to  our  mutual  sur- 
prise, but  this  perhaps  was  a branch  of  medical 
^re  that  I had  not  yet  taken  up.  Nallamma  seemed 
puzzled  at  my  silence,  and  I made  an  effort  to  con- 
tinue the  conversation  by  complimenting  her  on 
possessing  a garden  containing  nothing  useless. 
‘‘  Yes,”  she  remarked,  ‘‘  we  do  not  grow  flowers 
like  yon  do  in  front  of  your  bungalow ; we  can  get 
from  you  all  the  flowers  we  want  for  our  temple 
festivals.  I congratulated  her  on  getting  so  much 
more  produce  from  a small  bit  of  giound  than  I 
could  from  my  larger  garden.” 
*•  I suppose  you  get  seeds  given  you  by  all  the 
ptbor  coolies  who  keep  gardens,”  I suggested.”  “No,” 
she  replied,  with  an  air  of  dainty  scorn,  “ not  at 
all.  We  give  away  a great  man}*.” 
“But  how  do  you  manage  to  get  such  fine  crops,” 
I asked.  It  occurred  to  me  that  perhaps  a little  of 
the  artificial  manure,  intended  for  the  coffee  trees, 
was  occasionally  used,  but  the  suggestion  was  met 
by  a decisive  negative.  “We  use  only  cattle  manure 
and  ashes,”  she  observed,  “ and,  of  course,  water 
the  gxrden  regularly.”  “ My  garden  cooly  does  the 
same,  I replied,  “ but  nothing  seems  to  grow  as  well  as 
it  ought  to.  My  coolies  cost  me  about  twelve  rupees  a 
month,  and  I buy  about  ten  rupees'  worth  of  seeds 
each  season.  Ramasami  uses  the  best  tools  I 
can  get  and  a very  flue  watering-can,  but  even  the 
cabbages  don't  grow  properly  and  half  the  seeds  don’t 
come  up.”  “ I’m  afraid,”  said  Nallamma,  “ you  don’t 
look  after  him  sufficiently  : you  have’nt  time.” 
This  was  such  an  une.vpeoted  compliment,  and  said 
in  such  a graceful  way  that  I felt  not  cnly  pleased 
but  convinced  that  she  was  right.  “ We  irrigate  our 
garden  from  the  water  course,”  she  added,  “ and  I 
sprinkle  my  plants  lightly  with  water  from  a chatty, 
Ramasami  perhaps  sows  your  seeds  in  wet  weather 
or  does  not  use  the  rose  of  your  watering-can  except 
when  you  are  in  the  garden.”  And  then  she  continued, 
with  gentle  emphasis,  “ I always  sow  our  seeds  my- 
self.” I felt  that  I was  acquiring  knowledge  fast, 
but  did  not  like  to  admit  it.  I argued  that  my  gar- 
den-cooly,  having  no  fixed  task  to  do  and  having 
generally  a fairly  easy  time,  was  not  likely  to  shirk 
such  a simple  work  as  watering.  “ I don’t  know,” 
she  said,  “ he  may  be  a very  good  cooly” — her 
features  expressed  other  disbelief — “ but  your  garden 
has  as  good  soil  as  this ; I expect  it  is'  his  fault  if 
your  plants  don’t  grow  right.  His  brother  has  a 
garden  nearly  as  good  as  ours.  You  need  not  tell 
im  I said  so,”  she  observed  with  a plaintive  look-. 
“ No,  my  dear,”  I answered,  with  that  famili  arity 
which  naturally  arises  from  a mutual  interest,  “T 
will  say  nothing,  but  I will  look  after  him  more 
carefully.” 
“ Do  you  use  these  also  for  curry  ? ’ I enquired,  point- 
ing to  some  small  plants  growing  near  the  entrance, 
‘ or  are  they  used  for  drup”  ? “No,”  she  replied 
gaily,  “ I have  never  heard  of  their  being  used  for 
either  purpose,  but  the  fresh  leaves  are  good  for 
insect  bites,  and,  when  rubbed  on  one’s  face,  remove 
sun-burn.  “Olil”  I exclaimed,  looking  closely  at  her 
clear  cheeks,  “ I can  understand  wby  you  grow  it.” 
She  did  not  seem  offended,  but  advised  me  to  plant 
in  my  garden  : “Some  day,”  she  added,  “ when  you 
have  children,  you  will  find  it  useful.”  Apparently 
she  knew  something  of  my  matrimonial  intentions  : 
my  appu  had  evidently  been  reading  my  home-letters, 
(I  did  not  know  he  could  read  Euglish),  and  the 
kitchen  gossip  had  reached  the  cooly-lines. 
“ I think  it  is  time  I went  back  to  breakfast,”  I 
remarked.  “ Yes,”  she  assented  “it  is  late,  and  you 
must  be  feeling  hungry.”  And  I wished  her  “ good 
morning”  with  a rather  painful  consciousness  that, 
instead  of  having  given  Nallamma  any  hints  on  Garden- 
ing, she  had  instructed  me  in  the  first  principles  of- 
horticulture.  And  this  feeling  was  certainly  not 
lessened  when  she  sent  me,  in  the  evening,  by  her 
little  son,  a collection  of  seeds,  a magnificent  cab* 
bage  and  a dish  of  beans.  GIPSY  JOHN. 
JADOO  CRITKJISED. 
“Toda”  writes  as  follows,  under  date  of  13th 
instant  : — 
As  you  published  Colonel  Halford  Thompson’s 
letter,  which  appeared  in  the  Madras  Mail  of  12th’ 
January,  criticising  a letter  of  mine  re  Jadoo  Fibre, 
which  was  inserted  in  the  Mail  of  IDth  Novembir 
1896,  I would  ask  you  in  fairness  to  kindly  publish 
iu  the  next  issue  of  riantinij  Opinion,  my  reply  to 
Colonel  Halford  Thompson’s  letter  which  you  will 
find  in  the  Madras  Mail  of  Ith  February,  signed- 
“ Toda.” 
We  regret  we  have  not  sufficient  space  to  quote  the 
letter  in  full,  which  occupies  a full  column  of  very 
small  print  in  our  contemporary,  but  xve  trust  ‘ Xodft" 
