A huge cold capon, which he instantly christened "Monseigneur," was placed in the midst of the little circle; manifold eggs were arranged neatly around; various stores of salted provisions, chopped tongues, lard and sausages, were spread out by his hands, with more taste than one might have expected; and at length came two huge bottles of wine, which he called the king and queen, with various attendants, for each of which he had a name. As we took our all places around, however, it was discovered suddenly that the eggs, which were to form no inconsiderable part of the meal, had not been cooked. "We could soon cook them," cried Andriot, "for there's wood in the world in the neighbourhood; but where are we to find wherewithal to cook them in!" "You get the wood, you get the wood, scapegrace," cried Moric; "run up the hill and get the wood. You show how long you have been a soldier. Don't you know that every man-at-arms carries a kettle on his head and a frying-pan on his stomach? Get ye gone, and come back speedily, and leave the cooking to me." "Now we will put him in a fright for his polished morion," continued Moric, after the youth had gone, at the same time collecting some dry sticks and grass that lay about, and striking a light. "Susanne, my pretty one," he continued, to one of the little girls, "I see some branches lying there: go and fetch them, while I blow the fire up." And, using his mouth for a pair of bellows, he had contrived to kindle a strong flame by the time that Andriot and the girl had returned. "Now, Andriot," he went on, "take off your morion, there's a good youth; fill it with water out of the stream, and you shall see that we will boil the eggs in a minute." "Had I not better take yours, Master Moric?" said the young man, looking somewhat ruefully at him. Moric burst into a loud shout of laughter, in which all the rest of the party joined. "Come, come," cried Moric, "since thou art stingy of thy morion, Andriot, we will roast the eggs, though it is a difficult task, and not to be undertaken by any but an old woman or an old soldier. "SONG. "There's an art in routing of eggs, there's an art in roasting of eggs; And he who would run before he can walk, must first learn to use his legs." Thus sung Moric Endem, in a tolerably good voice, as he laid the eggs in order among the hot wood-ashes. There was something very contagious in the gay, careless merriment which my new follower displayed, and I never beheld a meal pass more cheerfully than did ours of that day, by the banks of the little stream. Moric's eggs proved to be excellent; and of the wine, which was excellent also, he was permitted, in recompense, to have his full share. It had no perceptible effect upon him, however; more cheerful it could not make him, and his head was a great deal too well seasoned to the juice of the grape for his faculties to be disturbed by it.