On this principle the inventor of " Perdraux
à la Barberie" stuck his birds over
with small pieces of truffles in the shape of
nails. They should be stuffed with chopped
truffles and rasped bacon, and served with
Italian sauce. The perdraux à la crapaudine are
dipped in bread crumbs and then broiled. In
the perdreaux à la Givry (another dish for the eye
as well as the mouth) the birds are mosaicked
with rings of white onions, and black medallions
of truffles. In the compote des perdreaux you
stew the dear creatures with bacon, mushrooms,
and small white onions. Old partridges boil
well with cabbage. The sauté of partridges
too (fillets stewed with veal and ham), is by no
means despicable, nor would Lucullus himsell
have despised partridge cutlets fried in crumbs
and treated "en epigramme" with truffles and
mushrooms. The soufflé of partridges is
excellent; the flesh requires to be chopped and
pounded, mixed with the yolks of five beat-up
eggs, and lightly baked for twenty minutes. The
purée and salmi of partridge are also savoury, but
we prefer partridge puddings, and Ude highly
recommends "the quenelles de perdreaux à la
Sefton." These are made with the flesh of tender
young partridges pounded and passed through
a sieve; you mix with it eggs, pepper, salt,
and allspice, and fill small puddings with the
paste. For the sauce, use the world-famous
Béchamel, cream, salt, and a little cayenne.
The Jew Apella himself would not disbelieve
in this dish.

A pheasant is a divine fowl—Colchis, or
wherever he first rocketted from.

     If the partridge had but the woodcock's thigh,
     He'd be the best bird as ever did fly,

might be said with more justice of the partridge
if he had only made up his little mind to be as big
as a turkey, and yet preserved that inimitable
flavour, gleaned from the healthy wheat-stubbles.
A pheasant resembles a medlar in this, that he
is insipid till he begins to decompose. A sure
test of knowing when your bird is ripe (generally
about six days) is to hold him by the leg. If blood
drops from the beak he is ready; to the spit
with him incontinently—for the hour and the
bird have come. Another good test is to hang
your pheasant up in the larder by his long,
auburn-coloured, tail feathers; cook him the
moment the feathers drop out and let their
master fall. Be sure he falls soft. The best
proof of a young bird is the shortness and
obtuseness of the claw. Always choose a hen,
if you can, for the feminine among pheasants,
contrary to the ungallant Latin grammar rule, is
more worthy than the masculine. It is difficult,
French cooks say, in our damp climate to keep
the pheasant long enough to develop the full
game flavour.

The Parisians wrap their roasting pheasants
in sheets of buttered paper, and their favourite
sauces for the royal bird are verjuice or orange
juice, and sauce de carpe. The pheasant is
inimitable à la braise in filets, in pies, in salmi,
in croquettes, hashed, in soufflés, in cutlets, or
in scollops. The good old English rule for a
pheasant is forty minutes before a smart but
not a fierce fire. And here a wrinkle, if you are
not an artful man or woman. We can assure
you, from experience, that such is the deceptive
power of the imagination, that if you have only
one pheasant for a dinner party, and want two,
a fine young fowl kept for five days, and with
his head twisted exactly like the real Simon
Pure, will never be discovered under a friendly
snow-drift of fragrant bread sauce. As a rule,
all entrées that are made with partridges can
be made also of pheasants, and the petit deuil
(half mourning), Monglas, Givry, &c., are
equally good, of whichever bird they are made.

The French cooks rejoice sometimes over the
vast carcase of that European ostrich, the brainless
Bustard—a bird of vast body, but diminutive
mind. The last one known in England
was killed, we believe, on the, windy surface of
Salisbury Plain, in the middle of last century,
rather after the time the last wolf died in Scotland,
and half a dozen centuries after the last
beaver in Wales had expired, universally
lamented. It is only after very rigorous winters
that the bustard is ever found in the South of
France; but, in 1804, they were not uncommon at
Beziers, where competing gourmands used to
offer as much as thirty-six livres for each. Bustards
also came to Paris from Champagne, and
frequently from the great plain of Chalons, which
suited their habits and their extreme dulness.
The camp has, no doubt, long ago made the once
lonely plain undesirable. Young and well hung,
the bustard is tasty; the flesh, it is asserted,
combines the flavours of several sorts of game.
It is generally roasted like wild goose, but
sometimes eaten cold in pies, which, however,
require a great generosity in lard, as bustard
meat is by nature dry, and rather indigestible.

The French call the woodcock, who is all
nose (as everybody knows), and is not remarkable
for very regular features, the king of the
marsh and the woodside—"le premier des
oiseaux noirs." It is the choicest morsel of the
gourmet, who loves it for its perfect flavour,
the volatility of its principles, and the
succulence of its flesh. It is the highest mark of
esteem we can offer to a guest who may be
useful to us. We devour even the humblest
portions of his body—we honour him with far
more reason than the Thibet people do their
taciturn grand Llama. It is admirable en salmi,
stuffed with truffles (this is, however, adding
perfume to the violet); and fine with olives, à la
Provençale, or à l'Espagnole. Finally, pounded,
it becomes a purée, which even French cooks
consider as the consummation of all luxury.
Woodcocks should be eaten in solemn silence,
and with all the honours, as the plat des plats.
They hash well; they are superb en croustades.
They are good in every way. One great
authority particularly praises "the salmi de
becasses, à la Lucullus;" in this dish the fillets
are sauced with pounded mushrooms, shallots,
and parsley.

A hare that has run himself tender has, no