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the chiguire, to use the vulgar name, and let him lie in steep in a white-wine vinegar, _en marinade_, as the French say--" "Where are you to find the white-wine vinegar in the Savannahs?" said Cashel. "You forget, sir, that we are speaking of a country where a fowl roasted in its own feathers is a delicacy." "Oh, how very singular! Do you mean that you eat it, feathers and all?" said Mrs. White. "No, madam. It's a prairie dish, which, I assure you, after all, is not to be despised. The _plat_ is made this way. You take a fowl,--the wild turkey, when lucky enough to find one,--and cover him all over with soft red clay; the river clay is the best. You envelop him completely; in fact, you make a great ball, somewhat the size of a man's head. This done, you light a fire, and bake the mass. It requires, probably, five or six hours to make the clay perfectly hard and dry. When it cracks, the dish is done. You then break open the shell, to the outside of which the feathers adhere, and the fowl, deliciously roasted, stands before you." "How very excellent,--_le poulet braise_ of the French, exactly," said Lord Kilgoff. "How cruel!" "How droll!" "How very shocking!" resounded through the table; the Dean the only one silent, for it was a theme on which, most singular to say, he could neither record a denial nor a correction. "I vote for a picnic," cried Mrs. White, "and Mr. Cashel shall cook us his _dinde a la Mexicaine_." "An excellent thought," said several of the younger part of the company. "A very bad one, in my notion," said Lord Kilgoff, who had no fancy for seeing her Ladyship scaling cliffs, and descending steep paths, when his own frail limbs did not permit of accompanying her. "Picnics are about as vulgar a pastime as one can imagine. Your dinner is ever a failure; your wine detestable; your table equipage arrives smashed or topsy-turvy--" "_Unde_ topsy-turvy?--_unde_, topsy-turvy, Softly?" said the Dean, turning fiercely on the curate. "Whence topsyturvy? Do you give it up? Do you, Mr. Attorney? Do you, my Lord? do you give it up, eh? I thought so! Topsy-turvy, _quasi_, top side t' other way." "It's vera ingenious," said Sir Andrew; "but I maun say I see no neecessity to be always looking back to whare a word gat his birth, parentage, or eddication." "It suggests unpleasant associations," said Lord Kilgoff, looking maliciously towards Linton, who was playing too agreeable to her Ladyship. "The
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