The Captain cut it, and helped his guests, then taking a piece himself, he commenced tasting it. Pushing back his plate with an exclamation and a sudden jerk, he called to his servant, a little thick-set mulatto who waited—“David, you yellow rascal, how dare you put such a pie on my table?” And turning to the company apologetically, he said—
“If there is anything on earth David does understand, it is how to make a mince pie, and here he has filled this with brandy, so we cannot eat a morsel of it!”
“Please, sir,” said David, modestly, “I did not make the pie—it is one Mrs. Kinzie sent as a present.”
The poor Captain was now in a predicament. He raved at himself, at the same time conjuring my husband most earnestly not to tell me what a mistake he had made—an injunction that was lost sight of as soon as he returned to his home. As for the unlucky Captain, he did not venture to call on me again until he felt sure I had forgotten the circumstance.
PREPARATIONS FOR A JOURNEY
Early in January the snow fell in great abundance. We had an unusual quantity at the Portage, but in “the diggings,” as the lead-mining country was called, it was of an unheard-of depth—five or six feet upon a level.
An express had been dispatched to Chicago by the officers to take our letters, and bring back the mail from that place. A tough, hardy soldier, named Sulky, acted as messenger, and he had hitherto made light of his burden or the length of the way, notwithstanding that his task was performed on foot with his pack upon his shoulders. But now Sulky had been absent some weeks, and we had given him up entirely, persuaded that he must have perished with cold and starvation.