A young girl in a little cap and a big apron¹ sat poring over a cook-book, with a face full of the deepest anxiety. She had the kitchen to herself, for mamma was out for the day, cook was off duty, and Edith could mess to her heart's content. She belonged to a cooking-class, the members of which were to have a lunch at two P. M. with the girl next door; and now the all absorbing question was, what to make. Turning the pages of the well-used book, she talked to herself as the various receipts met her eye.  
"Lobster²-salad and chicken-croquettes I've had, and neither were very good. Now I want to distinguish myself by something very nice. I'd try a meat-porcupine or a mutton-duck if there was time; but they are fussy³, and ought to be rehearsed before given to the class. Bavarian cream needs berries and whipped cream, and I won't tire my arms beating eggs. Apricots à la Neige is an easy thing and wholesome⁴, but the girls won't like it, I know, as well as some rich thing that will make them ill, as Carrie's plum-pudding did. A little meat dish is best for[234] lunch. I'd try sweetbreads and bacon, if I didn't hate to burn my face and scent⁵ my clothes, frying. Birds are elegant; let me see if I can do larded grouse⁶. No, I don't like to touch that cold, fat stuff. How mortified⁷ Ella was, when she had birds on toast and forgot to draw them. I shouldn't make such a blunder as that, I do hope. Potted pigeons—the very thing! Had that in our last lesson, but the girls are all crazy about puff-paste, so they won't try pigeons. Why didn't I think of it at once?—for we've got them in the house, and don't want them to-day, mamma being called away. All ready too; so nice! I do detest⁸ to pick and clean birds. 'Simmer from one to three hours.' Plenty of time. I'll do it! I'll do it! La, la, la!"
 
And away skipped Edith in high spirits, for she did not love to cook, yet wished to stand well with the class, some members of which were very ambitious, and now and then succeeded with an elaborate dish, more by good luck than skill.
 
Six plump birds were laid out on a platter, with their legs folded in the most pathetic manner; these Edith bore away in triumph to the kitchen, and opening the book before her went to work energetically, resigning herself to frying the pork and cutting up the onion, which she had overlooked when hastily reading the receipt. In time they were stuffed, the legs tied down to the tails, the birds browned in the stew-pan, and put to simmer with a pinch of herbs.
 
"Now I can clear up, and rest a bit. If I ever have to work for a living I won't be a cook," said[235] Edith, with a sigh of weariness as she washed her dishes, wondering how there could be so many; for no careless Irish girl would have made a greater clutter¹⁰ over this small job than the young lady who had not yet learned one of the most important things that a cook should know.
 
The bell rang just as she got done, and was planning to lie and rest on the dining-room sofa till it was time to take up her pigeons.
 
"Tell whoever it is that I'm engaged," she whispered, as the maid passed, on her way to the door.
 
"It's your cousin, miss, from the country, and she has a trunk with her. Of course she's to come in?" asked Maria, coming back in a moment.
 
"Oh, dear me! I forgot all about Patty. Mamma said any day this week, and this is the most inconvenient¹¹ one of the seven. Of course, she must come in. Go and tell her I'll be there in a minute," answered Edith, too well bred not to give even an unwelcome guest a kindly¹² greeting.
 
Whisking off cap and apron, and taking a last look at the birds, just beginning to send forth¹³ a savory¹⁴ steam, she went to meet her cousin.
 
Patty was a rosy¹⁵, country lass of sixteen, plainly dressed and rather shy, but a sweet, sensible little body, with a fresh, rustic¹⁶ air which marked her for a field-flower at once.
 
"How do you do, dear? so sorry mamma is away; called to a sick friend in a hurry. But I'm here and glad to see you. I've an engagement at two, and you shall go with me. It's only a lunch close by,[236] just a party of girls; I'll tell you about it upstairs."
 
Chatting away, Edith led Patty up to the pretty room ready for her, and soon both were laughing over a lively account of the exploits of the cooking-class. Suddenly, in the midst of the cream-pie which had been her great success, and nearly the death of all who partook thereof, Edith paused, sniffed¹⁷ the air like a hound, and crying tragically¹⁸, "They are burning! They are burning!" rushed down stairs as if the house was on fire.
 
Much alarmed, Patty hurried after her, guided to the kitchen by the sound of lamentation¹⁹. There she found Edith hanging over a stew-pan, with anguish²⁰ in her face and despair in her voice, as she breathlessly explained the cause of her flight.
 
"My pigeons! Are they burnt? Do smell and tell me? After all my trouble I shall be heart-broken if they are spoilt."
 
Both pretty noses sniffed and sniffed again as the girls bent²¹ over the pan, regardless of the steam which was ruining their crimps and reddening their noses. Reluctantly, Patty owned that a slight flavor of scorch²² did pervade²³ the air, but suggested that a touch more seasoning²⁴ would conceal²⁵ the sad fact.
 
"I'll try it. Did you ever do any? Do you love to cook? Don't you want to make something to carry? It would please the girls, and make up for my burnt mess," said Edith, as she skimmed the broth²⁶ and added pepper and salt with a lavish²⁷ hand:—
 
"I don't know anything about pigeons, except to[237] feed and pet them. We don't eat ours. I can cook plain dishes, and make all kinds of bread. Would biscuit or tea-cake do?"
 
Patty looked so pleased at the idea of contributing to the feast, that Edith could not bear to tell her that hot biscuit and tea-cake were not just the thing for a city lunch. She accepted the offer, and Patty fell to work so neatly²⁸ and skilfully²⁹ that, by the time the pigeons were done, two pans full of delicious little biscuit were baked, and, folded in a nice napkin, lay ready to carry off in the porcelain³⁰ plate with a wreath of roses painted on it.
 
In spite of all her flavoring, the burnt odor and taste still lingered round Edith's dish; but fondly hoping no one would perceive it, she dressed hastily, gave Patty a touch here and there, and set forth at the appointed time to Augusta's lunch.
 
Six girls belonged to this class, and the rule was for each to bring her contribution and set it on the table prepared to receive them all; then, when the number was complete, the covers were raised, the dishes examined, eaten (if possible), and pronounced upon, the prize being awarded to the best. The girl at whose house the lunch was given provided the prize, and they were often both pretty and valuable.
 
On this occasion a splendid bouquet³² of Jaqueminot roses in a lovely vase ornamented³³ the middle of the table, and the eyes of all rested admiringly upon it, as the seven girls gathered round, after depositing their dishes.
 
Patty had been kindly welcomed, and soon forgot[238] her shyness in wonder at the handsome dresses, graceful³⁴ manners, and lively gossip of the girls. A pleasant, merry set, all wearing the uniform of the class, dainty white aprons³⁵ and coquettish caps with many-colored ribbons, like stage maid-servants. At the sound of a silver bell, each took her place before the covered dish which bore her name, and when Augusta said, "Ladies, we will begin," off went napkins, silver covers, white paper, or whatever hid the contribution from longing³⁶ eyes. A moment of deep silence, while quick glances took in the prospect³⁷, and then a unanimous explosion of laughter followed; for six platters of potted pigeons stood upon the board, with nothing but the flowers to break the ludicrous monotony of the scene.
 
How they laughed! for a time they could do nothing else, because if one tried to explain she broke down and joined in the gale³⁸ of merriment again quite helplessly. One or two got hysterical³⁹ and cried as well as laughed, and all made such a noise that Augusta's mamma peeped in to see what was the matter. Six agitated⁴⁰ hands pointed³¹ to the comical sight on the table, which looked as if a flight of potted pigeons had alighted there, and six breathless voices cried in a chorus: "Isn't it funny? Don't tell!"
 
Much amused, the good lady retired⁴¹ to enjoy the joke alone, while the exhausted⁴² girls wiped their eyes and began to talk, all at once. Such a clatter⁴³! but out of it all Patty evolved the fact that each meant to surprise the rest,—and they certainly had.
 
"I tried puff-paste," said Augusta, fanning her hot[239] face.
 
"So did I," cried the others.
 
"And it was a dead failure."
 
"So was mine," echoed the voices.
 
"Then I thought I'd do the other dish we had that day—"
 
"Just what I did."
 
"Feeling sure you would all try the pastry⁴⁴, and perhaps get on better than I."
 
"Exactly our case," and a fresh laugh ended this general confession⁴⁶.
 
"Now we must eat our pigeons, as we have nothing else, and it is against the rule to add from outside stores. I propose that we each pass our dish round; then we can all criticise⁴⁷ it, and so get some good out of this very funny lunch."
 
Augusta's plan was carried out; and all being hungry after their unusual exertions⁴⁸, the girls fell upon the unfortunate birds like so many famished⁴⁹ creatures. The first one went very well, but when the dishes were passed again, each taster looked at it anxiously; for none were very good, there was nothing to fall back upon, and variety is the spice of life, as every one knows.
 
"Oh, for a slice of bread," sighed one damsel.
 
"Why didn't we think of it?" asked another.
 
"I did, but we always have so much cake I thought it was foolish to lay in rolls," exclaimed Augusta, rather mortified at the neglect.
 
"I expected to have to taste six pies, and one doesn't want bread with pastry, you know."
 
As Edith spoke⁵⁰ she suddenly remembered Patty's[240] biscuit, which had been left on the side-table by their modest maker⁵¹, as there seemed to be no room for them.
 
Rejoicing now over the rather despised dish, Edith ran to get it, saying as she set it in the middle, with a flourish:—
 
"My cousin's contribution. She came so late we only had time for that. So glad I took the liberty of bringing her and them."
 
A murmur⁵² of welcome greeted the much-desired addition to the feast, which would have been a decided⁵³ failure without it, and the pretty plate went briskly round, till nothing was left but the painted roses in it. With this help the best of the potted pigeons were eaten, while a lively discussion went on about what they would have next time.
 
"Let us each tell our dish, and not change. We shall never learn if we don't keep to one thing till we do it well. I will choose mince⁵⁴-pie, and bring a good one, if it takes me all the week to do it," said Edith, heroically taking the hardest thing she could think of, to encourage the others.
 
Fired by this noble example, each girl pledged herself to do or die, and a fine list of rich dishes was made out by these ambitious young cooks. Then a vote of thanks to Patty was passed, her biscuit unanimously pronounced the most successful contribution, and the vase presented to the delighted girl, whose blushes were nearly as deep as the color of the flowers behind which she tried to hide them.
 
Soon after this ceremony the party broke up, and[241] Edith went home to tell the merry story, proudly adding that the country cousin had won the prize.
 
"You rash child, to undertake mince-pie. It is one of the hardest things to make, and about the most unwholesome when eaten. Read the receipt and see what you have pledged yourself to do, my dear," said her mother, much amused at the haps⁴⁵ and mishaps⁵⁵ of the cooking-class.
 
Edith opened her book and started bravely off at "Puff-paste;" but by the time she had come to the end of the three pages devoted⁵⁶ to directions for the making of that indigestible delicacy⁵⁷, her face was very sober, and when she read aloud the following receipt for the mince-meat, despair slowly settled upon her like a cloud.
 
One cup chopped meat; 1-1/2 cups raisins⁵⁸; 1-1/2 cups currants; 1-1/2 cups brown sugar; 1-1/3 cups molasses; 3 cups chopped apples; 1 cup meat liquor; 2 teaspoonfuls salt; 2 teaspoonfuls cinnamon; 1/2 teaspoonful⁵⁹ mace⁶⁰; 1/2 teaspoonful powdered cloves⁶¹; 1 lemon, grated; 1/4 piece citron, sliced; 1/2 cup brandy; 1/4 cup wine; 3 teaspoonfuls rosewater.
 
"Oh me, what a job! I shall have to work at it every day till next Saturday, for the paste alone will take all the wits I've got. I was rash, but I spoke without thinking, and wanted to do something really fine. We can't be shown about things, so I must blunder along as well as I can," groaned⁶² Edith.
 
"I can help about the measuring and weighing, and chopping. I always help mother at Thanksgiving[242] time, and she makes splendid pies. We only have mince then, as she thinks it's bad for us," said Patty, full of sympathy and good will.
 
"What are you to take to the lunch?" asked Edith's mother, smiling at her daughter's mournful face, bent over the fatal book full of dainty messes, that tempted⁶³ the unwary learner to her doom⁶⁴.
 
"Only coffee. I can't make fancy things, but my coffee is always good. They said they wanted it, so I offered."
 
"I will have my pills and powders ready, for if you all go on at this rate you will need a dose of some sort after your lunch. Give your orders, Edith, and devote your mind to the task. I wish you good luck and good digestion⁶⁵, my dears."
 
With that the mamma left the girls to cheer one another, and lay plans for a daily lesson till the perfect pie was made.
 
They certainly did their best, for they began on Monday, and each morning through the week went to the mighty⁶⁶ task with daily increasing courage and skill. They certainly needed the former, for even good-natured Nancy got tired of having "the young ladies messing round so much," and looked cross as the girls appeared in the kitchen.
 
Edith's brothers laughed at the various failures which appeared at table, and dear mamma was tired of tasting pastry and mince-meat in all stages of progression. But the undaunted damsels kept on till Saturday came, and a very superior pie stood ready to be offered for the inspection⁶⁷ of the class.
 
"I never want to see another," said Edith, as the[243] girls dressed together, weary, but well satisfied with their labor⁹; for the pie had been praised by all beholders, and the fragrance⁶⁸ of Patty's coffee filled the house, as it stood ready to be poured, hot and clear, into the best silver pot, at the last moment.
 
"Well, I feel as if I'd lived in a spice mill this week, or a pastry-cook's kitchen; and I am glad we are done. Your brothers won't get any pie for a long while I guess, if it depends on you," laughed Patty, putting on the new ribbons her cousin had given her.
 
"When Florence's brothers were here last night, I heard those ............