True, the only milk procurable was
some condensed milk, which had "gone solid," there were not enough
knives to go round, and a few other irregularities, but no little items
of that sort ever disturbed the temper of The Tacuruers; they simply
remarked with the other "Autocrat of the Breakfast Table," "Difficulties
are Nature's challenges to you," and used one spoon for all their cups,
tore off lumps of bread with their fingers (when they could get hold of
a loaf), and used the same plate and knife for jam and sardines alike,
and enjoyed their early meal.
[Illustration: "_Rich black alluvial Soil_."]
There was one subject that did cause sore feeling, and that was
mosquitoes. We had thought we knew all about them, we were proud with
the conceit of nets, ammonia, and veils, but our pride had a fall.
Comparatively speaking, we had only known mosquitoes theoretically
before (though that knowledge was bad enough); last night we learnt of
them practically, none of us had thought of _tucking in_ our nets, and
mosquitoes seemed to swarm up under each net before we had been in bed
for half an hour. Little peace did anyone get through those long night
hours, and, though a voice came from one of the tents about 2 a.m.,
remarking clearly above the intermittent snores, "Oh! how lovely," few
echoed the sentiment, and the speaker assured us this morning that she
was only dreaming, and that her words did not refer to insects of any
kind, neither were they made in connection with the upheaval caused by
"Monte" at one period of the night.
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