Cold Boiled Ham. Fried Potatoes.
Apples and Onions stewed together.
Ginger-snaps. Pickles.
Peaches, Apricots, and Nectarines.
California Nuts and Raisins.
Coffee.


And last of all, a surprise of Bell's, flapjacks, long teased for by
the boys, and prepared and fried by her own hands while the merry
party waited at table, to get them smoking hot.

She came in flushed with heat and pride, the prettiest cook anybody
ever saw, with her hair bobbed up out of the way and doing its best
to escape, a high-necked white apron, sleeves rolled up to the elbow,
and an insinuating spot of batter in the dimple of her left cheek.

'There!' she cried, joyfully, as she deposited a heaping plate in
front of her mother, and set the tin can of maple syrup by its side.
'Begin on those, and I'll fry like lightning on two griddles to keep
up with you,' and she rushed to the brush kitchen to turn her next
instalments that had been left to brown. Hop Yet had retired to a
distant spot by the brook, and was washing dish-towels. All Chinese
cooks are alike in their horror of a woman in the kitchen; but some
of them will unbend so far as to allow her to amuse herself so long
as they are not required to witness the disagreeable spectacle.

Bell delicately inserted the cake-turner under the curled edges of
the flapjacks and turned them over deftly, using a little too much
force, perhaps, in the downward stroke when she flung them back on