for level solid bases on which to
place frying pans, coffee pots, etc. But, there is a sufficiency of
knots, dry sticks, bark and chunks, with some kindling at the bottom,
and a heavy volume of smoke working its way through the awkward-looking
pile. Presently thin tongues of blue flame begin to shoot up through
the interstices, and four brand new coffee pots are wriggled into level
positions at as many different points on the bonfire. Four hungry
youngsters commence slicing ham and pork, four frying pans are brought
out from as many hinged and lidded soap boxes--when one man yells out
hurriedly, "Look out, Joe, there's your coffee pot handle coming off."
And he drops his frying pan to save his coffee pot, which he does,
minus the spout and handle. Then it is seen that the flames have
increased rapidly, and all the pots are in danger. A short, sharp
skirmish rescues them, at the expense of some burned fingers, and
culinary operations are the order of the hour.

Coffee and tea are brewed with the loss of a handle or two, and the
frying pans succeed in scorching the pork and ham to an unwholesome
black mess. The potato kettle does better. It is not easy to spoil
potatoes by cooking them in plenty of boiling water; and, as there is
plenty of bread with fresh butter, not to mention canned goods, the
hungry party feed sufficiently, but not satisfactorily. Everything
seems pervaded with smoke. The meat is scorched bitter, and the tea is
of the sort described by Charles Dudley Warner, in his humorous
description of "camping out": "The sort of tea that takes hold, lifts
the hair, and disposes the drinker to hilariousness. There is no
deception about it, it tastes of tannin, and spruce, and creosote." Of
the cooking he says: "Everything has been cooked in a tin pail and a
skillet--potatoes, tea, pork, mutton, slapjacks. You wonder how
everything would have been prepared in so few utensils. When you eat,
the wonder ceases, everything might have been cooked in one pail. It is
a noble meal...The slapjacks are a solid job of work, made to last, and
not go to pieces in a person's stomach like a trivial bun."

I have before me a copy of Forest and Stream, in which the canoe
editor, under the heading of "The Galley Fire," has some remarks well
worth quoting. He says: "The question of camp cookery is one of the
greatest importance to all readers of Forest and Stream, but most of
all to the canoeists. From ignorance of what to carry the