you use slugs, which have to be freed of their
slime. They are first plunged, therefore, in
boiling water, to kill them; then they are
washed in cold water, when a great deal of
slime comes off, after which they are stewed in
water for a long time, and milk and seasoning
added; or they are stewed in milk in the same
way as the snails.

The Chinese, who waste no victuals, of course
have recognised the worth of slugs.

In meat soups, the delight of the palate is
supplied by osmazome, which forms the brown
upon roast meat, and is that sapid portion which
is soluble in cold water. The merit of a good
soup is its osmazome. It is the groundwork of
all great soups, and its removal by cooks, who
withdrew the first bouillon or soup, led Abbé
Chevrier to invent caldrons with lock and key.

The object of soup-making from meat is to
dissolve as much as possible in the water
of the soup, the sapid and nourishing
contents of the solid meat. For this purpose the
meat should be finely divided, minced, or even
pounded. Except in the hottest weather, it is of
advantage to let the meat soak in cold water
for from four to eight hours, then warm slowly,
and simmer for a long time without letting the
heat rise to bubbling point. Another cardinal
point in soup-making of more than one ingredient
is the necessity of remembering that each
article takes its own time for fit cookery, and
that to put them all at once into a pot and boil
away is barbarism. The Spaniard, with his
puchero cookery, boils each variety of meat or
other raw material for its own time in its own
pipkin, and then contrives that they shall all be
ready for mixture at the instant when the
cookery of each is in its perfection. As Count
Rumford began with his barley, and, at a certain
stage in the cooking of that, added his potatoes,
leaving to the last his bread—so the thoughtful
soup-maker in the poorest or the richest household
must time seasonably each addition to the
brew. With discretion in this matter, time,
patience, and not too much fire, it needs only
pepper, salt, and a few herbs or scraps of
vegetable, to get good soup out of anything in
which the elements of food exist

BOYS RUN WILD.

THE nearest approach to a wild boy, says
Mr. Burnet Tylor—in the amusing new journal,
the Anthropological Review, which is the
source of all this information—was to be
found in Germany, after the desolating spirit
of Napoleon had breathed over the land. The
countries ravaged by his armies fell into utter
misery. Children without parents and friends,
destitute and homeless, were quite common in
Germany. Several of them were brought to
the shelter of Count von der Reche's asylum
at Overdyke, and two of these had fallen more
nearly into the condition of wild animals, were
more nearly beast children, than any others
of whom there is unquestionable record. One
of these children was brought in ragged and
bleeding. Unable to tell his name, he was
called Clemens, since he was received upon
St. Clement's day. With a power of speech
almost as limited as Caspar Hauser's when first
found, nearly all that he could make intelligible
was, that he came "from the other side
of the water." He had also a large vocabulary
of frightful curses. He had been set to keep a
peasant's swine, had lived with them, and been
shut up with them at night. Scantily fed, he
used to suck the milch sow, and eat with the little
pigs. When first received at Overdyke he had
to be kept out of the salad-beds as if he were
himself a pig, for in the garden he would go
down on all fours, and grub among the growing
vegetables with his projecting teeth. He
retained also a brotherly regard for the whole race
of pigs, and understood them so well that they
would let him ride upon their backs. His
pleasantest memories were incidents of his life among
them as a child. This Clemens, who had a
narrow head and a low forehead, was of
imperfect intellect, though not an idiot. Given to
laughter, and open to kindness, he was liable
also to uncontrollable fits of passion. Once,
when he had tried to murder his benefactor with
a woodcutter's axe that he held in his hand, he
was carried away laughing to confinement.

The other wild boy at the Overdyke asylum,
had learnt to live as the beasts of the forest, only
prowling about villages of nights to steal food.
He climbed trees for eggs and birds, that he ate
raw, and had extraordinary knowledge of birds
and their habits. To each that he knew, he gave
a name of its own, and it is said that the birds
seemed to recognise the names he whistled after
them.

Sir William Sleeman, in his narrative of a
journey through the kingdom of Oude, gives
a very curious account of a boy, said to have
been taken when running on all fours with a
she-wolf and her three cubs. They were all seen
coming down to the river to drink when the boy
was caught. The wolves, left to themselves, are
very numerous among the ravines which run down
to the banks of the Goomtee river. They are
wolf preserves, for the Hindoo belief, that a
drop of wolf's blood spilt within the bounds of any
village dooms the village to destruction, acts
more powerfully for wolf protection than a game
law. The vagrants, with whom no conscience
pleads for the protection of the wolves, are said
to divide spoil with them after this fashion:
Very young children go about with costly
ornaments upon them. Wolves carry off and eat the
children, but reject the ornaments among their
refuse, and for the chance of finding these, the
vagrants patronise the wolves, and are on visiting
terms with them.

Getting more apocryphal as it proceeds, the
native account of the habits of wolves goes on
to say that a he-wolf always eats the children he
gets, and so does a she-wolf, except when she is
suckling; in that case she rears with her own
young the stolen baby. Now as to the
particular boy whom Sir William Sleeman found at