to begin the labors of
the day. His old habit clung to him, and at five o'clock, when Tom and
Ferguson were yet asleep, Mr. Onthank sprang from his leafy couch
refreshed and vigorous.

Seeing his companions yet sleeping, he concluded to take a walk.

"It'll give me an appetite for breakfast," thought he, "and a chance to
see something of the country."

As to the appetite, Ebenezer was generally well provided. Indeed,
latterly his appetite had exceeded his means of gratifying it, and more
than once he had longed to be back at his old home in the Vermont
farm-house, where the table was always generously, if not elegantly,
furnished. If Ebenezer had a special weakness it was for doughnuts,
which he called nut-cakes.

"If I only had a few of marm's nut-cakes," he had said the night before
to his new-found friends, "I'd be a happy man."

"What are nut-cakes?" asked the Scotchman, puzzled.

"Don't you know what nut-cakes are?" inquired Ebenezer, astonished at
Ferguson's ignorance.

"I never heard of them before," said Ferguson.

"Well, I declare! I thought everybody knew what nut-cakes are,"
ejaculated the Yankee. "Don't you ever make 'em in Scotland?"

"Not that I ever heard."

"Then you don't know what is good. You know what they are, Tom?"

"Oh, yes," said Tom, smiling. "We often have them at home. Perhaps Mr.
Ferguson would understand better if he heard them called doughnuts or
crullers."

Thus defined Mr. Ferguson acknowledged that he had heard of them, and he
thought he had once tasted one. Scotland, however, fell considerably in
the estimation of Mr. Onthank, when he learned that his favorite article
of food was almost unknown in that distant country.

"You Scotchmen don't know what is good," he said. "If you ever come to
Green Mountain Mills, I'll get marm to fry a batch of nut-cakes, and
you'll say they're goloptious."

This last word was not familiar to Ferguson, but the smack of the lips
with which it was accompanied made it sufficiently intelligible. He
assured Ebenezer politely that he hoped some day to accept his kind
invitation.

When Ebenezer left the camp he had no definite plan of exploration.
Everything was alike new to him, and it mattered little in what
direction his steps led him. It was a charming morning. The sun had
risen, and hill and valley were glorified by its slanting rays. The air
was bracing, and Ebenezer, though neither a poet nor a sentimentalist,
felt his spirits rise, as