“That will do for one meal,” said he. “Here, Teofilo, run and tell Anselmo to catch two pullets--fat ones, mind. To be plucked at once. You may look for half a dozen fresh eggs for your mother to put in the stew. And, Felipe, go find Cosme and tell him to saddle the roan pony to go to the store at once. Now, wife, what is wanted--rice, sugar, vinegar, oil, raisins, pepper, saffron, salt, cloves, cummin seed, wine, brandy--” “Stop one moment,” I cried. “If you think it necessary to get provisions enough for an army to give me breakfast, I must tell you that I draw the line at brandy. I never touch it--in this country.” He shook hands with me again. “You are right,” he said. “Always stick to the native drink, wherever you are, even if it is black draught. Whisky in Scotland, in the Banda Orientál rum--that's my rule.” The place was now in a great commotion, the children saddling ponies, shouting in pursuit of fugitive chickens, and my energetic host ordering his wife about. After the boy was despatched for the things and my horse taken care of, we sat for half an hour in the kitchen sipping _maté_ and conversing very agreeably. Then my host took me out into his garden behind the house to be out of his wife's way while she was engaged cooking breakfast, and there he began talking in English. “Twenty-five years I have been on this continent,” said he, telling me his history, “eighteen of them in the Banda Orientál.” “Well, you have not forgotten your language,” I said. “I suppose you read?”