Australian meat can also be used for making a meat pie. To make a good meat pie, you must melt the jelly, pour it into a saucepan, and boil with it six beads of garlic, and also add some gelatine to make the jelly when cold nice and firm. In fact, it should be quite as firm as an ordinary mould of jelly. Now place the Australian meat in a piedish, pour the gravy over it, and place a few very thin slices of bacon on the top. You can also mix with the pie a teaspoonful of chopped parsley, and be sure to add plenty of black pepper. Few cooks realise what a large amount of black pepper is required for a meat pie. You can also add to the pie half-a-dozen hard-boiled eggs cut in halves. Now cover the piedish over with the crust, and bake it in the oven. As soon as the pastry is done, the pie is done; the meat, as I have said before, is already over-cooked. Try and manage to keep by you a little of the gravy, and when the pie is cold, add the remainder. Pour this gravy into the pie through the top, and fill the gravy up so that it reaches the crust. Remember, this pie can only be eaten cold. If you use garlic in a meat pie, you cannot cut the pie while it is hot. The gravy should be poured in when it is nearly set. (_To be continued._) [Illustration] A “PRINCESS OF THULE” IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY. BY REV. THOMAS B. WILLSON, M.A. Away in the far, far West of Ireland, the great Clew Bay indents the coast of the County of Mayo. At the northern entrance of this bay rise the mighty cliffs of Achill, against which the long Atlantic rollers dash themselves, in all weathers, with unceasing spray, and after a storm with terrific fury. On the south the promontory of Old Head, near Lewisburg, rises abruptly from the sea, but with less striking cliffs than on the northern side. The bay is surrounded by hills and mountains, bare for the most part of trees, but clad in the richest purple by the heather in the summer-time. Conspicuous among the mountains is the wondrous cone-shaped Croagh Patrick, towering in an almost perpendicular mass on the southern shore, above the ruined abbey of Murrisk. From the top of it St. Patrick, according to popular legend, expelled the serpents for ever from Ireland, and it is regarded as a specially holy place by the people, who in great numbers make an annual pilgrimage to the top. Many are the islands which dot the surface of the bay, some large, some very minute. There are said to be no less than three hundred and sixty-five of them, one for every day in the year, and if one looks upon the wondrous archipelago from a neighbouring height, they can well believe the number to be not much exaggerated. The little town of Westport is the only place of any importance on the bay, the terminus of the railway from Dublin, a spot which has seen better days, its large empty warehouses on the quay telling the sad tale of long-departed commerce.