We were playing the ancient and honourable game of acrostics and we had
to think of and describe a word bounded on the West by the initial E,
and on the East by the final H.
"That which you can never have of mushrooms," was one of the
descriptions. It was, of course, guessed at once--"Enough;" and could
there be a truer compliment to this strange exotic delicacy, which costs
nothing but a walk in an early autumnal morning and is more choice than
the rarest flavours ever designed by the most inspired of _chefs_? For
certainly there has never been enough of them. I, at any rate, have
never had enough. The thought of mushrooms missed must add pathos to
many a death-bed.
It is a terrible moment when the dish comes in and one rapidly notes the
disparity between the paucity of its contents and the vast and eager
anticipation of the company. For it is useless to attempt to conceal
greed when mushrooms arrive. A certain amount of dissimulation has
mercifully been given by a wise Providence to all of us for the
lubrication of the cogs of daily life; but it does not extend so far as
this. And particularly so if the mushrooms have been fried in butter.
Stewed they are not of course to be undervalued, especially if one dares
to soak one's bread in the juice; nor even reposing in tragic isolation
on Juan Fernandezes of toast; but the real way is to fry them in butter.
As I say, it is a terrible moment when the dish arrives and the faces of
the guests are studied; but should there be one present, or--more
ecstatic moment still--two, who confess to a dislike of this perilous
fungus, then what an access of rapture by way of compensation! Truly
wise hostesses have been known to murmur something about toadstools and
risk, as an encouragement to the doubters; or if they don't their
husbands do. It is however no real good! Even with two defaulters the
dish does no more than stimulate desire; whilst such is its power of
fascination that consummate _gourmets_ have been known to express no
dismay at the possibility of poison being there, a death so won being
worth dying.
Mushrooms, to win such homage as this, must be picked in the fields and
cooked at home. The forced mushrooms which grow under the shelf in the
greenhouse or in a corner of the cellar lack something of divinity;
while there is not a restaurant _chef_ in the world who has not a long
record of ruined mushrooms to his name. No sooner does a public cook get
at a mushroom than it begins to deteriorate. When the _chef_ comes in at
the door the savour flies out of the window. It is a point of honour
with him. When therefore I said that one can never have enough mushrooms
I meant at home.
It is an injustice to the mushroom to eat it as an adjunct to other
food; while there is one meat which in alliance it renders unwholesome.
The odd thing is that every one differs as to what this meat is; but my
own hazy recollection says mutton. Still that prohibition is not for us,
who know the only way in which mushrooms should be eaten: fried, with
bread and butter, and the butter spread too thick.
* * * * *
It is rumoured that the freedom of Hunstanton is to be conferred on the
KAISER.
* * * * *
Illustration: THE BULL-DOG BREED.
_Officer._ "NOW, MY LAD, DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU ARE PLACED HERE FOR?"
_Recruit._ "TO PREVENT THE HENEMY FROM LANDIN', SIR."
_Officer._ "AND DO YOU THINK THAT YOU COULD PREVENT HIM LANDING ALL BY
YOURSELF?"
_Recruit._ "DON'T KNOW, SIR, I'M SURE. BUT I'D HAVE A DAM GOOD TRY!"
* * * * *
"BUSINESS AS USUAL."
Corkey is the School Attendance Officer and a terror to every boy in the
neighbourhood. He looks at the truant and says fiercely, "Where was
you?" Then he wags a savage finger at him. "Yes, you was," he says, "you
was, you know you was. I caught you in the hact." No boy has ever been
known to withstand him.
Yet Corkey has a heart.
William Frederick Wright is our chief boy scout. In the first great days
of the war, William was on duty at a railway bridge up the line. Local
fame placed him somewhere between FRENCH and KITCHENER. Sent to round up
the truant, Corkey reported in glowing words, "_Guarding his country._"
A second week's absence produced the same report. Then business instinct
began to war with patriotism in the breast of Corkey. During the third
week he once more looked the culprit up.
His report was grim and terse. "_Warned him_," he wrote.
On the following Monday William sadly returned.
* * * * *