ant country: and assuredly from the
New World. Every edible vegetable attracts its consumers. If it had
originated in the Old World the haricot would have had its licensed
consumers, as have the pea, the lentil, and the broad bean. The smallest
leguminous seed, if barely bigger than a pin's head, nourishes its
weevil; a dwarf which patiently nibbles it and excavates a dwelling; but
the plump, delicious haricot is spared.

This astonishing immunity can have only one explanation: like the potato
and the maize-plant, the haricot is a gift of the New World. It arrived
in Europe without the company of the insect which exploits it in its
native country; it has found in our fields another world of insects,
which have despised it because they did not know it. Similarly the
potato and the ear of maize are untouched in France unless their
American consumers are accidentally imported with them.

The verdict of the insect is confirmed by the negative testimony of the
ancient classics; the haricot never appears on the table of the Greek or
Roman peasant. In the second Eclogue of Virgil Thestylis prepares the
repast of the harvesters:--

Thestylis et rapido fessis messoribus aestu
Allia serpyllumque herbas contundit olentes.

This mixture is the equivalent of the _aioli_, dear to the Provencal
palate. It sounds very well in verse, but is not very substantial. On
such an occasion men would look for that fundamental dish, the plate of
red haricots, seasoned with chopped onions. All in good time; this at
least would ballast the stomach. Thus refreshed in the open air,
listening to the song of the cigales, the gang of harvesters would take
their mid-day rest and gently digest their meal in the shadows of the
sheaves. Our modern Thestylis, differing little from her classic sister,
would take good care not to forget the _gounflo-gus_, that economical
resource of large appetites. The Thestylis of the past did not think of
providing it because she did not know it.

The same author shows us Tityrus offering a night's hospitality to his
friend Meliboeus, who has been driven from his property by the
soldiers of Octavius, and goes limping behind his flock of goats. We
shall have, says Tityrus, chestnuts, cheese, and fruits. History does
not say if Meliboeus allowed himself to be tempted. It is a pity; for
during the frugal meal we might have learned in a more explicit fashion
that the shepherds of the ancient world were not acquainted w