162 THE BROOK BOOK 



saucepans in a picnic outfit unless it was to be a 

 fishing party, which it never was. But when our 

 gentle and efficient "Bee," whose duty it was to 

 provision that particular picnic, whispered in my 

 ear that she had two uncooked chickens in one 

 basket and most of the necessary ingredients for 

 "pancakes" in another, I confessed myself out- 

 done. 



"But, my dear girl," I said in astonishment, 

 "where are you going to get sour milk?" 



"At a farmhouse," she replied, serenely confi- 

 dent that there would be a farmhouse. 



I felt considerably less certain that the neigh- 

 borhood abounded in sour milk and hoped there 

 were plenty of sandwiches. In fact, I scarcely be- 

 lieved in the "flapjack" plan, about which I had 

 not been consulted. When we reached the end 

 of our walk and built two camp-fires and set the 

 Southerner to fry the chicken, I began inwardly 

 to exult, for I felt certain no farmhouse would 

 be found. But they found it, and it generously 

 yielded enough "clabber" to make all the pan- 

 cakes we could possibly eat. I was glad I had 

 not exulted aloud. My punishment was just be- 

 ginning. They soon discovered that no one as 

 yet enlisted in the cause of pancakes had the 

 faintest idea of how to combine flour, sour milk 

 and soda into the edible "viand." Making mock 

 courtesies, they came and earnestly begged me to 

 help. I could not escape my reputation for being 

 a "practical" person, and of course that included 

 an intimate knowledge of batter. I began to feel 



