I remembered having seen the chandler at work,
and I tried to recall all my remembrances of the process. I put into a
boiler as many berries as it would hold, and placed it over a moderate
fire: the wax melted from the berries, and rose to the surface, and this
I carefully skimmed with a large flat spoon and put in a separate vessel
placed near the fire; when this was done, my wife supplied me with some
wicks she had made from the threads of sailcloth; these wicks were
attached, four at a time, to a small stick; I dipped them into the wax,
and placed them on two branches of a tree to dry; I repeated this
operation as often as necessary to make them the proper thickness, and
then placed them in a cool spot to harden. But we could not forbear
trying them that very night; and, thought somewhat rude in form, it was
sufficient that they reminded us of our European home, and prolonged our
days by many useful hours we had lost before.
This encouraged me to attempt another enterprise. My wife had long
regretted that she had not been able to make butter. She had attempted
to beat her cream in a vessel, but either the heat of the climate, or
her want of patience, rendered her trials unsuccessful. I felt that I
had not skill enough to make a churn; but I fancied that by some simple
method, like that used by the Hottentots, who put their cream in a skin
and shake it till they produce butter, we might obtain the same result.
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