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“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