there were a sink and a gas range, and all sorts of lovely pots and pans, but alas! in India there is not even a kitchen. It is a cook-house, and is quite detached from the rest of the house. If she cooked there, the missionary lady would have to keep running back and forth in the hot sun or in the pouring rain of the monsoon. There is no linoleum—only a damp, uneven stone floor, and there is no sink—all the work requiring water is done on the floor by a drain-pipe, and sometimes if the screen gets broken over the mouth of the drain-pipe, toads come hopping in, and sometimes even cobras come squirming through. The Indian cook-house is always dark and smoky. There is no little gas range; just a primitive cooking place made of bricks plastered together. This contains a number of holes in which are inserted grates. Charcoal fires are burning in these little grates. Charcoal has to be fanned and fanned with a black and grimy fan to get it into the glowing stage. Of course a clean fan would do as well, but one never sees a clean fan in an Indian cook-house.

However, do not suppose for a minute that the missionary lady has no responsibility regarding the cooking. She has. She cooks with her nerves and brains. She has to train up the cook in the way he should go, and after he has gotten into the way, she has to walk along by his side, for she must be brains for him for ever and ever. She has to see that he walks in paths of truth and uprightness. She has to keep everything under lock and key, and is apt to lose her keys when she is in the biggest hurry. She is also apt to lose her temper, and feels worse over this than she does when she loses her keys. She has to argue over prices; to fuss over the quality of charcoal consumed. She has to keep her poise when, after ordering something especially nice for dinner, the cook proudly passes around something quite different and not at all nice. She dare not even visit her own cook-house without coughing and making a noise, for fear that she will have a case of discipline on hands that may leave her without a cook. Verily, she is not deceived by the fact that when she enters the cook-house the cook and half a dozen other men who have been playing cards and smoking are respectively standing around like little tin soldiers. She sees the hooka or big water pipe standing behind the door, and she knows that the bearer has a deck of cards up his sleeves. But even knowing this, all she can do is to meekly transact her business with the cook and go out without saying a word.

However, in spite of all this, the Indian cook is a great comfort. He grows on one. It is surprising how equal he is to emergencies and what really fine things he can make with very few conveniences and often a very stinted allowance of material. There are very few of them who do not take pride in their cooking, and they are never happier than when there are guests in the home and they are having a chance to show off. Nor are they uncleanly, as is often supposed, but they keep their kitchen in such mild disorder that things really appear much worse than they really are.

And now for the last question. Often and often we are asked, "Aren't you glad to get back to the food in America?" My answer is, "Rather," and it is to be spoken with a rising inflection.

We love the American people, and we enjoy the American food, but we think that when it comes to making nice tasty somethings out of almost nothing, America is not in it at all. Nearly every nation in the world can do better.

I hope these recipes will help.

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