The Hasty-Pudding, with a Memoir on Maize or Indian Corn

Front matter

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by William H. Graham, In the Clerk’s Office of the Southern District of New York.

S. W. BENEDICT, STEREOTYPER AND PRINTER, 16 Spruce st.

The Hasty-Pudding

THE

HASTY-PUDDING.

CANTO I.

Ye Alps audacious, thro’ the heavens that rise, To cramp the day and hide me from the skies; Ye Gallic flags that o’er their heights unfurl’d, Bear death to kings, and freedom to the world, I sing not you.A softer theme I choose, A virgin theme, unconscious of the Muse, But fruitful, rich, well suited to inspire The purest frenzy of poetic fire.

Despise it not, ye bards to terror steel’d, Who hurl’d your thunders round the epic field; Nor ye who strain your midnight throats to sing Joys that the vineyard and the still-house bring; Or on some distant fair your notes employ, And speak of raptures that you ne’er enjoy. I sing the sweets I know, the charms I feel, My morning incense, and my evening meal, The sweets of Hasty-Pudding.Come, dear bowl, Glide o’er my palate, and inspire my soul. The milk beside thee, smoking from the kine, Its substance mingl’d, married in with thine, Shall cool and temper thy superior heat, And save the pains of blowing while I eat.

Oh! could the smooth, the emblematic song Flow like the genial juices o’er my tongue, Could those mild morsels in numbers chime, And as they roll in substance, roll in rhyme, No more thy awkward unpoetic name, Should shun the muse, or prejudice thy fame;

But, rising grateful to th’ accustom’d ear, All bards should catch it, and all realms revere!

Assist me first with pious toil to trace, Thro’ wrecks of time thy lineage and thy race; Declare what lovely squaw, in days of yore, (Ere great Columbus sought thy native shore,) First gave thee to the world; her works of fame Have liv’d indeed, but liv’d without a name. Some tawny Ceres, goddess of her days, First learn’d with stones to crack the well-dry’d maize, Thro’ the rough sieve to shake the golden show’r, In boiling water stir the yellow flour— The yellow flour, bestrew’d and stir’d with haste, Swells in the flood and thickens to a paste, Then puffs and wallops, rises to the brim, Drinks the dry knobs that on the surface swim; The knobs at last the busy ladle breaks, And the whole mass its true consistence takes.

Could but her sacred name, unknown so long, Rise like her labours, to the son of song, To her, to them, I’d consecrate my lays, And blow her pudding with the breath of praise. If ’twas Oello, whom I sang before, I here ascribe her one great virtue more. Not thro’ the rich Peruvian realms alone The fame of Sol’s sweet daughter should be known, But o’er the world’s wide climes should live secure, Far as his rays extend, as long as they endure.

Dear Hasty-Pudding, what unpromis’d joy Expands my heart, to meet thee in Savoy! Doom’d o’er the world thro’ devious paths to roam, Each clime my country, and each house my home, My soul is sooth’d, my cares have found an end, I greet my long-lost, unforgotten friend.

For thee thro’ Paris, that corrupted town, How long in vain I wander’d up and down, Where shameless Bacchus, with his drenching hoard Cold from his cave, usurps the morning board. London is lost in smoke and steep’d in tea; No Yankee there can lisp the name of thee;

The uncouth word, a libel on the town, Would call a proclamation from the crown. From climes oblique, that fear the sun’s full rays, Chill’d in their fogs, exclude the gen’rous maize; A grain whose rich luxuriant growth requires Short gentle showers, and bright ethereal fires.

But here, tho’ distant from our native shore, With mutual glee we meet and laugh once more. The same! I know thee by that yellow face, That strong complexion of true Indian race, Which time can never change, nor soil impair, Nor Alpine snows, nor Turkey’s morbid air; For endless years, thro’ every mild domain, Where grows the maize, there thou art sure to reign.

But man, more fickle, the bold license claims, In different realms to give thee different names. Thee the soft nations round the warm Levant Polenta call, the French of course Polente; Ev’n in thy native regions, how I blush To hear the Pennsylvanians call thee Mush! On Hudson’s bunks, while men of Belgic spawn Insult and eat thee by the name Suppawn. All spurious appellations, void of truth; I’ve better known thee from my earliest youth, Thy name is Hasty-Pudding! thus our sires Was wont to greet thee fuming from their fires; And while they argu’d in thy just defence With logic clear, they thus explain’d the sense:— “In haste the boiling caldron o’er the blaze, “Receives and cooks the ready-powder’d maize; “In haste ’tis serv’d and then in equal haste, “With cooling milk, we make the sweet repast. “No carving to be done, no knife to grate “The tender ear, and wound the stony plate; “But the smooth spoon, just fitted to the lip, “And taught with art the yielding mass to dip, “By frequent journeys to the bowl well stor’d “Performs the hasty honours of the board.” Such is thy name, significant and clear, A name, a sound to every Yankee dear,

But most to me, whose heart and palate chaste Preserve my pure hereditary taste.

There are who strive to stamp with disrepute The luscious food, because it feeds the brute; In tropes of high-strain’d wit, while gaudy prigs Compare thy nursling man to pamper’d pigs; With sovereign scorn I treat the vulgar jest, Nor fear to share thy bounties with the beast. What tho’ the gen’rous cow gives me to quaff The milk nutritious; am I then a calf? Or can the genius of the noisy swine, Tho’ nursed on pudding, thence lay claim to mine? Sure the sweet song, I fashion to thy praise, Runs more melodious than the notes they raise.

My song resounding in its grateful glee, No merit claims; I praise myself in thee. My father lov’d thee thro’ his length of days! For thee his fields were shaded o’er with maize; From thee what health, what vigour he possess’d, Ten sturdy freemen from him attest; Thy constellation rul’d my natal morn, And all my bones were made of Indian corn. Delicious grain! whatever form it take, To roast or boil, to smother or to bake, In every dish ’tis welcome still to me, But most, my Hasty Pudding, most in thee.

Let the green succotash with thee contend, Let beans and corn their sweetest juices blend, Let butter drench them in its yellow tide, And a long slice of bacon grace their side; Not all the plate, how fam’d soe’er it be, Can please my palate like a bowl of thee.

Some talk of Hoe-Cake, fair Virginia’s pride, Rich Johnny-cake this mouth has often try’d; Both please me well, their virtues much the same; Alike their fabric, as allied their fame, Except in dear New England, where the last Receives a dash of pumpkin in the paste, To give it sweetness and improve the taste. But place them all before me, smoking hot, The big, round dumpling, rolling from the pot;

The pudding of the bag, whose quiv’ring breast, With suet lin’d, leads on the Yankee feast; The Charlotte brown, within whose crusty sides A belly soft the pulpy apple hides; The yellow bread, whose face like amber glows, And all of Indian that the bake-pan knows— You tempt me not—my fav’rite greets my eyes, To that lov’d bowl my spoon by instinct flies.

CANTO II.

To mix the food by vicious rules of art, To kill the stomach and to sink the heart, To make mankind, to social virtue sour, Cram o’er each dish, and be what they devour; For this the kitchen Muse first fram’d her book, Commanding sweats to stream from every cook; Children no more their antic gambols tried, And friends to physic wonder’d why they died. Not so the Yankee—his abundant feast, With simples furnish’d, and with plainness dress’d, A num’rous offspring gathers round the board, And cheers alike the servant and the lord; Whose well-bought hunger prompts the joyous taste, And health attends them from the short repast.

While the full pail rewards the milk-maid’s toil, The mother sees the morning caldron boil; To stir the pudding next demands their care, To spread the table and the bowls prepare; To feed the children, as their portions cool, And comb their heads, and send them off to school.

Yet may the simplest dish, some rules impart, For nature scorns not all the aids of art. E’en Hasty-Pudding, purest of all food, May still be bad, indifferent, or good, As sage experience the short process guides, Or want of skill, or want of care presides, Whoer’er would form it on the surest plan, To rear the child and long sustain the man;

To shield the morals while it mends the size, And all the powers of every food supplies— Attend the lesson that the Muse shall bring, Suspend your spoons, and listen while I sing.

But since, O man! thy life and health demand Not food alone, but labour from thy hand, First in the field, beneath the sun’s strong rays, Ask of thy mother, earth the needful maize; She loves the race that courts her yielding soil, And gives her bounties to the sons of toil.

When now the ox obedient to thy call, Repays the loan that fill’d the winter stall, Pursue his traces o’er the furrow’d plain, And plant in measur’d hills the golden grain. But when the tender germ begins to shoot, And the green spire declares the sprouting root, Then guard your nursling from each greedy foe, Th’ insidious worm, the all-devouring crow. A little ashes, sprinkled round the spire, Soon steep’d in rain, will bid the worm retire; The feather’d robber with his hungry maw Swift flies the field before your man of straw, A frightful image, such as school-boys bring When met to burn the Pope, or hang the King.

Thrice in the season, thro’ each verdant row Wield the strong plough-share and the faithful hoe— The faithful hoe, a double task that takes, To till the summer corn, and roast the winter cakes.

Slow springs the blade, while check’d by chilling rains, Ere yet the sun the seat of Cancer gains; But when his fiercest fires emblaze the land, Then start the juices, then the roots expand; Then, like a column of Corinthian mould, The stalk struts upward, and the leaves unfold; The busy branches all the ridges fill, Entwine their arms, and kiss from hill to hill. Here cease to vex them, all your cares are done; Leave the last labours to the parent sun; Beneath his genial smiles the well-dress’d field, When autumn calls, a plenteous crop shall yield.

Now the strong foliage bears the standards high, And shoots the tall top-gallants to the sky; The suckling ears their silky fringes bend, And pregnant grown, their swelling coats distend; The loaded stalk, while still the burthen grows, O’erhangs the space that runs between the rows; High as a hop-field waves the silent grove, A safe retreat for little thefts of love, When the pledg’d roasting-ears invite the maid, To meet her swain beneath the new-form’d shade; His gen’rous hand unloads the cumbrous hill, And the green spoils her ready basket fill; Small compensation for the twofold bliss, The promised wedding, and the present kiss.

Slight depredations these; but now the moon Calls from his hollow tree the sly raccoon; And while by night he bears his prize away, The bolder squirrel labours thro’ the day. Both thieves alike, but provident of time, A virtue, rare, that almost hides their crime. Then let them steal the little stores they can, And fill their gran’ries from the toils of man; We’ve one advantage where they take no part,— With all their wiles they ne’er have found the art To boil the Hasty-Pudding; here we shine Superior far to tenants of the pine; This envied boon to man shall still belong, Unshar’d by them in substance or in song.

At last the closing season browns the plain, And ripe October gathers in the grain; Deep-loaded carts the spacious corn-house fill, The sack distended marches to the mill; The lab’ring mill beneath the burthen groans, And showers the future pudding from the stones; Till the glad house-wife greets the powder’d gold, And the new crop exterminates the old.

CANTO III.

The days grow short; but tho’ the falling sun To the glad swain proclaims his day’s work done,

Night’s pleasing shades his various tasks prolong, And yield new subjects to my various song. For now, the corn-house fill’d, the harvest home, Th’ invited neighbors to the Husking come; A frolic scene, where work, and mirth, and play, Unite their charms, to chase the hours away.

Where the huge heap lies centr’d in the hall, The lamp suspended from the cheerful wall, Brown corn-fed nymphs, and strong hard-handed beaux Alternate rang’d, extend in circling rows, Assume their seats, the solid mass attack; The dry husks rustle, and the corn-cobs crack; The song, the laugh, alternate notes resound, And the sweet cider trips in silence round.

The laws of husking ev’ry wight can tell; And sure no laws he ever keeps so well; For each red ear a gen’ral kiss he gains, With each smut ear he smuts the luckless swains; But when to some sweet maid a prize is cast, Red as her lips, and taper as her waist, She walks around, and culls one favor’d beau, Who leaps, the luscious tribute to bestow. Various the sport, as are the wits and brains Of well-pleas’d lasses and contending swains; Till the vast mound of corn is swept away, And he that gets the last ear, wins the day.

Meanwhile the house-wife urges all her care, The well-earned feast to hasten and prepare. The sifted meal already waits her hand, The milk is strain’d, the bowls in order stand, The fire flames high; and, as a pool (that takes The head-long stream that o’er the mill-dam breaks) Foams, roars, and rages with incessant toils, So the vex’d caldron rages, roars, and boils.

First, with clean salt she seasons well the food, Then strews the flour and thickens all the flood. Long o’er the sim’ring fire she lets it stand; To stir it well demands a stronger hand; The husband takes his turn; and round and round The ladle flies; at last the toil is crown’d; When to the board the thronging huskers pour, And take their seats as at the corn before.

I leave them to their feast.There still belong More useful matters to my faithful song. For rules there are, tho’ ne’er unfolded yet, Nice rules and wise, how pudding should be ate.

Some with molasses line the luscious treat, And mix, like bards, the useful with the sweet. A wholesome dish, and well deserving praise, A great resource in those bleak wintry days, When the chill’d earth lies buried deep in snow, And raging Boreas dries the shiv’ring cow.

Blest cow! thy praise shall still my notes employ, Great source of health, the only source of joy; How oft thy teats these pious hands have press’d! How oft thy bounties prove my only feast! How oft I’ve fed thee with my fav’rite grain! And roar’d, like thee, to see thy children slain!

Ye swains who know her various worth to prize, Ah! house her well from winter’s angry skies. Potatoes, pumpkins, should her sadness cheer, Corn from your crib, and mashes from your beer; When spring returns she’ll well acquit the loan, And nurse at once your infants and her own.

Milk, then, with pudding, I should always choose; To this in future I confine my Muse, Till she in haste some further hints unfold, Well for the young, nor useless to the old. First in your bowl the milk abundant take, Then drop with care along the silver lake Your flakes of pudding; these at first will hide Their little bulk beneath the swelling tide; But when their growing mass no more can sink; When the soft island looms above the brink, Then check your hand; you’ve got the portion’s due, So taught our sires and what he taught is true.

There is a choice in spoons.Tho’ small appear The nice distinction, yet to me ’tis clear, The deep bowl’d Gallic spoon, contriv’d to scoop In ample draughts the thin diluted soup, Performs not well in those substantial things, Whose mass adhesive to the metal clings;

Where the strong labial muscles must embrace, The gentle curve, and sweep the hollow space. With ease to enter and discharge the freight, A bowl less concave but still more dilate, Becomes the pudding best.The shape, the size, A secret rests unknown to vulgar eyes; Experienc’d feeders can alone impart A rule so much above the lore of art. These tuneful lips, that thousand spoons have tried, With just precision could the point decide, Tho’ not in song; the muse but poorly shines In cones and cubes, and geometric lines. Yet the true form, as near as she can tell, Is that small section of a goose egg-shell, Which in two equal portions shall divide The distance from the centre to the side.

Fear not to slaver; ’tis no deadly sin, Like the free Frenchman, from your joyous chin Suspend the ready napkin; or, like me, Poise with one hand your bowl upon your knee; Just in the zenith your wise head project, Your full spoon, rising in a line direct, Bold as a bucket, heed no drops that fall, The wide-mouth’d bowl will surely catch them all.

Maize or Indian Corn

MAIZE OR INDIAN CORN

INDIAN CORN.

Synonymes.

| Zea mays, | | Of Botanists.

| Maize, Indian Corn, | | Britain and Anglo-America.

| Maïs, Blé d’Indie, Blé de Turquie, | | France

| Maiz, Trigo de Indias, | | Spain.

| Grano d’India, Grano Turco, | Italy.

| Grano Siciliano,

| Maiz, Milho da India, | Portugal and Brazil.

| Milho grande,

| Mais, Türkischer Korn, | | Germany.

| Mays, Turksch Koorn, | | Holland.

| Turkish Hvede, | | Sweeden and Denmark.

| Tureskoichljeb, | | Russia.

Derivations.—The generic name Zea is derived from the Greek zao, to live, from the nutritive qualities of this, or some other kind of corn formerly cultivated in Greece or on the adjacent Archipelago. The word mays, and all its derivatives, according to Clavigero, have been derived from the denomination of this vegetable in the Haitina language, or that of Hispaniola; but by others, it is thought to come from the Lettish and Livonic mayse, which signifies bread in those languages. The European names Blé d’Indie, Trigo de Indias, etc., have been so called on account of this grain having first been brought by Columbus from America, which was known at that time by the name of the “Indies;” and those names signifying “Turkish Corn,” took their origin from the circumstance that the cultivation of this plant spread from Turkey to the neighbouring countries, and consequently led some writers to believe that it first came from the East.

Description.

The fruitful maize, in verdant vistas rear’d, Its spire majestic, to the playful breeze, Spreading its loosely-waving panicles, while low The purple anthers bending o’er to kiss The silken, tassel’d styles, delight the eye Of watchful Ceres.

Maize, or Indian Corn, consists of several varieties which are thought to owe their distinctive characters to the accidental modifications of climate, soil, and culture, rather than to any original differences. The plant is described by botanists, as a strong, reedy, jointed stalk, provided with large alternate leaves, almost like flags, springing from every joint. The top produces a bunch of male flowers, of various colours, which is called the tassel. Each plant bears, likewise, one or more spikes or ears, seldom so few as one, and rarely more than four or five, the most usual number being three; as many as seven have been seen occasionally on one stalk. These ears proceed from the stalk at various distances from the ground, and are closely enveloped by several thin leaves, forming a sheath, which is called the husk. The ears consist of a cylindrical substance, of the nature of a pith, which is called the cob, over the entire surface of which the seeds are ranged, and fixed in eight or more straight rows, each row having generally as many as thirty or more seeds. The eyes, or germs of the seeds, are in nearly radial lines from the centre of the cylinder; from these eyes proceed individual filaments of a silky appearance, and of a bright-green colour; the aggregate of these hang out from the point of the husk, in a thick cluster, and in this state are called the silk. It is the office of these filaments, which are the stigmata, to receive the farina, which drops from the flowers on the top or tassel, and without which the ears would produce no seed,—a fact which has been established by cutting off the top previous to the development of its flowers, when the ears proved wholly barren. So soon as their office has been thus performed, both the tassel and the silk dry up, and put on a withered appearance.

The grains of maize are of different colours, the prevailing hue being yellow of various shades, sometimes approaching to white, and at other times deepening to red. Some are of a deep chocolate-colour, others greenish or olive-coloured, and even the same ears will sometimes contain grains of different colours.

Geography and History.—Indian Corn, when due regard is paid to the selection of varieties, may be accounted as a sure crop, in almost every portion of the habitable globe, between the forty-third degree of north latitude, and a corresponding parallel south. Its principle culture is confined to the United States, Mexico, the West Indies, and most of the states of South America. It is also cultivated with success in Spain, Portugal, Lombardy, and may be grown in southern Europe generally. It is likewise found to thrive in India, China, Japan, Australia, the Sandwich Islands, as well as in the groups of the Azores, the Madeiras, Canaries, and numerous other ocean isles.

Roulin, Humboldt, Bonpland, and others, have noticed this plant in its indigenous state in America, and hence have concluded that it was first derived from this country. Mathioli, Cieça, Zeri, and Inca Garcilasso, have also confirmed this opinion. Fuchs, on the contrary, very early maintained that it came from the East. Michaud, Daru, and Bonafous, state that it was known in Asia Minor before the discovery of America; and Crawford, in his “History of the Indian Archipelago,” tells us that maize was cultivated by the inhabitants of these islands, under the name of djagoung, long before that period. In the “Natural History of China,” composed by Li-Chi Tchin, towards the middle of the XVIth century, a rude figure is given of the Zea mays, under the title of la-chou-cha; and Rifaud, in his “Voyage en Egypte, &c, from 1805 to 1807,” observes, that he discovered this grain in a subterranean excavation in a remarkably good state of preservation. M. Virey, however, in the “Journal de Pharmacie,” refutes these statements, by showing that these authors have mistaken the Indian millet (Sorghum vulgare) for maize, and that the grain found by Rifaud, was the Sorghum bicolor, which, according to Delile, is a native of Egypt. Regmir and Gregory attempt to present fresh arguments in favour of the Eastern origin of this plant. Among them is the name by which it has long been known in Europe, Blé de Turquie; and varieties of it, they state, have been brought from the Isle of France, or from China. Moreau de Jonnés, on the contrary, has more recently maintained in a memoir read before the Academy of Sciences, at Paris, that its origin was in America. The name Blé de Turquie, no more proves it to be of Turkish origin, than the name of the English Horse Bean proves that that plant originally grew wild in Britain. The general cultivation of maize, in southern Europe, and the production of some new varieties, proves nothing with regard to the origin of the species. Nor, where it occurs in the East, there is no proof of its having been carried there previously to the discovery of America.

In favour of the American origin of maize, is the fact that it was found in a state of cultivation in most of the places where the first navigators landed. Columbus discovered it on the Island of Cuba, and other points, where he touched on his first voyage to America, Vasco Nuñez, in Guiana, Amadas and Barlow, in Florida, and Gonçalo Ximines, in New Granada,—the latter of whom, says, “The principal food of the natives was Maiz and Cassave, which first grows on stalks of the size of canes, bearing very large and weighty spikes or ears, each generally yielding seven hundred grains—a bushel of which, when planted in warm, moist land, frequently produces three hundred fold. The maize is distinguished into a coarser and a finer sort, which last is called Moroche, the leaves and stalks affording wholesome provender for horses, and the grains or kernels, bread for the inhabitants, who make it several ways; for sometimes they boil the corn in water, and at other times, parch it in ashes, or grind it into flour, which, when kneaded into dough, they make into cakes, biscuits, etc. Moreover, maize steeped in water, boiled, and afterwards fermented, makes a very strong liquor.”

All the early historians, both of North and South America, give the strongest testimony that this grain is of American origin, and speak of it as having constituted a great part of the food of the Indians from time immemorial.

Inca Garcilasso de la Vega, in treating of the products of Peru, says, “Of the fruits that grow above ground, the chief and principal, is that grain which the people of Mexico and Barlovento call Mayz, and those of Peru, Cara, being the only bread they use. And this is of two sorts, one called Muruchu, which is hard, and the other Capia, which is tender and fine, and is eaten as bread, either boiled, baked, or parched, over the fire. The hard kind is that which has been brought to Spain, but not the fine and tender sort.” The corn of the Incas, he says, was ground by women, between two broad stones in the form of a half moon, from the flour of which, they made a kind of hasty-pudding, called Api, a great dish among them, esteemed as high feeding, but was not common at every meal. He mentions another kind of bread, made of maize, called Cara, upon which he was nourished for nine or ten years. This consisted of three sorts, namely, Cancu, used only for sacrifice; Huminta, for feasts and great entertainments; and Tanta or bread of common use. Boiled cara they called Muti, which is also the name of boiled corn. The virgins or wives of the Sun, were employed in the evening in kneading great quantities of dough, which they formed into small round cakes that were eaten by the Indians only at the feasts of Raymi and Citua; for, at other times, they never eat their maize kneaded into bread, nor did they eat it at their meals, with the exception of two or three mouthfuls at the beginning. Their physicians prescribed no other diet to their sick than what was made of maize. They also made plasters or poultices of it, which they applied for the relief of aches, colics, and other pains. Of the flour of maize, mixed with water, the Indians brewed their common beverage, which, by a certain process, they were able to convert into an excellent vinegar. Of the stalks, before the maize was ripe, they made a kind of honey, and some, who loved to be drunk, lay their corn steeping in water, until germination took place, and then, after grinding, boiled it in the same water, drawed it off, and kept it until stale. This was the strongest drink the Peruvians had, which was called, in their language, Vinnapu, and by some of the neighbouring tribes, Soro. From its intoxicating effects, its use was prohibited by the Incas, who made it a penal offence with all who drank to excess.

Francisco Saverio Clavigero, in describing the grain of Mexico, says, “The chief, the most useful, and most common, was the maize, called by the Indians Tluolli, of which there are several varieties, differing in size, colour, weight, and taste. There is the large and the small sort, the white, the yellow, the blue, and the black.”

Captain John Smith, in his account of the Indians of Virginia, says, “The greatest labour they take, is in planting their corne, for the country naturally is overgrowne with wood. To prepare the ground, they bruise the barke of the trees neare the root, then doe they scortch the roots with fire that they grow no more. The next yeare with a crooked peece of wood they beat vp the weeds by the rootes, and in that mould they plant their corne. Their manner is this. They make a hole in the earth with a sticke, and into it they put foure graines of wheate (maize), and two of beanes. These holes they make foure foote one from another. Their women and children do continually keepe it with weeding, and when it is growne middle high, they hill it about like a hop-yard. In Aprill they begin to plant, but their chiefe plantation is in May, and so they continue till the midst of Iune. What they plant in Aprill, they reape in August: for May in September; for Iune in October. Every stalke of their corne commonly beareth two eares, some three, seldome any foure, many but one, and some none. Every eare ordinarily hath betwixt 200 and 500 graines. The stalke being greene hath a sweet iuice in it, somewhat like sugar-cane, which is the cause that when they gather their corne greene, they sucke the stalkes; for as we gather greene pease, so doe they their corne, being greene, which excelleth their old. * * * * * Their corne they rost in the eare greene, and bruising it in morter of wood with a polt, lap it in rowles in the leaues of their corne, and so boyle it for a daintie. They also reserue that corne late planted that will not ripe, by roasting it in hot ashes, the heat thereof drying it. In winter they esteeme it being boyled with beanes for a rare dish, they call Pausarowmena. Their old wheat (maize) they first steepe a night in hot water, in the morning pounding it in a morter. They vse a small basket for their temmes (sieve), then pound againe the great, and so separating by dashing their hand in the basket, receiue the flower in a platter made of wood, scraped to that forme with burning and shels. Tempering this flower with water, they make it either in cakes, covering them with ashes till they be baked, and then washing them in faire water, they drie presently with their owne heat: or else boyle them in water, eating the broth with the bread which they call Ponap. The groutes and peeces of the cornes remaining, by fanning in a platter or in the wind, away, the branne they boyle 3 or 4 houres with water, which is an ordinary food they call Vstatahamen. But some more thriftie then cleanly, doe burne the core (cob) of the eare to powder, which they call Pungnough, mingling that in their meale, but it never tasted well in bread, nor broth.”