Chapter 26 - The Adventures of a Lost Family in the Wilderness by Mayne Reid
The Stump-Tree and the Bread-Pine
“That evening, as we sat around the supper table, my wife announced that the last grain of our coffee was in the pot. This was sad news to all of us. Of the little luxuries that we had brought with us from Saint Louis, our coffee had held out longest; and a cup of this aromatic beverage had often cheered us during our toilsome journey across the prairie desert. Often, too, since our arrival in the valley, had it given a relish to our homely meals.
“‘Well, then,’ said I, by way of reply to the announcement, ‘we must learn to do without it. We have now the materials for making soup; what care we for coffee? How many poor people would be glad to be surrounded with luxuries, as we are! Here we have venison of different kinds; we can have beavers’ tails whenever we want them. There are fish, too in the lake and stream; there are hares and squirrels, which we shall trap in abundance, by-and-by; and, in addition to all, we shall dine often upon ruffed grouse and roast turkey. I wonder, with all these luxuries around us, who is not content?’
“‘But, papa,’ said Harry, taking up the discourse, ‘in Virginia I have often seen our black folks make coffee out of Indian corn. It is not bad, I assure you. I have drunk it there, and thought it very good. Have not you, Cudjo?’
“‘Dat berry coffee dis chile hab drunk, Massa Harry.’
“‘Now, papa?’
“‘Well, Harry, what of it?’
“‘Why should we not use that—the Indian corn, I mean—for coffee?’
“‘Why, Harry,’ said I, ‘you surely do not reflect upon what you are talking about. We have a far worse want than coffee, and that is this very Indian corn you speak of—to make bread. Could I only get a supply of that, I should think very little about coffee or any other beverage. Unfortunately there is not a grain of corn within many an hundred miles of where we are now sitting.’
“‘But there is, papa; I know where there is at least a quart of it; and within less than an hundred yards of us, too.’
“‘Come,’ said I, ‘my boy, you have mistaken some useless seed for corn. No corn grows in this valley, I am certain.’
“‘It did not grow in this valley. It has travelled all the way from Saint Louis along with us. It is now in the wagon.’
“‘What! corn in the wagon?’ I exclaimed, starting up with such vehemence as to frighten my children. ‘Are you sure of that, Harry?’
“‘I saw it this very morning in one of the old bags,’ replied he.
“‘Come!’ cried I; ‘get a torch, Cudjo. To the wagon!—to the wagon!’
“In a short time we had reached the wagon, which stood close to the door. With a beating heart I climbed into it. There was an old worn-out buffalo robe, with the harness of the ox lying upon the bottom. I flung these aside; and underneath I saw a coarse gunny-bag, such as are used in the Western States for holding Indian corn. I knew that it was one of those we had brought with us from Saint Louis, containing corn for our horse and oxen; but I was under the impression that I had emptied out the last of it long before. I took the bag up, and, to my inexpressible delight, found that it still contained a small quantity of the precious grain; besides, there was still more of it, that had been spilled from time to time, and had got into the corners and cracks of the wagon. These we collected carefully and put with the rest—not leaving a single grain that we did not scrape out from the cracks. Then carrying my bag into the house, I turned out its contents upon the table. To our great joy there was, as Harry had affirmed, nearly a quart of the golden grain!
“‘Now,’ said I, ‘we shall have bread!’
“This was a glad sight to my wife. During the preceding days we had frequently talked upon this subject—the want of bread—which is one of our first necessities. We had lived in hope that we should find some species of cereal in the valley that would supply us with a substitute for bread; but up to that time nothing of the kind had appeared. We had gathered the mast from the beech-tree and roasted it. We had collected quantities of locust-pods and acorns. We had also eaten the pulpy fruit of the pawpaw; but all these together we found to be but poor apologies for real bread. This, then, was a discovery of greater importance to us than either the salt or the sugar.
“The winter, in the latitude of our valley, would be a short one. We could then plant the corn—there was enough of it to plant a whole acre. It would come to maturity in six or eight weeks; and we knew that in such a climate we could easily raise two crops in the year—so that before the next winter came round we should have enough and to spare.
“While we stood by the table talking over these pleasant prospects, one of the boys—Frank it was—suddenly shouted out, ‘Wheat! wheat!’
“I looked down to ascertain what he meant. He had been turning over the yellow seeds of the maize, and, among them, had discovered several grains of wheat. No doubt there had been wheat in the bag before the corn had been put into it; and this was soon confirmed, as, on carefully searching the bag, we found several of the precious pickles still clinging between the seams. After separating the one species from the other with great carefulness—for we did not wish to lose a single seed—we found that our grains of wheat counted exactly one hundred! This, to be sure, was a small quantity to go a-farming with, but we remembered the old saving, ‘Great oaks grow from little acorns,’ and we knew the importance of these small grey seeds. In a couple of years we should have large crops of wheat.
“‘You see,’ said I, addressing my little family, ‘how kind Providence has been to us. Here, in the middle of the Desert, has He furnished us with all the necessaries of life; and now, with a little patience, we may promise ourselves many of its luxuries—for what can mamma not make out of flour and sugar?’
“‘Oh, everything!’ cried Frank, who had grown enthusiastic at the prospect of farming, for he was fond of agricultural pursuits; ‘we can have venison-pasties with our flour.’
“‘And fruit-pies,’ added Harry; ‘there are plenty of fruits. I have found wild plums and cherries, and mulberries as long as my finger, and whortle-berries, too. What delicious puddings we can make.’
“‘Yes,’ said I; ‘now shall we care for coffee?’
“‘No, no!’ cried Frank and Harry in a breath.
“‘Then you shall have it,’ said their mother, with a smile of peculiar meaning.
“‘What! mother?’ exclaimed Harry, ‘another tree?’
“‘Yes, indeed, another.’
“‘Not a coffee-plant?’
“‘No; but a coffee-tree.’
“‘A coffee-tree! why I thought, mamma, that they never grew, except in the hottest parts of the tropics.’
“‘That is true enough of the small tree or shrub which produces the coffee you have been accustomed to drink; but not far from us there is a very large tree, whose seed will give us a very palatable substitute. Here is a specimen of it.’
“So saying, she threw down upon the table a large brown pod—of at least twelve inches in length by two in breadth—exactly the shape of a crescent or young moon. It reminded us of the pods of the locust, though differing considerably in shape. Like them, too, when opened—which was forthwith done—it was seen to contain a pulpy substance, in which several large grey-coloured seeds were imbedded. These seeds, she informed us, when parched, ground, and boiled—after the manner of the true coffee—would afford us a beverage nearly as good and quite as wholesome.
“‘The tree,’ said she, ‘from which I have plucked this pod, grows in most parts of America. You may have observed it here?’
“‘I have,’ interrupted Harry. ‘Now that mamma has shown us the use of the maples, I have been looking particularly at all the trees; since I find that some of them that appeared scarce worthy of notice, may after all be very interesting.’
“‘I have observed the tree,’ added Frank, who was something of a botanist as well as his mother; ‘I noticed that its bark is very rough, dropping off here and there in large curling scales. The branches, too, are very odd-looking; they have blunt, stumpy ends, that give the tree a clumsy appearance. Is it not so, mamma?’
“‘Precisely as you say. Hence its name of “chicot” among the Canadian French, and “stump-tree” in the United States. Its botanical name is gymnocladus, which means, “with naked branches;” for during the winter, as you shall find, it will present a very naked appearance. It is also known as the “Kentucky coffee-tree,” because the early pioneers and settlers of that country, when they were unable to obtain the true coffee, made use of its seeds, as we intend doing.’
“‘Oh!’ cried Harry; ‘only think of it—sugar, and coffee, and salt, and plenty of meat, and roast turkey—everything but bread. If we only had bread! Would our corn not grow if we planted it now, papa?’
“‘No; the frost would kill the young plants. We must have patience until spring.’
“‘It is a long time till spring,’ said Harry, with rather a discontented air; ‘and then we must wait much longer while the corn is growing. It is a very long time to wait.’
“‘Come, Master Hal,’ rejoined his mother, ‘I fear you are one of those who cannot be satisfied, no matter how many blessings are heaped upon them. Remember how many are worse off than yourself—how many are without bread, even where it is plentiest. No doubt, at this moment many a hungry boy in the streets of wealthy London is standing by the baker’s window, and gazing at the crisp loaves, with no more chance to eat one of them than you have. He is worse off than you. You have other food—plenty of it—he has none; and, moreover, his hunger is rendered more acute and painful by the sight of the tempting food—separated from his hand only by a pane of glass. Poor boy! that pane of glass is to him a wall of adamant. Think upon this, my son, and learn to be contented.’
“‘Indeed, I am so, mamma,’ replied Harry, with a look of contrition. ‘I did not mean to complain. I was only thinking how nice it would be to have bread, now that we have got both sugar and coffee.’
“‘Ah! now, my good Harry,’ said his mother, ‘since I find you in the proper spirit, I think I must tell you about another curious and useful tree, of which, perhaps, you have not heard.’
“‘A bread-fruit now, I’m sure? No, it cannot be that; for I have heard of the bread-fruit.’
“‘Still, it might very appropriately be called a bread-fruit, since, during the long winter months, it furnishes bread to many tribes of Indians; indeed, not bread alone, but subsistence—as it is the only food these improvident people have.’
“‘I am sure I have never heard of that tree.’
“‘Well, I imagine not, as it is not long since it was discovered and described by botanists; and even now it is but imperfectly known to them. It is a pine.’
“‘What! a pine with fruit?’
“‘Did you ever see a pine without it—that is, in the proper season?’
“‘Then you call those cone-shaped things fruit?’
“‘Certainly; what else should they be?’
“‘Oh! I thought those were the seed.’
“‘So are they, and the fruit as well. In botany we have no such word as fruit. What you call fruit is in some trees the seed. In all species of nuts, for instance, the fruit and the seed are one and the same thing—that is to say, the kernel of the nut is both fruit and seed. So it is with leguminous plants, as beans and peas. In other trees, however, the fruit is a substance covering and enclosing the seed, as the pulp of the apple, the pear, and the orange. Now, with regard to the pines, they are nut-bearing trees, and their seed is at the same time their fruit.’
“‘But, mamma, you do not mean that any one could eat those rough things that grow upon pine-trees?’
“‘Those rough things you speak of are the cones. They are only the sheaths that protect the seeds during a certain period of the year. They open as nuts do, and then you will find a kernel inside which is the true fruit.’
“‘But I have tasted that, too—it is quite bitter.’
“‘You have tasted that of the common pine, and you say true of it; but there are many species of pine-trees, whose seeds are not only edible, but pleasant to the taste, and wholesome as an article of food.’
“‘What pines, mamma?’
“‘Several species are known. Several new ones have been discovered of late years, and in this very Desert. Perhaps in no part of the world is found a greater variety of these valuable trees, than in the mountainous countries which border upon and lie within the Great American Desert. There is one species in California called “Colorado” by the Spaniards—which means red, because their wood, when sawn up, is of a reddish colour. Trees of this kind are the largest in the world; they are often over 300 feet in height! Only think of a tree 300 feet high, when the tallest we saw in the Mississippi Valley was not much over half that. Yet there are whole forests of these upon the mountains of the Sierra Nevada. There is another species almost as large on these same mountains. It has been called by botanists pinus Lambertiana. It is more remarkable, however, for the size of its cones, which are of the enormous length of eighteen inches—a foot and a half! Fancy how singular a sight it must be—one of these gigantic trees with cones hanging from its branches larger than sugar-loaves!’
“‘Oh, beautiful indeed!’ exclaimed Frank and Harry at the same time.
“‘But, mamma,’ added Frank, ‘are these the sort that are eaten by the Indians?’
“‘Their seeds are also fit to eat, and in times of great distress the Indians and others resort to them for food; but it is not of them I intended to speak. It is of another kind very distinct from either, and yet growing in the same region. It is a small tree, rarely seen of more than thirty or forty feet in height, and with leaves or needles of a much lighter green than the generality of pines. Its cones are not larger than those of the common sort; but the seed or kernel is oily like the American walnut, and quite as agreeable in flavour. They cannot be otherwise than nutritious, since, as I have said, they form the whole subsistence of many people for months in the year. They can be eaten raw; but the Indians usually roast them. When roasted or parched, and then ground in a mill, or broken in a mortar, they make a species of meal, which, though coarse in appearance, can be baked into sweet and wholesome bread. This tree is called by the Mexicans “piñon,” and also by travellers the “nut-pine.” The only botanist who has fairly described it has given it the name of pinus monophyllus. Perhaps as good a name as any, and certainly the most appropriate—I mean for its popular one—would be the “bread-pine.”’
“‘But, mamma, does this tree grow in our valley? We have not seen it.’
“‘Not in the valley, I think; but I have hopes that we may find it on the mountain. The day we came around from Camp Antelope, I thought I saw a strange species of pine growing up in the ravines. It might be this very one; and I am the more inclined to think so, as I have heard that it grows on the Rocky Mountains—within the latitudes of New Mexico—and also on all the sierras that lie between them and the Pacific. I see no reason why we should not find it upon our mountain, which is, no doubt, a sort of outlying peak of the Rocky Mountains themselves.’
“‘Oh! then,’ said Harry, ‘shall we not go up to the mountain, and see about it? An excursion to the mountain would be so very pleasant. Don’t you think so, papa?’
“‘I do, indeed,’ I replied; ‘and as soon as we can make a cart for Pompo, so as to be able to take mamma and the children along with us, we shall go there.’
“This proposal was hailed with delight, as all wished very much to visit the beautiful mountain that rose so majestically above us. It was settled, then, that on the first fine day, as soon as our cart should be constructed, we would set forth, and make a grand pic-nic to the Snow-mountain.”