read "Cinderella," for that is the princess of housekeeping stories, or it may be that we will find one we like, if we go on reading this book.

IRISH STEW

Do you ever have Irish Stew for luncheon? Most Irish Stews are a good deal alike, but this is the story of one that was different.

Once upon a time there was an Irishman who lived in a little two-roomed hut on the edge of a bog. All day, he cut peats in the bog, for that is the way he made his living. It was not a very good living; in fact, he was very poor indeed. At night, when he came back to the hut, there were often only a few potatoes for supper, which he boiled in a pot over the fire. His old father had died a few years before, and that was the reason he lived alone.

Photograph by Helen W. Cooke

A Play-house Somebody Else Has Made

One chilly, foggy night, the Irishman had come home late through the wet and the dark, and lighted his fire. There was very little for supper, and he had not had a chance to cook that, when Thump! Thump! came a knock on the door. He was ever so frightened, but he thought it would be better to open the door than have it thumped in. When he did open it—Preserve us! there were five big robbers with knives, and pistols, and high boots and fierce, bright eyes. They all crowded into the little hut, and threw more peat on the fire and demanded supper. The Irishman apologized, and said he had only potatoes. The robbers said they had to have something better than that, and all five of them laid their five big knives on the table with a look which meant, "Supper or your life!"

The Irishman went into the other little room and sat down on a chest to think. There was nothing in the room but the chest, and nothing in the chest but a few old clothes, and the more he tried to think, the less he was able to do it. At last, for no reason at all, he opened the chest. In it lay an old cloak, which his father had worn forty years and more.

No sooner had he seen it, than he went back to the room where the robbers were, and they saw him take the pot into the little room, and very soon come back and put all the potatoes into it and some water, and hang it over the fire, which was now so hot and bright that the pot soon began to boil. It simmered, and bubbled and steamed and soon the robbers began to sniff their supper. It did not smell like anything they had ever had before, but was not bad for a cold, foggy night. Pretty soon the Irishman set the pot on the table, and the robbers ate heartily. The Irishman was busy arranging something near the door. All of a sudden, one robber choked. He choked, and choked, and two others beat him on the back. He coughed and coughed, and then, something flew out of his mouth. It was a button.

The Irishman turned up his eyes to the roof and said, "Ah me, that is the last of a good old cloak." Before the robbers could move, he had opened the door and disappeared into the fog.

KING ALFRED AND THE CAKES

A good while ago there was a king of England named Alfred. He was a great and good king, but in spite of this, he had many enemies, who tried to take his kingdom away from him. Once, after a battle, the country was so overrun with his enemies, that he had to separate from his followers and go away in disguise. You would never have guessed he was a king when he started, and when, after he had wandered a few days in the forest, he came to a cowherd's hut, he looked like a hungry, ragged beggar. The cowherd and his wife gave him supper, and let him stay all night, and gave him some breakfast next morning. After breakfast, he sat for a long time looking into the fire, thinking of his kingdom, and of the dangers and sorrows of his people. The cowherd's wife was a hard-working woman, and it provoked her to see a great big man dreaming over the fire all the morning. She said to herself, "If he has no work of his own to attend to, he shall just help with mine." She put some meal cakes on a board to bake before the fire, and told the King to watch them carefully while she went out to feed the pig.

The King said he would watch them, but he kept on thinking about his army, and the heavy taxes, and by and by the woman came back.

There was smoke in the room, but she could see that the stranger was still sitting beside the fire, and that her cakes were burned to cinders. My, my, but she was angry. She boxed her guest's ears soundly, little dreaming that she was laying hands on the Sacred Person of the King, and might be hanged for it. The King, however, took her blows and her scolding, for he was very sorry he had let the cakes burn.

Afterward, when he had driven out his enemies and was at home again in his own castle he told what a scolding he had got for thinking about his troubles when he should have been baking the cakes.

ROAST PIG

Long ago, longer than you can even imagine, nobody in the world knew how to cook. People were not as dreadfully hungry on that account as you might think, because, you see, they ate their food uncooked. No one had ever cooked, and no one had ever thought of it; no one had ever eaten cooked food, and no one knew how pleasant it tasted.

This is the story of the way a little Chinese boy found out how to roast pig.

His name was Bo-bo and he had been left at home by his father, Ho-ti, to look after their hut, and their one big pig, and their nine little pigs. Bo-bo, was fond of playing with fire, and what did he do but set fire to some straw, and that set fire to the hut, and burned it down. A much more serious matter was that the one big pig and the nine little pigs were burned along with the hut.

Bo-bo was dreadfully frightened when he saw what he had done. He knew his father would beat him, and he began to cry. He also poked round among the ruins of the hut, though he did not hope to find anything. As he was turning over the embers, he found one of the little burnt pigs, and tried to pull it out. It was very hot, and burnt his hands, and he did just what you or I would have done—put his burnt fingers in his mouth.

The instant his hands reached his mouth, Bo-bo forgot all about being burned. He licked his fingers, but not because they hurt him. He did not know why he did lick them, but he kept on. Neither he nor any one else in the world had ever tasted such a wonderful taste.

Pretty soon, it came to him that it was the pig which tasted so delicious, and no sooner had he thought this, than he sat down in the ruins of the hut and began to eat great pieces of the little burnt pig. While he was making the best meal he had ever had in his life, his father came home, and when he saw that the hut was burnt down and that his son was eating some horrible food that no one else had ever eaten before, he began to beat Bo-bo with the stick he had in his hand. But Bo-bo did not seem to feel it. He hunted in the ashes for another pig and thrust it into his father's hands. Then the same thing happened which had happened to him. The pig burned Ho-ti's fingers and he put them in his mouth, and after that he had no time to think of beating any one, but sat down with his son in the ashes and made a good dinner.

From that time on, whenever they had little pigs, they burned down their hut to roast them. When the neighbours found it out, they thought it very wicked of Ho-ti and Bo-bo to eat burnt pig, but as soon as they were persuaded to