One day a party of friends were discussing banquets at the Montreal Club, and I expressed the opinion that they were a delusion and a snare; that they were usually commenced at a late hour instead of at seven or half-past, the hour when people generally dined; that the menu consisted of a large variety of uneatable or unpalatable food, and other words to similar effect. Charlie Foster, the assistant passenger traffic manager of the C.P.R., wanted to know what kind of a bill-of-fare I would suggest, and I named common garden soup, corned beef and cabbage, pumpkin pie, etc., etc., and so forth. In proof of this I related how at the swagger banquet of the Quebec Fish and Game Association held at the Ritz-Carlton some time previously—quite a gorgeous affair—I noticed late in the evening a worried, dissatisfied look come across the classic features of Hon. Frank Carrel, of the Quebec _Telegraph_, who sat opposite me. “What’s the matter, Frank?” I asked. “Don’t know, old dear, don’t know, but I feel rather queer. By Jove, I believe I’m hungry.” “So am I,” I rejoined. And we went down to Childs’ and as the clock struck midnight were revelling in savory dishes of corned beef hash and poached eggs, (for which, I might add, we were joshed and jibed at many a time.) A few days after, a deputation of fellow workers in the C.P.R. vineyard dropped into my office, headed by Charlie Benjamin, now passenger traffic manager of the Company’s ocean service, who mentioned that there was a guy who kicked like a steer at banquet foods as usually framed up by chefs, and as this guy was to have a birthday on the near approaching 23rd August, he demanded on behalf of the large and apparently respectable deputation that the aforesaid guy should himself prepare a bill-of-fare for the feed that was to be tendered him. I was the guy. And here is a copy of the menu: Sliced Tomatoes Celery Olives Pea Soup, Thin, Like Mother Used to Make A Little Cold Liver and Bacon Irish Turkey and Cabbage New Boiled Murphies with the Sweaters on Buttered White Beans a la Orchestra Dear Apple Pie Poor Pumpkin Pie Tea or Coffee And, between you and me, no dinner I ever attended filled the long felt want as that one did. Like the Scotchman who boasted that he had gone to bed perfectly sober, the previous night for the first time in 20 years, and felt none the worse for it next morning—neither did any of us after eating the wholesome food. A Scotch Banquet.