I had never tasted a dish so palatable.

I had dined at the emperor's table in Vienna; I had lived in Italy; I had sojourned in the East, where luxuries are most valued and used, but I had never partaken of a more delicious supper than that which I ate at the house of my rich burgher friend, George Castleman.

There might have been a greater showing of plate, though that was not lacking, but there could have been no whiter linen nor more appetizing dishes than those which good Frau Kate gave us that evening.
After the frozen wine had disappeared, a serving-maid brought in a stoneware pan covered with a snowy pastry, made from the whites of eggs and clear sugar.

At its entry Yolanda clapped her hands and cried out with childish delight.

When the pan was placed before Castleman, she exclaimed:-- "Be careful, uncle! Don't thrust the knife too deep, or you will kill the birds." Uncle Castleman ran the point of the knife around the outer edge of the crust, and, with a twist of the blade, quickly lifted it from the pan, when out flew a dozen or more wrens.