theatrical parlance, would have been termed the heavy lead, the
dragons and the wicked uncles, the fussy necromancers and the
uninvited fairies. As authoress of a new cookery book for use in
giant-land, my aunt, I am sure, would have been successful. Most
recipes that one reads are so monotonously meagre: "Boil him," "Put
her on the spit and roast her for supper," "Cook 'em in a pie--with
plenty of gravy;" but my aunt into the domestic economy of Ogredom
introduced variety and daintiness.

"I think, my dear," my aunt would direct, "we'll have him stuffed with
chestnuts and served on toast. And don't forget the giblets. They
make such excellent sauce."

With regard to the diet of imprisoned maidens she would advise:

"Not too much fish--it spoils the flesh for roasting."

The things that she would turn people into--king's sons, rightful
princesses, such sort of people--people who after a time, one would
think, must have quite forgotten what they started as. To let her
have her way was a lesson to me in natural history both present and
pre-historic. The most beautiful damsel that ever lived she would
without a moment's hesitation turn into a Glyptodon or a Hippocrepian.
Afterwards, when I could guess at the spelling, I would look these
creatures up in the illustrated dictionary, and feel that under no
circumstances could I have loved the lady ever again. Warriors and
kings she would delight in transforming into plaice or prawns, and
haughty queens into Brussels sprouts.

With gusto would she plan a complicated slaughter, paying heed to