of coffee, as he wet his lips with a few drops of ice-cold water, and
browsed over his small pasture till not a green spire remained. He was
stiff, and full of pain, but daylight and the hope of escape cheered him
up, and gave him coolness and courage to see how best he could
accomplish his end.
The wind soon blew away the mist and let him see that the dry bed of a
stream lay just below. To reach it he must leap, at risk of his bones,
or find some means to swing down ten or twelve feet. Once there, it was
pretty certain that by following the rough road he would come into the
valley, from whence he could easily find his way home. Much elated at
this unexpected good fortune, he took the strap that had slung his gun,
the leathern belt about his waist, and the strong cords of his pouch,
and knotting them together, made a rope long enough to let him drop
within two or three feet of the stones below. This he fastened firmly
round the trunk of the pine, and finished his preparations by tying his
handkerchief to one of the branches, that it might serve as a guide for
him, a signal for others, and a trophy of his grand fall.
Then putting a little sprig of the evergreen tree in his jacket, with a
grateful thought of all it had done for him, he swung himself off and
landed safely below, not minding a few extra bumps after his late
exploits at tumbling.
Feeling like a prisoner set free, he hurried as fast as bare feet and
stiff legs would carry him along the bed of the stream, coming at last
into the welcome shelter of the woods, which seemed more beautiful than
ever, after the bleak region of granite in which he had been all night.
Anxious to report himself alive, and relieve his mother's anxiety, he
pressed on till he struck the path, and soon saw, not far away, the old
cabin Abner had spoken of. Just before this happy moment he had heard a
shot fired somewhere in the forest, and as he hurried toward the sound
he saw an animal dart into the hut, as if for shelter.
Whether it was a rabbit, woodchuck or dog, he had not seen, as a turn in
the path prevented a clear view; and hoping it was old Buff looking for
him, he ran in, to find himself face to face with a catamount at last.
There she was, the big, fierce cat, crouched in a corner, with fiery
eyes, growling and spitting at sight of an enemy, but too badly wounded
to fight, as the blood that dripped from her neck, and the tremble of
her limbs plainly showed.
"Now's my chance! Don't care who shot her, I'll kill her, and have her
too, if I pay my last dollar," thought Corny; and catching up a stout
bit of timber fallen from the old roof, he struck one quick blow, which
finished poor puss, who gave up the ghost with a savage snarl, and a
vain effort to pounce on him.
This splendid piece of good luck atoned for all the boy had gone
through, and only waiting to be sure the beast was quite dead and past
clawing, he flung his prize over his shoulder, and with renewed strength
and spirit trudged along the woodland road toward home, proudly
imagining his triumphal entry upon the scene of suspense and alarm.
"Wish I didn't look so like a scare-crow; but perhaps my rags will add
to the effect. Won't the girls laugh at my swelled face, and scream at
the cat. Poor mammy will mourn over me and coddle me up as if I'd been
to the wars. Hope some house isn't very far off, for I don't believe I
can lug this brute much farther, I'm so starved and shaky."
Just as he paused to take breath and shift his burden from one shoulder
to the other, a loud shout startled him, and a moment after, several men
came bursting through the wood, cheering like lunatics as they
approached.
It was Abner, Chris, and some of the neighbors, setting out again on
their search, after a night of vain wandering. Corny could have hugged
them all and cried like a girl; but pride kept him steady, though his
face showed his joy as he nodded his hatless head with a cool--
"Hullo!"
Chris burst into his ringing laugh, and danced a wild sort of jig round
his mate, as the only way in which he could fitly express his relief;
for he had been so bowed down with remorse at his imprudence in letting
Corny go that no one could find the heart to blame him, and all night
the poor lad had rushed up and down seeking, calling, hoping, and
fearing, till he was about used up, and looked nearly as dilapidated as
Corny.
The tale was soon told, and received with the most flattering signs of
interest, wonder, sympathy, and admiration.
"Why in thunder didn't you tell me?--and I'd a got up a hunt wuth
havin',--not go stramashing off alone on a wild goose chase like this.
Never did see such a chap as you be for gittin' inter scrapes,--and out
of 'em too, I'm bound to own," growled Abner.
"That isn't a wild goose, is it?" proudly demanded Corny, pointing to
the cat, which now lay on the ground, while he leaned against a tree to
hide his weariness; for he felt ready to drop, now all the excitement
was over.
"No it ain't, and I congratulate you on a good job. Where did you shoot
her?" asked Abner, stooping to examine the creature.
"Didn't shoot her; broke my gun when I took that header down the
mountain. I hit her a rap with a club, in the cabin where I found her,"
answered Corny, heartily wishing he need not share the prize with any
one. But he was honest, and added at once, "Some one else had put a
bullet into her; I only finished her off."
"Chris did it; he fired a spell back and see the critter run, but we was
too keen after you to stop for any other game. Guess you've had enough
of catamounts for one spell, hey?" and Abner laughed as he looked at
poor Corny, who was a more sorry spectacle than he knew,--ragged and
rough, hatless and shoeless, his face red and swelled with the poisoning
and bites, his eyes heavy with weariness, and in his mouth a bit of
wild-cherry bark which he chewed ravenously.
"No, I haven't! I want this one, and will buy it if Chris will let me. I
said I'd kill one, and I did, and want to keep the skin; for I ought to
have something to show after all this knocking about and turning
somersaults half a mile long," answered Corny stoutly, as he tried to
shoulder his load again.
"Here, give me the varmint, and you hang on to Chris, my boy, or we'll
have to cart you home. You've done first-rate, and now you want a good
meal of vittles to set you up. Right about face, neighbors, and home we
go, to the tune of Hail Columby."
As Abner spoke, the procession set forth. The tall, jolly man, with the
dead animal at his back, went first; then Corny, trying not to lean on
the arm Chris put round him, but very glad of the support; next the good
farmers, all talking at once; while old Buff soberly brought up the
rear, with his eye on the wildcat, well knowing that he would have a
fine feast when the handsome skin was off.
In this order they reached home, and Corny tumbled into his mother's
arms, to be no more seen for some hours. What went on in her room, no
one knows; but when at last the hero emerged, refreshed by sleep and
food, clad in clean clothes, his wounds bound up, and plantain-leaves
dipped in cream spread upon his afflicted countenance, he received the
praises and congratulations showered upon him very meekly. He made no
more boasts of skill and courage that summer, set out on no more wild
hunts, and gave up his own wishes so cheerfully that it was evident
something had worked a helpful change in wilful Corny.
He liked to tell the story of that day and night when his friends were
recounting adventures by sea and land; but he never said much about the
hours on the ledge, always owned that Chris shot the beast, and usually
ended by sagely advising his hearers to let their mothers know, when
they went off on a lark of that kind. Those who knew and loved him best
observed that he was fonder than ever of nibbling checkerberry leaves,
that he didn't mind being laughed at for liking to wear a bit of pine in
his buttonhole, and that the skin of the catamount so hardly won lay
before his study table till the moths ate it up.
[Illustration]
THE COOKING CLASS
A young girl in a little cap and a big apron sat poring over a
cook-book, with a face full of the deepest anxiety. She had the kitchen
to herself, for mamma was out for the day, cook was off duty, and Edith
could mess to her heart's content. She belonged to a cooking-class, the
members of which were to have a lunch at two P. M. with the girl next
door; and now the all absorbing question was, what to make. Turning the
pages of the well-used book, she talked to herself as the various
receipts met her eye.
"Lobster-salad and chicken-croquettes I've had, and neither were very
good. Now I want to distinguish myself by something very nice. I'd try a
meat-porcupine or a mutton-duck if there was time; but they are fussy,
and ought to be rehearsed before given to the class. Bavarian cream
needs berries and whipped cream, and I _won't_ tire my arms beating
eggs. Apricots _a la_ Neige is an easy thing and wholesome, but the
girls won't like it, I know, as well as some rich thing that will make
them ill, as Carrie's plum-pudding did. A little meat dish is best for
lunch. I'd try sweetbreads and bacon, if I didn't hate to burn my face
and scent my clothes, frying. Birds are elegant; let me see if I can do
larded grouse. No, I don't like to touch that cold, fat stuff. How
mortified Ella was, when she had birds on toast and forgot to draw them.
I shouldn't make such a blunder as that, I do hope. Potted pigeons--the
very thing! Had that in our last lesson, but the girls are all crazy
about puff-paste, so they won't try pigeons. Why didn't I think of it at
once?--for we've got them in the house, and don't want them to-day,
mamma being called away. All ready too; so nice! I do detest to pick and
clean birds. 'Simmer from one to three hours.' Plenty of time. I'll do
it! I'll do it! La, la, la!"
And away skipped Edith in high spirits, for she did not love to cook,
yet wished to stand well with the class, some members of which were very
ambitious, and now and then succeeded with an elaborate dish, more by
good luck than skill.
Six plump birds were laid out on a platter, with their legs folded in
the most pathetic manner; these Edith bore away in triumph to the
kitchen, and opening the book before her went to work energetically,
resigning herself to frying the pork and cutting up the onion, which she
had overlooked when hastily reading the receipt. In time they were
stuffed, the legs tied down to the tails, the birds browned in the
stew-pan, and put to simmer with a pinch of herbs.
"Now I can clear up, and rest a bit. If I ever have to work for a living
I _won't_ be a cook," said Edith, with a sigh of weariness as she
washed her dishes, wondering how there could be so many; for no careless
Irish girl would have made a greater clutter over this small job than
the young lady who had not yet learned one of the most important things
that a cook should know.
The bell rang just as she got done, and was planning to lie and rest on
the dining-room sofa till it was time to take up her pigeons.
"Tell whoever it is that I'm engaged," she whispered, as the maid
passed, on her way to the door.
"It's your cousin, miss, from the country, and she has a trunk with her.
Of course she's to come in?" asked Maria, coming back in a moment.
"Oh, dear me! I forgot all about Patty. Mamma said any day this week,
and this is the most inconvenient one of the seven. Of course, she must
come in. Go and tell her I'll be there in a minute," answered Edith, too
well bred not to give even an unwelcome guest a kindly greeting.
Whisking off cap and apron, and taking a last look at the birds, just
beginning to send forth a savory steam, she went to meet her cousin.
Patty was a rosy, country lass of sixteen, plainly dressed and rather
shy, but a sweet, sensible little body, with a fresh, rustic air which
marked her for a field-flower at once.
"How do you do, dear? so sorry mamma is away; called to a sick friend in
a hurry. But I'm here and glad to see you. I've an engagement at two,
and you shall go with me. It's only a lunch close by, just a party of
girls; I'll tell you about it upstairs."
Chatting away, Edith led Patty up to the pretty room ready for her, and
soon both were laughing over a lively account of the exploits of the
cooking-class. Suddenly, in the midst of the cream-pie which had been
her great success, and nearly the death of all who partook thereof,
Edith paused, sniffed the air like a hound, and crying tragically, "They
are burning! They are burning!" rushed down stairs as if the house was
on fire.
Much alarmed, Patty hurried after her, guided to the kitchen by the
sound of lamentation. There she found Edith hanging over a stew-pan,
with anguish in her face and despair in her voice, as she breathlessly
explained the cause of her flight.
"My pigeons! Are they burnt? Do smell and tell me? After all my trouble
I shall be heart-broken if they are spoilt."
Both pretty noses sniffed and sniffed again as the girls bent over the
pan, regardless of the steam which was ruining their crimps and
reddening their noses. Reluctantly, Patty owned that a slight flavor of
scorch did pervade the air, but suggested that a touch more seasoning
would conceal the sad fact.
"I'll try it. Did you ever do any? Do you love to cook? Don't you want
to make something to carry? It would please the girls, and make up for
my burnt mess," said Edith, as she skimmed the broth and added pepper
and salt with a lavish hand:--
"I don't know anything about pigeons, except to feed and pet them. We
don't eat ours. I can cook plain dishes, and make all kinds of bread.
Would biscuit or tea-cake do?"
Patty looked so pleased at the idea of contributing to the feast, that
Edith could not bear to tell her that hot biscuit and tea-cake were not
just the thing for a city lunch. She accepted the offer, and Patty fell
to work so neatly and skilfully that, by the time the pigeons were done,
two pans full of delicious little biscuit were baked, and, folded in a
nice napkin, lay ready to carry off in the porcelain plate with a wreath
of roses painted on it.
In spite of all her flavoring, the burnt odor and taste still lingered
round Edith's dish; but fondly hoping no one would perceive it, she
dressed hastily, gave Patty a touch here and there, and set forth at the
appointed time to Augusta's lunch.
Six girls belonged to this class, and the rule was for each to bring her
contribution and set it on the table prepared to receive them all; then,
when the number was complete, the covers were raised, the dishes
examined, eaten (if possible), and pronounced upon, the prize being
awarded to the best. The girl at whose house the lunch was given
provided the prize, and they were often both pretty and valuable.
On this occasion a splendid bouquet of Jaqueminot roses in a lovely vase
ornamented the middle of the table, and the eyes of all rested
admiringly upon it, as the seven girls gathered round, after depositing
their dishes.
Patty had been kindly welcomed, and soon forgot her shyness in wonder at
the handsome dresses, graceful manners, and lively gossip of the girls.
A pleasant, merry set, all wearing the uniform of the class, dainty
white aprons and coquettish caps with many-colored ribbons, like stage
maid-servants. At the sound of a silver bell, each took her place before
the covered dish which bore her name, and when Augusta said, "Ladies, we
will begin," off went napkins, silver covers, white paper, or whatever
hid the contribution from longing eyes. A moment of deep silence, while
quick glances took in the prospect, and then a unanimous explosion of
laughter followed; for six platters of potted pigeons stood upon the
board, with nothing but the flowers to break the ludicrous monotony of
the scene.
How they laughed! for a time they could do nothing else, because if one
tried to explain she broke down and joined in the gale of merriment
again quite helplessly. One or two got hysterical and cried as well as
laughed, and all made such a noise that Augusta's mamma peeped in to see
what was the matter. Six agitated hands pointed to the comical sight on
the table, which looked as if a flight of potted pigeons had alighted
there, and six breathless voices cried in a chorus: "Isn't it funny?
Don't tell!"
Much amused, the good lady retired to enjoy the joke alone, while the
exhausted girls wiped their eyes and began to talk, all at once. Such a
clatter! but out of it all Patty evolved the fact that each meant to
surprise the rest,--and they certainly had.
"I tried puff-paste," said Augusta, fanning her hot face.
"So did I," cried the others.
"And it was a dead failure."
"So was mine," echoed the voices.
"Then I thought I'd do the other dish we had that day--"
"Just what I did."
"Feeling sure you would all try the pastry, and perhaps get on better
than I."
"Exactly our case," and a fresh laugh ended this general confession.
"Now we must eat our pigeons, as we have nothing else, and it is against
the rule to add from outside stores. I propose that we each pass our
dish round; then we can all criticise it, and so get some good out of
this very funny lunch."
Augusta's plan was carried out; and all being hungry after their unusual
exertions, the girls fell upon the unfortunate birds like so many
famished creatures. The first one went very well, but when the dishes
were passed again, each taster looked at it anxiously; for none were
very good, there was nothing to fall back upon, and variety is the spice
of life, as every one knows.
"Oh, for a slice of bread," sighed one damsel.
"Why didn't we think of it?" asked another.
"I did, but we always have so much cake I thought it was foolish to lay
in rolls," exclaimed Augusta, rather mortified at the neglect.
"I expected to have to taste six pies, and one doesn't want bread with
pastry, you know."
As Edith spoke she suddenly remembered Patty's biscuit, which had been
left on the side-table by their modest maker, as there seemed to be no
room for them.
Rejoicing now over the rather despised dish, Edith ran to get it, saying
as she set it in the middle, with a flourish:--
"My cousin's contribution. She came so late we only had time for that.
So glad I took the liberty of bringing her and them."
A murmur of welcome greeted the much-desired addition to the feast,
which would have been a decided failure without it, and the pretty plate
went briskly round, till nothing was left but the painted roses in it.
With this help the best of the potted pigeons were eaten, while a lively
discussion went on about what they would have next time.
"Let us each tell our dish, and not change. We shall never learn if we
don't keep to one thing till we do it well. I will choose mince-pie, and
bring a good one, if it takes me all the week to do it," said Edith,
heroically taking the hardest thing she could think of, to encourage the
others.
Fired by this noble example, each girl pledged herself to do or die, and
a fine list of rich dishes was made out by these ambitious young cooks.
Then a vote of thanks to Patty was passed, her biscuit unanimously
pronounced the most successful contribution, and the vase presented to
the delighted girl, whose blushes were nearly as deep as the color of
the flowers behind which she tried to hide them.
Soon after this ceremony the party broke up, and Edith went home to tell
the merry story, proudly adding that the country cousin had won the
prize.
"You rash child, to undertake mince-pie. It is one of the hardest things
to make, and about the most unwholesome when eaten. Read the receipt and
see what you have pledged yourself to do, my dear," said her mother,
much amused at the haps and mishaps of the cooking-class.
Edith opened her book and started bravely off at "Puff-paste;" but by
the time she had come to the end of the three pages devoted to
directions for the making of that indigestible delicacy, her face was
very sober, and when she read aloud the following receipt for the
mince-meat, despair slowly settled upon her like a cloud.
One cup chopped meat; 1-1/2 cups raisins; 1-1/2 cups currants;
1-1/2 cups brown sugar; 1-1/3 cups molasses; 3 cups chopped apples;
1 cup meat liquor; 2 teaspoonfuls salt; 2 teaspoonfuls cinnamon;
1/2 teaspoonful mace; 1/2 teaspoonful powdered cloves; 1 lemon,
grated; 1/4 piece citron, sliced; 1/2 cup brandy; 1/4 cup wine; 3
teaspoonfuls rosewater.
"Oh me, what a job! I shall have to work at it every day till next
Saturday, for the paste alone will take all the wits I've got. I _was_
rash, but I spoke without thinking, and wanted to do something really
fine. We can't be shown about things, so I must blunder along as well as
I can," groaned Edith.
"I can help about the measuring and weighing, and chopping. I always
help mother at Thanksgiving time, and she makes splendid pies. We only
have mince then, as she thinks it's bad for us," said Patty, full of
sympathy and good will.
"What are you to take to the lunch?" asked Edith's mother, smiling at
her daughter's mournful face, bent over the fatal book full of dainty
messes, that tempted the unwary learner to her doom.
"Only coffee. I can't make fancy things, but my coffee is always good.
They said they wanted it, so I offered."
"I will have my pills and powders ready, for if you all go on at this
rate you will need a dose of some sort after your lunch. Give your
orders, Edith, and devote your mind to the task. I wish you good luck
and good digestion, my dears."
With that the mamma left the girls to cheer one another, and lay plans
for a daily lesson till the perfect pie was made.
They certainly did their best, for they began on Monday, and each
morning through the week went to the mighty task with daily increasing
courage and skill. They certainly needed the former, for even
good-natured Nancy got tired of having "the young ladies messing round
so much," and looked cross as the girls appeared in the kitchen.
Edith's brothers laughed at the various failures which appeared at
table, and dear mamma was tired of tasting pastry and mince-meat in all
stages of progression. But the undaunted damsels kept on till Saturday
came, and a very superior pie stood ready to be offered for the
inspection of the class.
"I never want to see another," said Edith, as the girls dressed
together, weary, but well satisfied with their labor; for the pie had
been praised by all beholders, and the fragrance of Patty's coffee
filled the house, as it stood ready to be poured, hot and clear, into
the best silver pot, at the last moment.
"Well, I feel as if I'd lived in a spice mill this week, or a
pastry-cook's kitchen; and I am glad we are done. Your brothers won't
get any pie for a long while I guess, if it depends on you," laughed
Patty, putting on the new ribbons her cousin had given her.
"When Florence's brothers were here last night, I heard those rascals
making all sorts of fun of us, and Alf said we ought to let them come to
lunch. I scorned the idea, and made their mouths water telling about the
good things we were going to have," said Edith, exulting over the severe
remarks she had made to these gluttonous young men, who adored pie, yet
jeered at unfortunate cooks.
Florence, the lunch-giver of the week, had made her table pretty with a
posy at each place, put the necessary roll in each artistically folded
napkin, and hung the prize from the gas burner,--a large blue satin bag
full of the most delicious bonbons money could buy. There was some delay
about beginning, as one distracted cook sent word that her potato-puffs
_wouldn't_ brown, and begged them to wait for her. So they adjourned to
the parlor, and talked till the flushed, but triumphant Ella arrived
with the puffs in fine order.
When all was ready, and the covers raised, another surprise awaited
them; not a merry one, like the last, but a very serious affair, which
produced domestic warfare in two houses at least. On each dish lay a
card bearing a new name for these carefully prepared delicacies. The
mince-pie was re-christened "Nightmare," veal cutlets "Dyspepsia,"
escalloped lobster "Fits," lemon sherbet "Colic," coffee "Palpitation,"
and so on, even to the pretty sack of confectionery which was labelled
"Toothache."