But you must look carefully into
this cup of nature to see that no insects lurk in its depths to spoil
the draught.
I have previously described the breakfast table of the millionaire
Coronel R. da Silva, with its black beans, the dreadful farinha, the
black coffee, and the handful of mutilated _bolachas_ or biscuits. The
only variable factor was the meat, sometimes wild hog, occasionally
tapir, and very often the common green parrot or the howling monkey. At
most meals the _pirarucu_ fish appears, especially on Mondays when
the rubber-workers have had the whole of Sunday in which to indulge
in the sport of shooting this gamy two-hundred-pound fish. They carry
their _pirarucu_ to headquarters and courteously offer the best cuts
to the Coronel, afterwards cutting the rest into long strips and
leaving them to dry in the sun. Jerked beef was always to be relied
upon when other supplies ran low.
There must have been some terrible mystery connected with the
milk. There were twenty-one cows on the place, but never a drop of
milk from them was to be had. I was always afraid to ask any questions
about this deficiency for fear I might be treading on dangerous ground,
but with the lack of any other explanation I ascribe it to continual
sickness from which the cattle must probably suffer, in common with
every other living thing here.
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