"A French traveler, it is said, as he entered Castile, met a shepherd guiding his flock. Curious to know all the circumstances which give to the Spanish wool its inimitable qualities, he asked the shepherd an hundred questions: 'If his flock belonged to that district? What sort of food was given it? Whether he was on a journey? From whence he came? Whither he was going? When he would return?' In short, he asked every question a prying Frenchman could think of. The shepherd listened coldly to them all. Then, in the sententious style of a true Castilian, replied, '_aqui nacen_, _aqui pacen_, _aqui mueren_,' (here they breed, here they feed, here they die,) and went his way without a word more."
The party spent some time here, dining and resting under the shade of these prickly oaks, the tree that yields the famous _botolas_, so largely used for food by men and swine, and on tasting which we are less surprised that in "the primal age,"
"Hunger then Made acorns tasteful; thirst each rivulet Run nectar."
Mrs. Shortridge had contrived to snatch a short siesta, in spite of her fears. Their horses were led up, ready for them to mount and proceed on their journey, when Lady Mabel, plucking a twig from a branch overhead, observed on it several specimens of the _kermes_. She could not resist this opportunity of displaying her scraps of scientific lore, and detained the party while she delivered a discourse on the _coccus arborum_, "which," she said, "infests this tree; the _quercus cocci_. This furnishes what the ignorant-learned long called grains of kermes, looking like dried currants, which they mistook for the fruit of a tree, while it is, in truth, the dried body of an insect. It affords a vermilion dye, not so brilliant, but far more durable than the cochineal of Mexico. There are in the Netherlands," she continued, "rich tapestries dyed with kermes, known to be three hundred years old, which still retain their pristine brilliancy of color. Only think, Mrs. Shortridge, of having carpets, shawls and cloaks of such unfading hues!"
"They would be of no use to me," yawned Mrs. Shortridge, "I would be even more tired of myself than of my cloak, before the end of three hundred years."