The Breakfast-Hour Was Nominally Seven, And Afterwards Mr.
Forrest Went Out To His Farm.
The one Irish servant, who never seemed
happy with her shoes on, was capable of little else than boiling potatoes,
so all the preparations for dinner devolved upon Mrs. Forrest, who till
she came to Canada had never attempted anything in the culinary line.
I
used to accompany her into the kitchen, and learned how to solve the
problem which puzzled an English king, viz. "How apples get into a
dumpling." We dined at the mediaeval hour of twelve, and everything was of
home raising. Fresh meat is a rarity; but a calf had been killed, and
furnished dinners for seven days, and the most marvellous thing was, that
each day it was dressed in a different manner, Mrs. Forrest's skill in
this respect rivalling that of Alexis Soyer. A home-fed pig, one of
eleven slaughtered on one fell day, produced the excellent ham; the squash
and potatoes were from the garden; and the bread and beer were from home-
grown wheat and hops. After dinner Mr. Forrest and I used to take lengthy
rides, along wild roads, on horses of extraordinary capabilities, and in
the evening we used to have bagatelle and reading aloud. Such was life in
the clearings. On one or two evenings some very agreeable neighbours came
in; and in addition to bagatelle we had puzzles, conundrums, and conjuring
tricks. One of these "neighbours" was a young married lady, the prettiest
person I had seen in America.
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