The milk was thin, and the butter
and eggs not at all like those at home, fresh from the farm. This,
however, could be understood and allowed for. The cows and the hens were
English and, therefore, naturally inferior to ours, so that couldn't be
helped. What could not be condoned and what I indignantly resented was
the barefaced fraud practiced on unwary travelers in the matter of the
"piece de resistance," the main feature of the meal as it appeared to
me. This was a good sized cake or possibly plum pudding, piled up in
round slices on a large salver in the middle of the table. Counting on
this delectable looking, rich brown confection to make up for the
shortcomings of the supper, I secured a generous section, and eagerly
took a boy's big bite. Consternation and dismay were at once realized
for all the words could mean! The cake-pudding did not turn to ashes in
my mouth--it was already ashes--ashes, sawdust and molasses. Althea,
seeing my disappointment and disgust, declined partaking of the
delicacy, but father managed to eat some of it, explaining that it was
Boston brown bread.
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