hurn, but make one out of
a bowl and spoon. Into the bowl goes the cream, into the cream the
spoon, and then I beat, beat, beat, not as one who beateth the air. This
often lasts for two hours or more; it might be said that the cream
remains in chrysalis, and refuses to butterfly! Indeed, there is no
reason why a small bowl of cream shouldn't be as refractory as a wooden
churnful. But when it "won't come," my distress is not at all
proportioned to the size of the bowl.

Still I beat, beat, beat, perspiringly, but resolutely, while it whisks
about, spattering over face, bib, and turban. At length there appear
within it greasy-looking flecks. These increase till the mass thickens,
beats solidly, separates from the milk, and declares itself butter. A
limited quantity, certainly, but I will none the less press it dry,
salt, and make it into cakes as large as a full-blown tea-rose. Each of
these I will stamp, lay on a dapper glass cup-plate, and at tea-time
several dear ones in various households will find these astonishing
little pats beside them. Think you not they are genuine love-pats?

This would be a pretty way to serve butter always, did it not remind one
of cheap hotels kept on the European plan, where those small, slushy,
yellow cakes come in with the rolls. A choicer way is to form it into
acorns or strawberries,--though I don't in the least know how it is
done,--placing them all together on a plate and serving one to each at
the table. This dainty way, however, would hardly make a bad article
good, and no one would crave a berry of ancient firkin butter. For, as
trivial a matter as it seems, this single condiment of food, one has
only to encounter it in a strong, cheesy state to feel it among the most
important things in the _cuisine_. Then one suddenly discovers that
butter is in everything. Eating becomes intolerable, living dwindles
into dyspepsia, and finally one is tempted to exclaim with a certain
epicure, "I wish I were under the sod! There's no lump butter in the
market!"

It is related of Apicius, who lived at Rome, that he ate very large
shrimps; but hearing that those of Greece were larger, he straightway
sailed for that coast without losing a day. He met a great storm and
much danger; but on arriving, the fishermen brought him of their best.
Apicius shook his head.

"Have you never any larger shrimps?"

"No, Seignior, never!"

At which, rubbing his hands with delight, he ordered the captain to sa