nimal of different habits and
different attributes. When jumped from his form, he is apt to "dig out"
for a hole or the nearest stone heap. Sometimes an old one will potter
around a thicket, ahead of a slow dog, but his tendency is always to
hole. But he affords some sport, and as an article of food, beats the
long-legged hare out of sight. He is excellent in stews or soups, while
the after half of him, flattened down with the hatchet, parboiled and
fried brown in butter or pork fat, is equal to spring chicken.

In the cooking of fish, as of flesh and fowl, the plainest and
simplest methods are best; and for anything under two pounds, it is not
necessary to go beyond the frying pan. Trout of over a pound should be
split down the back, that they may lie well in the pan and cook evenly.
Roll well in meal, or a mixture of meal and flour, and fry to a rich
brown in pork fat, piping hot. Larger fish may just as well be fried,
but are also adapted to other methods, and there are people who like
fish broiled and buttered, or boiled. To broil a fish, split him on the
back and broil him four minutes, flesh side down, turn and broil the
other side an equal time. Butter and season to taste. To broil, the
fish should weigh three pounds or more. Clean and crimp him by gashing
the sides deeply with a sharp knife. Put him in a kettle of boiling
water, strongly salted and boil twenty-five minutes. For each
additional pound above three, add five minutes. For gravy, rub together
two tablespoonfuls of flour and one of melted butter, add one heaping
teaspoon full of evaporated milk and thin with liquor from the kettle.
When done, it should have the consistency of cream. Take the fish from
the kettle, drain, pour the gravy over it and eat only with wheat bread
or hardtack, with butter. The simplest is best, healthiest and most
appetizing.

As a rule, on a mountain in tramp or a canoe cruise, I do not tote
canned goods. I carry my duffle in a light, pliable knapsack, and there
is an aggravating antagonism between the uncompromising rims of a
fruit-can and the knobs of my vertebrae, that twenty years of practice
have utterly failed to reconcile. And yet, I have found my account
in a can of condensed milk, not for tea or coffee, but on bread as a
substitute for butter. And I have found a small can of Boston baked
beans a most helpful lunch, with a nine-mile carry ahead. It was not
epicurean, but had staying qualities.

I often have a call t