Pavlova.

Whites of two eggs beaten very stiffly, add six tablespoons sugar, one at a time. Fold in half teaspoon vanilla and half teaspoon vinegar.

Grease a sandwich tin and then line it with greased paper. Bake in slow oven for one hour.

When cold, cover with whipped cream and passion fruit—or pineapple, strawberries or other suitable fruit.

page 60

The People Of Pudding Hill.

(Continued from page 56)

Jock, however, who had gone the other way, was not looking very hard. He noticed that the water was creeping up and up, and the beach was getting smaller and smaller; but as he thought Mr. Tom knew all about it he didn't bother very much, but just went ambling on.

Suddenly, however, he was surprised to see Mr. Tom coming towards him. He was quite sure he had not turned round, so he supposed it must have been Mr. Tom, who was going very slowly with his head almost on the ground. The truth of the matter was, of course, that if you go on walking and walking on a round island you mast come back to where you started from, and if there are two of you and you start in opposite directions and go on walking and walking you must meet somewhere on the other side of the island, which was, exactly what had happened to Mr. Tom and Jock.

Mr. Tom was alarmed when he saw how the water was creeping up, and said to Jock that he thought it was not really the right kind of day for fishing. Then they both sat down and thought for a while, and presently they had to climb up on the rock under which Mr. Tom had gone to sleep. And the water kept on rising.

“I think we should go home,” said Jock.

“How?” asked Mr. Tom.

“We could swim.” said Jock.

“No,” said Mr. Tom very decidedly, “I don't like swimming—you get all wet.”

So they sat and thought a bit more until the water had come right up the rock and there was only a little dry patch left on the top.

Mr. Tom's tail was hanging down into, the water, and presently something tugged at it sharply. Mr. Tom gave a little gasp of fright and sprang into the air.

“What are you doing?” asked Jock.

“I felt something,” said Mr. Tom shakily, and then began to shiver as a shape glided slowly past them in the water.

“I saw something,” said Jock, “did you?”

Mr. Tom looked very hard at the sky. “I don't think so,” he answered.

Presently there was a loud plop and a fish, a very large fish, jumped out of the water almost under their noses.

“Mon,” cried Jock who was apt to become very Scotch when he was excited, “did ye see yon?”

Mr. Tom said he thought he did, but before he could say anything further the large fish poked its head out of the water and eyed them severely.

“Ah—ha,” he cried, “caught by the tide eh?”

“We're fishing,” said Mr. Tom boldly.

“Well I'm a fish,” said the Fish, “why don't you catch me?”

“Don't take any notice of him,” said Mr. Tom to Jock.

“Is it really a fish?” whispered Jock.

“No, of course it isn't.” Mr. Tom shifted his feet unhappily because the water was right over the rock now and he hated to get his feet wet.

“I'm as much a fish,” said the Fish, “as you are—well—whatever you are.”

And with that he went back under the water again, and Mr. Tom and Jock who by now had the water up to their knees began to wonder very seriously what they ought to do.

Presently the fish reappeared and he brought with him a lot of other fishes, some big and some little. They all began blowing bubbles and splashing the water with their tails as they swam round and round the rock, and they made waves which splashed up underneath Mr. Tom and made him feel very uncomfortable indeed.

And the water kept on rising.

It rose and rose until it reached Mr. Tom's chin and the waves that the fishes made flopped over his nose and he heard Jock say very loudly.

“I'm off,” and the next thing he knew they were both swimming towards the shore.

Mr. Tom, like all cats, could swim very well when he really had to, and he reached the shore first. He fluffed out his fur and blew his nose, and when Jock landed they both rolled about on the hot stones to dry themselves, and then set off home as hard as they could go.

As they were going up the path to Pudding Hill, Mr. Tom said, “I don't think we will tell the others about this adventure,” and Jock said, “no, p'raps not.” But there was a surprise waiting for them.

Johnny Black whistled “See the Conquering Heroes Come,” from the gatepost; the Fieldmice called out rather rudely, “Fish-oh,” and Miss Amelia who met them on the path said how clever they were not only to have caught a fish, but to have sent it home to be cooked as well; and sure enough, there was coming from the cottage the most delicious smell of frying fish.

Mr. Tom looked very wise and being fond of using long words which nobody else could understand, said, “What a co-incidence!”

But after supper when he had eaten as much fish as he possibly could, he sat on the verandah rail and sang a song to himself as he licked the salt out of his fur. And the song which the people in the cottage thought was purring went like this:-

“Fish, fish, I do like fish that's cooked in a pot with no lid,

I saw a thing in the sea to-day which said it was fish, but I swam away

For I knew better I did.

Fish is curly and brown and sweet and sometimes a little too hot to eat,

It can't blow bubbles or splash your nose, so whatever it is in the sea that goes

It—can't—be—fish!”

“How do you like that?” he asked Jock who lay on the floor below him. Jock thumped the floor with his tail. “I'd rather have a bone,” he said sleepily.

“I sometimes hear or read that tobacco is an evil thing,” writes “Old Fogey” in the “Onlooker,” “but as a medical man I agree with. Huxley that smoking is really no more harmful than tea-drinking. Of course, just as there is inferior tea, so there is inferior tobacco. As for myself, I have derived not only the greatest comfort, but the greatest help, from my pipe, and that tobacco is invaluable in many cases of brain fag and mental stress, I know well. The best advice I can offer fellow-smokers is to use discrimination in their choice of the weed. Purity is essential.” Well, if that is so, as it assuredly is, what about “toasted” ? Practically without nicotine (eliminated by toasting) its equal for flavour and aroma has yet to be found. It is at once the purest and most delightful of all tobaccos. But there are only five brands of the genuine article, remember: Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Cavendish, Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold. ‘ware imitations!^*