h my hands, roll up my sleeves and roll out pastry. Very
often I was interrupted to dispense medicines; but if the tarts had a
flavour of senna, or the puddings tasted of rhubarb, it never
interfered with their consumption. I declare I never heard or read of
an army so partial to pastry as that British army before Sebastopol;
while I had a reputation for my sponge-cakes that any pastry-cook in
London, even Gunter, might have been proud of. The officers, full of
fun and high spirits, used to crowd into the little kitchen, and,
despite all my remonstrances, which were not always confined to words,
for they made me frantic sometimes, and an iron spoon is a tempting
weapon, would carry off the tarts hot from the oven, while the
good-for-nothing black cooks, instead of lending me their aid, would
stand by and laugh with all their teeth. And when the hot season
commenced, the crowds that came to the British Hotel for my claret and
cider cups, and other cooling summer drinks, were very complimentary
in their expressions of appreciation of my skill.

Now, supposing that you had made a hearty dinner and were thinking of
starting homeward--if I can use so pleasant a term in reference to
your cheerless quarters--it was very natural that you should be
anxious to carry back something to your hut. Perhaps you expected to
be sent into the trenches (many a supper cooked by me has been
consumed in those fearful trenches by brave men, who could eat it with
keen appetites while the messengers of death were speeding around
them); or perhaps you had planned a little dinner-party, and wanted to
give your friends something better than their ordinary fare. Anyhow,
you would in all probability have some good reason for returning laden
with comforts and necessaries from Spring Hill. You would not be very
particular about carrying them. You might have been a great swell at
home, where you would have shuddered if Bond Street had seen you
carrying a parcel no larger than your card-case; but those
considerations rarely troubled you here. Very likely, your servant was
lying crouched in a rifle pit, having "pots" at the Russians, or
keeping watch and ward in the long lines of trenches, or, stripped to
his shirt, shovelling powder and shot into the great guns, whose
steady roar broke the evening's calm. So if you did not wait upon
yourself, you would stand a very fair chance of being starved. But you
would open your knapsack, if you had brought one, fo