SUPPER. 169 



from the fire with one hand and basting the bird with the other as 

 the fire blistered its tender skin. 



" Now for the omelette ! " exclaimed the Doctor, turning away 

 from a long survey of the various articles of food that girdled the 

 fire ; " bring me the eggs, Sam." 



Sam approached with a grin on his face, and his hat full of soft 

 shell turtle eggs that had been procured from the sand. 



" You 'd better roast them in the hot sand instead of trying to 

 make omelette," I suggested. 



" Or boil them in the stew, sir," said Jackson. 



" No, gentlemen, an omelette soufflee I have decided upon. If 

 you want some in the stew I can spare you six ; don't put them in 

 till the stew is nearly cooked or they will be as hard as bullets ; 

 but I am really suffering for an omelette ; and he began breaking 

 open the little round eggs in one of the tin cups, singing all the 

 while, with a merry tone — 



•• Who can help loving the land that has taught us 

 Six hundred and eighty-five ways to cook eggs. " 



When they were all broken he set one of the men at work to 

 beat them up with a bundle of switches, and turned his attention 

 to tasting the stew, that was being seasoned from the contents of 

 the mess-box, and tasted by all the persons who expected to eat 

 therefrom. Each one gave his opinion, and each one was finally 

 satisfied ; the Doctor threw in six turtle eggs for my satisfaction, 

 and allowed an additional pod of red pepper for Jackson's taste 

 for spices, while a fox squirrel, that is a dry kind of gymnast for 

 cooking alone, was quartered, and thrown in to complete the mess. 



" Round about the caldron go, 

 In the poison'd entrails throw ; " 



began the Doctor in a declaiming voice. 



"Hold your tongue, destroyer of appetites!" called out Lou 

 Jackson ; " don't mix bad ideas with the stew ; that is worse than 

 putting in tough meat." 



" Poetry, ma'am, is never out of place," answered the Doctor, 

 gesticulating with the forked stick with which he was stirring the 

 stew. " Poetry is salt to life's omelette ; poetry is the poor man's 

 gold — the coffee to a dinner. — You, Sam, twist the ducks ; don't 



