The meaning was evident enough, but we sought something further of the
druggist at the corner, who did his best for us in such English as he
had. It was not quite the English of Ronda; but he praised his grammar
while he owned that his vocabulary was in decay from want of practise.
In fact, he well-nigh committed us to the purchase of one of those
votive candles, which he understood we wished to buy; he all but sent to
the sacristan to get one. There were several onlookers, as there always
are in Latin pharmacies, and there was a sad young mother waiting for
medicine with a sick baby in her arms. The druggist said it had fever of
the stomach; he seemed proud of the fact, and some talk passed between
him and the bystanders which related to it. We asked if he had any of
the quince jelly which we had learned to like in Seville, but he could
only refer us to the confectioner's on the other corner. Here was not
indeed quince jelly, but we compromised on quince cheese, as the English
call it; and we bought several boxes of it to take to America, which I
am sorry to say moulded before our voyage began, and had to be thrown
away. Near this confectioner's was a booth where boiled sweet-potatoes
were sold, with oranges and joints of sugar-cane, and, spitted on
straws, that terrible fruit of the strawberry tree which we had tasted
at Honda without wishing to taste it ever again.
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