IT is not wise for a man who can get sea-sick in a rowboat on a mill-pond to attack a Japanese dinner just after a seventeen days' voyage across the Pacific. I was just that unwise, and for that reason perhaps can do but scant justice in this Land of the Rising Sun, to a soup in which floats bits of strange fishes from the vasty deep, unknown green things and an island of yellow custard; to slices of many colored raw fish, tough cocks' combs (real ones) or even to the stewed chicken which at this dinner at least had been shorn of everything except bones and tough sinews. The other day I tried it again with no better success, and now with the prospect of rice for food three times a day in the field around Port Arthur and no bread (there can be no more serious deprivation to a Southerner) I am suddenly asked to think of a Kentucky table and that tur-baned mistress of the Blue Grass kitchen, a Kentucky cook!

It is June in Japan, and it is June in that blessed land of the Blue Grass. The sun shines there, no doubt, right now: the corn top's ripe; the meadows are in bloom and along turnpike and out in the fields the song and laughter of darkies make gay the air. It is early morning. The singing of birds comes through the open windows - the chatter of blackbirds and the mid-air calls of far away meadow larks. Through those windows sleepy eyes see wood and field, with stretches of blossoming blue grass rippling in the wind. Another half-conscious doze for an hour, another awakening, and by your bed stands a black boy in a snowy apron, his white teeth shining, and in his kindly black paws a silver goblet on a silver tray. Heavens, how it hurts to smell that mint this far away! The goblet is gleaming with frost, and the mint is still drenched with dew. Who was it sang of the ecstasy of awakening on a June morning and being in love? Well, to the wise one who has that blissful state only as a memory a hint is sufficient.

It is now breakfast time. There are strawberries in Japan, but there are also strawberries in the Blue Grass, and I shall not risk international complications by invidious comparison. In the Blue Grass they go with a yellow cream of which I dare not think. You shall find that same cream in a cup of fragrant coffee as well. There is broiled ham with a grateful odor whose source is a mystery; there are plates of hot thin meal batter cakes, each encircled with crisp, delicate black embroidery, and there is golden butter that melts and drips and seeps between the layers. It is too early for game-birds, so those little brown, fat, broiled things resting in the big dish are spring chickens, "frying size," as we say in the Blue Grass, and on another dish there they are again - fried, after Southern style, half submerged in a rich cream of gravy, snow white. I can go no further now, for the waffles are yet to come.

You climb a horse now and ride out into the morning and the sunlight and the fresh air, into the singing of those birds and the rippling stretches of blue grass, wheat and barley and wind-shaken corn. Under full-leafed maples and oaks and sycamores where fat cattle are tearing up rich mouthfuls of grass, and sheep and young lambs are grazing and playing along a creek whose banks are grassy to the very water's edge. Three hours you ride, for you must see the whole place that morning. Guests are coming to dinner, and there will be little time in the afternoon, so through lanes in which the wild rose blooms and through woods and meadows you lope for home. How hungry you are! The pike gate slams, the first guest is coming, and up the hill they wind in buggy, carriage, and on horseback. When all are gathered in the drawing-room, you shall see the host quietly lead some man to the veranda - it is a magic signal that need not be explained. Out there are more of those frosted silver goblets, flowering with green and "with beaded bubbles winking at the brim." And now dinner.

The dining-room is the biggest and sunniest in the house. On the wall are hunting prints, pictures of game and stag heads. The table runs almost the length of it, and the snowy table-cloth hangs almost to the floor. Before your hostess is a great tureen of calf s-head soup; before your host a saddle of venison, drenched in a bottle of ancient Madeira and flanked by flakes of red-currant jelly. Before one guest are broiled wild ducks. After the venison comes a great turkey, and last of all a Kentucky ham.

"That ham! Mellow, aged, boiled in champagne, baked brown, spiced deeply, rosy pink within and of a flavor and fragrance to shatter the fast of a pope; and without a brown-edged white layer so firm that the deft carving knife passing through gave no hint to the eye that it was delicious fat. . . . The rose flakes dropped under the knife in such thin slices that the edges coiled."

After the ham the table-cloth is lifted and the dessert spread on another lying beneath. Then that, too, is raised and the nuts and wines are placed on a third - red damask this time. So much for breakfast and dinner - the old-time dinner. At the thought of supper the pen of this exile halts, and for it the reader may search within.

Is it any wonder that the stories of Southern hospitality are so many and so good? It is said that in Texas a planter will sometimes waylay the passing stranger, and at the point of a shot-gun force him to halt and stay a month. I have heard of a man stopping to spend the night on a Georgia plantation and staying on for twenty years. I have heard of an old major in Virginia, the guest of the father of a friend of mine, who every spring had his horse saddled and brought to the fence, when the following annual colloquy took place:

"Oh, you'd better stay a while longer, Major," the host would say.

"No," the Major would say," I reckon I'd better be goin'."

After every mint julep this interchange would take place. At the end of the third the Major invariably weakened.

"Well," he would say, "I reckon I'll stay a little longer." And he would stay - another year. This went on for a decade.

These things I have heard - what follows I know. There was a famous place near Lexington once which I will call Silver Springs, and there was a guest there of twenty years' standing. One morning he went over to the home of his host's son, liked it over there and stayed ten years until he died. But there is yet a better story of Silver Springs. So many guests actually died there that the host provided them with a graveyard. Some fifteen years ago the church near by was torn down, the graveyard was sold, and all the bodies had to be removed. The son of the master of Silver Springs wrote to what relatives of the dead guests he could find. No answer came, and the daughter of the son, who has been a lifelong friend of mine, took the seven guests, sang "Nearer, my God, to Thee" over them, and buried them in the family plot. There the seven rest to-day.

Now the social system of the South rested on the slave, and the three pillars of the substructure were the overseer, the black mammy and Aunt Dinah, the cook. But for Aunt Dinah would the master have had the heart for such hospitality? Would the guest have found it so hard to get away? Would stories like these ever have been born? Would the Kentuckian have had the brawn and brain that have given him such a history? Would Kentucky have sent the flower of her youth, forty thousand strong, into the Confederacy; would she have lifted the lid of her treasury to Lincoln, and in answer to his every call sent him a soldier practically without a bounty and without a draft; and when the curtain fell on the last act of the great tragedy would she have left half of her manhood behind it - helpless from disease, wounded or dead on the battlefield? I think not.

All honor then to that turbaned mistress of the Kentucky kitchen - the Kentucky cook. She came to the Blue Grass from Virginia more than a hundred years ago, swift on the flying feet of the Indian. She was broad, portly, kind of heart, though severe of countenance, as befitted her dignity, and usually quick of temper and sharp of tongue. Her realm was not limited to the kitchen. She disputed the power of "mammy" in the drawing-room, and there were times when all, black and white, bowed down before her. James Lane Allen has written that, going home with a friend late one night after a party, his friend got up at five o'clock the next morning and made him get up, through fear of rousing the temper of this same black, autocratic cook. But when she was kind she was mighty; and is there a Southerner who does not hold her, in spite of her faults, in loving remembrance? As far as I know she has never got her just due. She is gone, and there are good ones to-day who fill her place, but none who are full worthy. Publicly I acknowledge an everlasting debt, and to that turbaned mistress of the Kentucky kitchen gratefully this Southerner takes off his hat.

John Fox, Jr.

Tokio, Japan, June 1, 1904.