Taking Breath After One O'clock, Much Restored By Our Luncheon, My
Note-Book Remembers A Gray-Roofed, Yellow-Walled Town,
Very suitable for
a water-color, and just beyond it the first vineyard we had come to.
Then there were
Pomegranate trees, golden-leaved, and tall poplars
pollarded plume fashion as in southern France; and in a field a herd of
brown pigs feeding, which commended itself to observance, doubtless, as
color in some possible word-painting. There now abounded pomegranates,
figs, young corn, and more and more olives; and as if the old olives and
young olives were not enough, the earth began to be pitted with holes
dug for the olives which had not yet been planted.
II
At Bobadilla, the junction where an English railway company begins to
get in its work and to animate the Spanish environment to unwonted
enterprise, there was a varied luncheon far past our capacity. But when.
a Cockney voice asked over my shoulder, "Tea, sir?" I gladly closed with
the proposition. "But you've put hot milk into it!" I protested. "I
know it, sir. We 'ave no cold milk at Bobadilla," and instantly a
baleful suspicion implanted itself which has since grown into a upas
tree of poisonous conviction: goat's milk does not keep well, and it was
not only hot milk, but hot _goat's_ milk which they were serving us at
Bobadilla. However, there were admirable ham sandwiches, not of goat's
flesh, at the other end of the room, and with these one could console
oneself.
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