7th—To-day I was the chef, while my uncle was second cook.
I placed a heroic iron pot over the camp-fire I dropped a lump of beef in, and afterward the mass of potatoes, carrots, and onions. Mr. Poet’s directions were that they should boil for two hours.
Mr. Heine intruded, saying that he would like to season them himself.
“Longfellow, Lowell—they all loved high seasoning as I,” he said, snatching a pepper-box from my hand.
He kept tapping the bottom of the box, when the cover fell into the pot.
Oya!
The red pepper garmented the whole thing.
“Go, Mr. Poet! Why don’t you mind your own business? You are butler to-day.” I spoke in rough sweetness, and drove him away.
He began to place a linen cloth on the table, while I dipped up all the pepper. He picked up one dozen pebbles to weight the tablecloth. The first thing he put on the table was his claret bottle. How could he lose it from sight! When he said that everything was in place, he had forgotten the knives and forks. Dear old poet!
We sat at the table under the wild rose bushes.