It is an art only to be acquired by long practice, to cut the meat so skilfully as not at the same time to destroy the dish.
We take our places around the mat to enjoy what, after our fatiguing ride, we find delicious food.

The Frenchmen are seated at a little distance, receiving their supplies of coffee, meat, and bread, and occasionally passing jokes with the bourgeois, who is their demi-god, and for whom their respect and devotion are never lessened by his affability or condescension.
The meal being finished, the table-furniture is rinsed in hot water and set aside until morning.

A wisp of dry prairie-grass is supposed in most cases to render the knife fit to be restored to the scabbard, and there being, at this season of the year, no amusement but that of watching the awkward movements of the spancelled horses in their progress from spot to spot in search of pasturage, we are usually soon disposed to arrange our blankets and retire to rest.
At break of day we are aroused by the shout of the bourgeois,-- "How! how! how!" All start from their slumbers.

The fire, which has been occasionally replenished through the night, is soon kindled into a flame.

The horses are caught and saddled, while a breakfast, similar in kind to the meal of the preceding evening, is preparing--the tent is struck--the pack-horse loaded--"_tout demanche_," as the Canadian says.