some of the threads from the leaves, and presented them to my wife.
“But what,” said Fritz, “is the use of all these other prickly plants, except to annoy one? Here, for instance, is a disagreeable little tree.”
“That is an Indian fig,” said I. “It grows best on dry, rocky ground; for most of its nourishment is derived from the air. Its juice is used, I believe, medicinally, while its fruit is pleasant and wholesome.”
Master Jack was off in a moment when he heard of a new delicacy, and attempted to gather some of the fruit, but in vain; the sharp thorns defied his efforts, and with bleeding hands and rueful countenance, he returned. I removed the thorns from his hands, and making a sharp wooden skewer, I thrust it into a fig, and quickly twisted it from its branch and split it open with a knife, still holding it upon the skewer. The rest followed my example, and we regaled ourselves upon the fruit, which we found excellent. Ernest carefully examined the fig he was eating. “What are these,” he exclaimed, presently; “little red insects! they cling all over the fruit, and I cannot shake them off. Can they be cochineal?”
He handed me the fig, and I examined it attentively.
“You are quite right, my boy,” I said; “there is no doubt this is the real cochineal. However, though it is worth its weight in gold to European traders, it is of little use to us, I am afraid, unless any of you care to appear in gay colours. The cochineal, you know, forms the most lovely scarlet dye.”
“No, thank you,” said Jack, “but we will take a lot of it when we go home again. Now let us find something more useful to us.” And they thereupon plied me incessantly with questions concerning every plant and shrub we passed.
“Stop, stop,” I said at length; “the most learned naturalist would be much puzzled with many of these trees; and I, who
