in the dispiriting presence of the squalid table d'ho^te.

Foreigners cannot enjoy our food, I suppose, any more than we
can enjoy theirs. It is not strange; for tastes are made,
not born. I might glorify my bill of fare until I was tired;
but after all, the Scotchman would shake his head and say,
"Where's your haggis?" and the Fijian would sigh and say,
"Where's your missionary?"

I have a neat talent in matters pertaining to nourishment.
This has met with professional recognition. I have often
furnished recipes for cook-books. Here are some designs
for pies and things, which I recently prepared for a
friend's projected cook-book, but as I forgot to furnish
diagrams and perspectives, they had to be left out,
of course.

RECIPE FOR AN ASH-CAKE

Take a lot of water and add to it a lot of coarse
Indian-meal and about a quarter of a lot of salt.
Mix well together, knead into the form of a "pone," and let
the pone stand awhile--not on its edge, but the other way.
Rake away a place among the embers, lay it there,
and cover it an inch deep with hot ashes. When it
is done, remove it; blow off all the ashes but one layer;
butter that one and eat.

N.B.--No household should ever be without this talisman.
It has been noticed that tramps never return for another