Newspaper Page Text
“How do you like buffalo steak?”
asked Henry.
“Dey’s splindid,” said Cudjo, grin
ning with satisfaction, and showing a
set of white teeth that glistened in the
fire-light in strong contrast with his
greasy, shiny, black skin. “ Mass Seth
say for true, dey’s better’n bar meat.”
“Yes,” replied Uncle Seth, “bar
meat is mity good, but that of a fat
bufferlo cow is the best I’ve ever tried
yit, onless. it’s a fat polecat.”
“ What! ” said Cudjo, “you doesn’t
mean a ‘ skunk ? ’ ”
“Yes, I mean a ‘skunk,’” replied
Uncle Seth ; “ the Ingens like ’em bet
ter’n anything else; and I kin tell you
they are mity choice in their grub, when
they have plenty of it. But there's one
thing you must remember—you must
butcher ’em quick as you can arter
you kills ’em, else they’ll taste a leetle
more of musk than most people would
like.”
“I should think so,” said Mr. Pitt,
with a strong expression of disgust
upon his countenance; “a little too
much of the l gou,' as the French would
say.”
“But the fact is, boys,” added Uncle
Seth, “ a feller soon finds out in roamin’
about the woods that thar’s many things
that make purty fair grub, that he
thought wa’nt fitting to eat. When a
feller has been on purty short com
mons for a week or so, anything aint
hard to take, ’ceptin’ it’s a buzzard.
once, when we was
J§k from a scout arter Ingens,
and though I hadn’t had
anything for nigh onto two
days, I couldn’t go it. It was tougher’n
ole bull, and his legs and wings, when
they was drawed up by the fire, looked
like bunches of fiddle strings, and the
meat, what little there was on him, was
black as my hat, and smelt worse’n a
young crow’s nest. Buzzards aint good,
it’s er fact; but everything else a’most I
ever tried is passable when you is toler
able hungry. Even rattlesnake aint as
bad as it looks, and their fat is first-rate
to cook poor doe with.”
“What!” interrupted Cudjo, “fry
meat wid de rattlesnake fat! fore gra
cious! dar aint none of it gwying into
my skillets, es I keeps my senses. I’d
ruther starve clean to death den eat
one of dem rusty old sarpints.”
“That’s my hand, Cudjo,” said Mr.
Pitt; “every one who fancies them can
take their skunks, and rattlesnakes and
bull-frogs; but for my part I prefer a
good buffalo steak or a haunch of veni
son.”
“Yes, they are hard to beat,” said
Uncle Seth; “but, you know, some
times when we can’t git biskits, we
must put up with 4 corn dodgers.’
“There’s one other thing, though,”
he added, “that’s nearly as onsatis
fyin’ as buzzard, and that’s them little
‘ high land tarrapins.’ Once, when I
was out on a scout, and we was on
mity short rations, in the course of the
BURKE’S WEEKLY FOR BOYS AND GIRLS.
day I picked up three of the varmints,
and put ’em in my shot pouch, thinkin’
they would make a respectable bait
when I got into camp at night. Well,
jest as soon as we halted, I built up a
fire (for I was powerful hungry), and
arter it had burnt down a leetle, I kiv
ered my tarrapins in the ashes to roast
—bein’ the only way I had of cookin’
’em. When I thought they was done,
I raked ’em out, and with a couple of
good sized rocks I managed to crack
one of’em open, arter pecking at it for
some time; but I’m a Dutchman, boys,
es there was anything inside of it at all
but his back-bone, which was glued fast
to the shell, and a little wad of dried
grass. And so it was with all of’em.
They are nothing but ‘ hull,’ like the
post cak mast when it has been blasted
by a late frost. I didn’t have much to
brag on in the way of supper that night,
as you may suppose, and I've never
tried high land tarrapins sence, even
when I’ve been purty nigh perishin’ for
somethin’ to eat. It don’t pay to bother
with ’em.”
“And yet,” interrupted Mr. Pitt,
“the French consider them a great del
icacy—equal to fried bull-frog’s legs.”
“Yes,” said Uncle Seth, “ I’ve al
ways hear’n say that the French were a
mity ingenious people at cookin’ —that
they kin make amity good soup out’n
a brick-bat, and es that be so, it stands
to reason they could make it out’n a
high land tarrapin. It does beat all
natur,” toe continued, ‘' the waymefl
French folks kin fix up purty fair grub
e’en a’most out’n nothing.
“I once stopped at the house of a
Frenchman, that had jest settled on the
frontiers. It was the only house for
ten miles the way I was goin, and it
was arter sundown when I got there.
I halloed, but nobody come out; so I
got down, hitched my horse to the
fence, and walked in. Jest as I stepped
into the house, a little sore-eyed poodle
dog come yelpin out at me, but I gin
him a kick in the ribs that satisfied his
curiosity, and he went into winter quar
ters right off.
“Bimeby, the Frenchman come in,
and he w r as mity glad to see me, for he
was an old acquaintance of mine. He
had stopped at my ranch for two or
three months when he first come to the
country, and I had given him the best
I had, and a good saddle nag into the
bargain —for I thought he was raaly a
clever feller, though he was a French
man.
“ Well, arter talking a good while
’bout things ginerally, the Frenchman
stopped, scratched his head, and didn’t
open his mouth for more'n a minute.
I saw he was bothered about some
thing, but in course had no idea what
it was. At last he says :
“ ‘ I s’pose, my fren, you travel long
ways to-day, plenty hungry, eh? ’
“‘Yes,’ says I, ‘l’ve been riding
ever since daylight, and I think I could
worry down a mouthful or so.’
“‘Ah!’ says he, sorter to himself
like, ‘now dat’s too bad, too bad!
Nutting in de house for suppaire for
my ole fren —it eesh too bad ! ’ and
then he scratched his head again, and
seemed to be in a deep ponder.
“At last he jumped up, and said:
“‘l’ll keel Marat! I’ll keel Marat!
You stay here by ze fire, my fren, and
I go in ze kitchen and get some sup
paire ; ’ and off be put in a hurry.
“ I filled my pipe, and began puffing
away to pass off the time till supper
was ready, for I was as snappish as a
starved wolf. In a little .while arter the
Frenchman went out, I hearn the sore
eyed poodle fetch one sharp squeak, as
if he had got another kick in the ribs;
and I was glad of it, for if there’s one
thing I despise more’n another on the
top of the yearth, it’s one of them sore
eyed poodles.
“ Well, in about an hour, I s’pose,
the Frenchman come back, and said
supper was ready. So we went into
the kitchen, and there I found a little
table, with four or five smokin’ dishes
on it, and a big coffee pot at the upper
end.
“As soon as we had tuck our seats
at it, the Frenchman says, ‘ Will you
try a cup of coffee, my fren?’
“‘ In course I will,’ says I. ‘ Never
ask an old Texan es he’ll take a cup of
coffee ; but jest pour it out and hand it
to him, and if he don’t drink it, you’d
better send for the doctor at once, fur
•Sjes in a bad wav, sure.
“The Frenchman larfed a little" af
this, and poured me out a cup of cof
fee ; and bertwixt me and you, boys, I
never hived a better one under my
huntin’ shirt in all my life.
“‘Take some of ze fricassee,’said
he, pushing over one of the dishes to
wards me.
“ ‘ What do you call this? ’ said I.
“ ‘ Chien ,’ he replied; which I sup
posed was his outlandish name for
‘ chine.’
“ I helped my plate to about a pound
of it, for it smelt splendid, and tasted
better’n it smelt.
“ ‘ Well, my friend,’ says I, arter I
had finished the chine, ‘you’ve tuck a
heap of trouble in gitting all the bones
out’n that mess, but I must say it’s fust
rate.’
“‘Try a leetle of ze boolyee ,’ says
my friend, pushing another dish in
reach of me.
“ ‘ What’s this?’ said I, helping my
self to a pound or so.
“ ‘ Chien ,’ says the Frenchman.
“ ‘ Chine agin!’ says I. But it didn’t
look like the tother mess, nor taste like
it nuther ; but it was fust i\ate too, and
I cleared the platter.
“‘Try a leetle of dese,’ said the
Frenchman, handing me over another
dish.
“ ‘ What’s this ? ’ I asked.
“ ‘ Chien ,’ said he.
“‘Chine agin!’ said I; ‘well, that
beat’s all natur. I wouldn’t have thought
chine could have been fixed up so many
ways.’
“ ‘ Oh, yes,’ said the Frenchman, ‘ my
grandpapa cook for ze Prince de Join
ville, in France, and write one book.
I learn heap tings from dat book.’
“ ‘ I should think so,’ I said ; ‘ and I’d
be glad to rekermend your grandpa’s
book to the old Texians. It would be
of great use to ’em in hog-killin’ time ;
for then it’s chine, chine, three times a
day, and always cooked in the same
way.’
“ But to bring my story to an end ; I
don’t think I ever eat a heartier supper
in my life. The next mornin’, we had
‘ chine’ agin for breakfast, fixed up ir.
four or five ways, and they all was fust
rate. I stowed away' enough, as I
thought, to last me the forty-odd miles
I had to travel that day, and then went
out to the crib and saddled up my
horse. Jest as I was mountin’ him to
make a start, T said to the Frenchman,
‘Where’s the little poodle you had here
when I come last night? I aint seed
anything of him sence.’
“‘Oh, poor little Marat!’ said the
Frenchman, ‘ I keel him.’
“ ‘ Kill him! ’ said I, ‘ what did you
do that for ? ’
“ ‘ For your suppaire,’ said he ; ‘ and
I keel my grandmoder, ven my ole fren
come see me, and I no got nutting for
him to eat.’
“As soon as he told me this, I felt
kinder sick at my stomach like, though
V oft g... MU
things ; but I bid ijny friend good-bye,
and rid off, without giving him a piece
of my mind as I intended to at first;
for, thinks I, a feller that will kill the
only livin’ thing he had on his ranch
except himself for my supper, has did
his level best, even es it was a poodle.
But the further I rid, and the more I
thought of that sore-eyed poodle, the
sicker I got, till at last I parted com
pany with all I had tuck for my break
fast ; but I ruther expect what I had
eat for my supper stuck by me, fur I
made a long ride that day, and was as
spry as a lark when I got to my jour
ney’s end.
“ Howsomdever, there’s no doubt at
all that the French kin beat all natur
in the wav of cookin’, not even excep
tin’ Cudjo; though I’d bet on Cudjo’s
beatin’ any of ’em runnin’, and give
’em fifty yards the start, es the havi
linas were arter him.”
“Dar you come agin,” said Cudjo,
“wid dem ebberlastin Maxican hog;
and I don’t want to hear no more about
’em, so I’ll jess go right off to bed ; ”
and saying this, he curled himself up in
his blanket with his head to the fire,
and in a few moments was hard at work
“ sawing gourds.”
Nothing costs less, and nothing pur
chases us much, as a kind, respectful,
courteous and agreeable treatment of
others.
195
