I shall not write about the estimable maté, Ilex paraguayensis, which is a holly, nor of rooibos, redbush (Aspalathus linearis), of the pea family, nor of any of the flowery infusions from camomile to hibiscus which have usurped the name of tea.

Iron rusted, paper cracked, cream soured and vinegar mothered.

He answered, blooming out with a clownish grin that usually brought big hee-haws, “Sixteen. Short for my age.”

He was so eloquent in drawing the picture of his own neglected merits, and so pathetic in lamenting over it when it was done, that I felt quite at my wits' end how to console him, when it suddenly occurred to me that here was a case for the wholesome application of a bit of Robinson Crusoe.