(056 
7ht RURAL NEW-YORKER 
August 2u. 1 ;*'J2 
Y OU can depend on So- 
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SDCDNY 
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Every gallon dependable everywhere 
The Farmer 
His Own 
Builder 
BY 
H. ARMSTRONG ROBERTS 
A practical and handy 
book of all kinds o* build¬ 
ing information from con- 
’ crete to carpentry. 
PRICE $1.50 
For tale by 
THE 
RURAL NEW-YORKER 
333 Weit 30th Street, New York 
When you write advertisers mention 
The Rural New- Yorker and you’ll get 
a quick reply and a “square deal.” See 
guarantee editorial page. t t : 
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Big Bargain Catalog 
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Things to Eat 
A Miner's Christmas Pie 
Speaking of “best meals,” George W. 
Stokes tolls in the New York Herald of 
an experience in the Black Hills in De¬ 
cember, 1875: 
‘‘On December 23 1 made, I think, the 
first washboard used north of Fort Lara¬ 
mie. Taking a 2-ft. piece of pine I split 
and hewed off the sap aud heart until I 
had a slab a foot wide and l l /> ir.. thick. 
With a pencil I drew lines across this 
slab half an inch apart; then with saw 
and pocket knife. I notched out a fairly 
effective washboard. My follows did me 
high honor, and that washboard worked 
practically three eight-hour shifts for the 
next few days. 
“With that pride which presages a fall 
I attempted a Christinas pie. Thinking 
to surprise the boys 1 suggested that, one 
of the partners, who had been a hotel 
man. take a saddle horse and bear our 
Christmas greetings to a neighbor down 
the gulch; and in some way I managed 
to get rid of the other two. Then I 
brought out the dried apples, sugar, bak¬ 
ing powder and, of course, flour. 
“Having no butter, I used deer fat. 
With this abundant material I built a pie 
entirely satisfactory to my eye and hid 
it pending the return of my mates and 
the approach of the dinner hour. Later 
l learned that dried apples were usually 
subjected to a preliminary cooking before 
being incorporated into a pie; also that 
a tin cup full of venison lard was a little 
more than one pie required. So any 
credit I gained by means of inv wash- 
hoard fell before the gibes of the more 
expert cooks.” 
My Finest Meal 
My family will sit up when they read 
this, if they do read it. You see, the 
fact is long established in our circle that 
1 really have no sense of discrimination 
or even desire for food, and il has been 
predicted that if the time arrives when 
no one pomes in for meals I will naturally 
starve to death. Of course, that is ex¬ 
aggerated. 
However. I must admit that I like 
soup, aud crackers are so convenient and 
quickly available. I can never sit down 
to a fancy ice-creamed homemade dinner 
without a feeling of guilt, that rather 
spoils my appreciation of its culinary 
value. Too often have I climbed up into 
the icehouse, emerged in a moist grubby 
condition, with sawdust in my shoes, 
down my neck and across my forehead 
where I wiped off the sweat, and then 
turned the freezer with one hand while 
I put in the ice and salt with the other. 
Finally I escaped before the company saw 
me, and changed my clothes surrepti¬ 
tiously. so that they never guessed, but I 
still felt the sawdust. And now I never 
relish homemade ice cream. There's too 
much back of it. I am always wonder¬ 
ing if my hostess has sawdust down her 
neck, or if sin- hasn’t, who has, 
Now as to my finest meal. All view¬ 
points considered, it was prepared by a 
man. ITe was a salesman, with eight 
children, and when he reached home at 
the week-end it was his custom to pre¬ 
pare the Sunday dinner with his own 
hands. They were over from England; 
the two eldest children were horn across 
the water. 
His wife was one of those dignified 
Englishwomen, and could not see a joke, 
but he was the wittiest man I have ever 
known. The dinner was a simple roast, 
with the potatoes baked in the pan with 
the meat. There was jam and pickles 
and mince pie. But one fel, somehow 
that it was a banquet, and that no one 
was tired or dragged out by preparing it, 
because every one was in such high 
spirits. It was a great time for laugh¬ 
ing. It was quite a trick to get down a 
mouthful between sallies, and us for 
drinking coffee—be careful. Me called 
his dignified wife Mrs, Sloppy Oppy. and 
played tricks on the guest amidst pro¬ 
testing “Oh, papas!” And then when 
they all sqt waiting and watching him 
with shining eyes, he stopped and looked 
around his little circle. It got very quiet 
at last. 
"I couldn’t spare a one of you,” he 
said, speaking to himself. 
IWhen it was time for the dessert 
course the family trooped out with their 
plates and stacked them in the kitchen. 
There is no use describing the pie. It 
was mince, but we were a half hour con¬ 
suming one piece. 
Ah, yes! It was a great dinner, I 
think of it hungrily after all these years. 
Why. I shall never forget it if I live to 
be white! But was it the food? 
MRS. F. n. UNGER. 
Hot Tamales and Fried Ants 
I notice under “My Best Meal” the 
experience of several of your renders in 
eating foods that are considerably out of 
the ordinary, and it reminded me of two 
little hoy neighbors in Southern Texas 
who were enjoying a snack of “hot 
lanrales." The older one says: “They 
say they've got dogs in ’em." The younger 
one. about five or six years of age. said: 
“I don’t care if they is go! dogs in ’em; 
they are good, ain’t they, Buddy?” 
I was wondering if any of your readers 
| were ever privileged to eat auls? I don’t 
mean the little red ants that yon some¬ 
times get by mistake, but an edili e ant. 
In the tablelands of South America there 
is a big ant about the size of an ordinary 
wasp that does a great deal of damage 
in pasture lands. In a certain season 
of the year, which 1 do not now remem¬ 
ber, the female emerges on wings from 
these burrows, which are often large 
enough for a man to crawl through if 
he dared do so. They scatter over the 
face of the earth, and wherever they 
alight they start burrowing to lay their 
eggs and start a new colony. The na¬ 
tives, however, start out in pursuit. They 
pull off the heads aud wings and fry 
these ants, wrap them up in sections of 
cauna leaves holding about a gill each 
and bring them to town lo Sell, I re¬ 
member my father saying that if you 
could only get rid of the Idea that you 
were eating ants, it is the most delightful 
morsel that he ever tasted. There is 
some slight flavor of hot roasted peanuts, 
hut it is ever so much richer and more 
delicate in taste. ». KRaTT. 
“Five o'clock Tea” 
I always like to smell the smoke of a 
fresh wood fire. It carries me back t< 
my boyhood days on the farm, when we 
used to have live o’clock tea with smoked 
beef or red herring, soft molasses cake 
Mid pot cheese—the kind that mother 
used to make. Sometimes we would have 
fresh saleratus biscuits; shortcake, we 
called them; sometimes “samp” and milk. 
And when the seed onions got to be as 
large as lead pencils, mother used to thin 
them out. wash and clean them, leaving 
the tops about 4 in. long. These, eaten 
with salt, were delicious. Wo always had 
berries in their season, prepared with 
sugar and water. 
No matter how hot the long Summer 
afternoon, no matter how the rye beards 
pricked, or the hay came piling in the 
mow. we could look forward to tea time. 
And about half-past, four the first curl of 
smoke would come from the. old kitchen 
chimney, ami. as the wind wafted it over, 
oh, how good it smelled! Now imagine 
a 10-year-old hoy. washed clean with 
water from tlie old putnn, with a good, 
healthy appetite, and not a care in the 
world, sitting down to such a meal. Can 
you think of anything more to he desired? 
I would like to sit down to such a meal 
once again, with mother at the head <1 
the table; mother, who used to keep the 
old pahn leaf fan going to shoo the flies 
away while we ate. Mother, who pre¬ 
pared it all, whose spirit was in every¬ 
thing. and consecrated everything. 
“Backward, turn backward, oh. time in 
your flight, 
Make me a child again just for tonight! 
Mother, come back from tlie echoless 
shore—" 
But no, all that remains of mother lies 
in the old graveyard, where the birds sing 
and the roses bloom -things that she 
loved. And when I pass and repass that 
sacred spot in inv way out to the world 
it comforts me to know that she rests. 
Mother will n<d conn 1 back; neither 
will the happy childhood days, long and 
carefree. They have gone with the high 
chair aud the trundle bed. Aud what 
have we in exchange for thorn? We are 
men and women grown, and have tasted 
more of both joy and sorrow: hut what 
has life brought us that has been any 
richer or sweeter Ilian those early days? 
Even the five o’clock tea is a thing of the 
past. Now the working day is shorter, 
and we do not seem to need it. Put I 
think on the whole life is more strenuous 
and more perplexing than il was then. 
There seems to be an endless round of 
duties—many tilings we never thought of 
doing then, but which now seem neces¬ 
sary. I think that is one reason the past 
seems more alluring. The best we can do 
now is to see that our children have such 
a heritage—such a happy childhood to 
look hack upon that they will always re¬ 
member it with pleasure, and especially 
that Central figure, the angel of the feast— 
mother BURTON c onX. 
Perfect Lemon Pie 
For perfect lemon meringue pie. place 
in double boiler — Vis cups boiling water, 
put Ihreo large tablespoons of corn starch 
in a howl, add one cup sugar, moisten 
with little water, beat smooth, pour slowly 
into the boiling water. Stir until thick 
and smooth. Beat the yolks of two eggs 
until creamy, add slowly to the corn¬ 
starch. cook until thick, add onc-fourt’i 
teaspoon of salt, beat again, remove from 
the fire. Grate rind of one lemon (lx* 
careful not to crate into the white), add 
juice of two large lemons and a large 
tablespoon of butter. Bent all together 
hard. Set aside to cool. Have previously 
baked a nice under crust, placing the pie 
crust in the tin ami picking with a fork 
all over sides and bottom. When tilling 
is cold, pour into the pie shell. Beat the 
two egg whites very stiff, then add two 
tablespoons confectionery sugar, three 
drops vanilla, one teaspoon of cornstarch, 
witii one-fourth spoonful baking powder. 
Whip up very stiff, place on the pie in 
heaps all over, or can he spread on thick. 
Put in a cool oven until light brown. 
This pip is delicious if made ns directed. 
MRS. K. II, S. 
