CARAWAY CAKE By MABEL MARLOWE

Biddy the Brownie-cook stood in her little garden, talking over the fence to her neighbour.

“I am going to make a cake for my husband,” she said.

“What kind of cake?”

“A caraway cake.”

“I shouldn’t if I were you,” said the neighbour. “Never make a caraway cake for your husband on Midsummer Eve. The cookery book tells you not to.”

“Oh, I never bother about a cookery book,” said Biddy the Brownie-cook. “I cannot fuss with all the rules, and all the weights and measures. I simply go to the larder and take out all the things that I have, and mix them in a basin, and make a cake—and it is always a nice cake, too.”

She gave her neighbour a smile, and went into her house. She looked in the larder, and found some flour, some butter, some sugar, some spice, and a little packet of caraway seeds.

She put all the things on the table, beside her wooden pastry bowl. Then she looked on the shelf for an egg, but the only egg to be seen was a greenish one, which she had once found in a deserted nest by the mulberry tree.

“Never mind, I must make this do. An egg is an egg all the world over,” said Biddy the Brownie-cook. She took the egg between her finger and thumb, held it over the bowl, and gave it a smart tap with a fork.

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“Never make a caraway cake on Midsummer Eve....”

148Pop! The egg flew into a thousand pieces, and out fluttered a tiny yellow bird.

“Tweet! I see some butter,” said the bird, and it flew down to the table and began to peck at the butter.

“Stop that at once! It is my butter,” cried Biddy the Brownie-cook, clapping her hands at the bird.

“Never make caraway cake on Midsummer Eve,” said the bird. It dropped a yellow feather from its tail, then it went on eating the butter. It pecked and it pecked! It ate and it ate! It grew and it grew until it was the size of a missel-thrush.

“Dear, dear! How shall I make my cake now, with no egg and no butter?” said Biddy the Brownie-cook.

“Swee-eet! I see some flour,” said the thrush, and it hopped on to the flour bag, and began to eat up the flour.

“Stop that at once! It is my flour,” cried Biddy, reaching for the rolling-pin, and holding it up like a stick.

“Never make caraway cake on Midsummer Eve,” said the thrush. It dropped a nut-brown feather from its tail, then it went on eating the flour. It pecked and it pecked! It ate and it ate! It grew and it grew, until it was the size of a pigeon.

“Dear dear! How shall I make my cake now, with no egg, no butter, and no flour?” said Biddy the Brownie-cook.

“Coo-ooo! I see some sugar,” said the pigeon, and it hopped upon the sugar bag, and began to eat the sugar.

“Stop that at once! Stop it this moment! It is my sugar. Don’t you dare to touch it, you bothersome bird!” cried Biddy, waving the rolling-pin about.

“Never make caraway cake on Midsummer Eve,” cooed the pigeon, and it steadily set to work to eat up all the sugar. 149It dropped a grey-green feather from its tail. It pecked and it pecked! It ate and it ate! It grew and it grew until it was the size of a peacock.

“Dear dear! How shall I make my cake now, with no egg, no butter, no flour, and no sugar?” wailed poor Biddy the Brownie-cook.

“Cluck-a-cluck-a-clickety! I see some spice,” said the peacock, dipping its beak into the spice box.

“Stop that at once! Stop it this moment! It is my spice. Don’t you dare to touch it, you good-for-nothing, bothersome bird!” cried Biddy, banging on the table with the rolling-pin. “Don’t you dare to eat my spice, or I will crack you over the head with my rolling-pin.”

“Never make caraway cake on Midsummer Eve,” mumbled the peacock, with his beak half full of spice. It dropped a beautiful peacock’s feather from its tail, then it went on eating the spice. It pecked and it pecked! It ate and it ate! It grew and it grew, until it was the size of an ostrich.

“Dear dear! How shall I make my cake now, with no egg, no butter, no flour, no sugar, and no spice?” cried poor Biddy, wiping her eyes.

“Hallo-ullo-ullo-ullo! I see some caraway seeds,” said the ostrich.

“Don’t you dare to touch them! They are my caraway seeds. You have eaten my butter. You have eaten my flour. You have swallowed my sugar and gobbled up my spice. But you shall not have my caraway seeds, indeed you shall not!” cried Biddy the Brownie-cook.

“Never make caraway cake on Midsummer Eve,” clucked the ostrich. He dropped a trailing tail-feather upon the 150table. Then he picked up the bag of caraway seeds, and swallowed them at one gulp.

“Hullo ... I see some caraway seeds.”

“You thieving, bothersome, good-for-nothing rascal!” cried Biddy. “How shall I make my cake now, I wonder, with no egg, no butter, no flour, no sugar, no spice, and no caraway seeds? What will my hungry husband say when he comes home?”

“Better make some oat-scones,” said the ostrich.

151Then Biddy the Brownie-cook went into the larder, dropping tears as she went. She reached a bag of oatmeal down from the shelf, and came back into the kitchen.

The ostrich was gone.

The caraway seeds, the spice, the sugar, the flour, and the butter were lying on the table beside the wooden pastry bowl. The shell of the little greenish egg was in the bottom of the bowl cracked neatly in half, quite empty.

“Goodness me! I must have been dreaming,” said Biddy the Brownie-cook.

But lying beside the caraway seeds were five feathers: a yellow one, a nut-brown one, a greenish-grey one, a peacock’s one, and a beautiful drooping, ostrich feather.

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