r it was the intention of Francois
to make pigeon-soup. He next proceeded to beat up a little flour with
water, in order to give consistency to the soup.

"What a pity," said he, "we have no vegetables!"

"Hold!" cried Lucien, who overheard him. "There appears to be a variety
of green stuff in this neighbourhood. Let me see what can be done."

So saying, Lucien walked about the glade with his eyes bent upon the
ground. He seemed to find nothing among the grass and herbs that would
do; and presently he strayed off among trees, towards the banks of a
little stream that ran close by. In a few minutes he was seen returning
with both his hands full of vegetables. He made no remark, but flung
them down before Francois. There were two species--one that resembled a
small turnip, and, in fact, was the Indian turnip (_psoralea
esculenta_), while the other was the wild onion found in many parts of
America.

"Ha!" cried Francois, who at once recognised them, "what luck!
_pomme-blanche_, and wild onions too, as I live! Now I shall make a
soup worth tasting."

And he proceeded with great glee to cut up the vegetables, and fling
them into the steaming kettle.

In a short while the meat and pigeons were boiled, and the soup was
ready. The kettle was taken from the crane; and the three brothers,
seating themselves on the grass, filled their tin cups, and set to
eating. They had brought a supply of hard bread to last for a few days.
When that should give out, they would draw upon their bag of flour; and
when this, too, should be exhausted, it was their intention to go
without bread altogether, as they had often done on like excursions
before.

While thus enjoying their pigeon-soup and picking the bones of the plump
birds, the attention of all three was suddenly arrested by a movement
near one side of the glade. They had just caught a glimpse of something
that looked like a flash of yellow light shooting up in a straight
direction from the ground.

All three guessed what it was--the lightning passage of a squirrel up
the trunk of a tree; and there was the animal itself, clinging flat
against the bark, having paused a moment--as is usual with squirrels--
before making another rush upward.

"Oh!" cried Lucien, in a suppressed voice, "it is a fox-squirrel, and
such a beauty! See! it is marked like a tortoise-shell cat! Papa would
give twenty dollars for such a skin."

"He shall have it for far less," rejoined Franco