Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper / Arthur, T. S. (Timothy Shay), 1809-1885

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Title: Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper

Author: T.S. Arthur

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TRIALS AND CONFESSIONS OF A HOUSEKEEPER.

BY T. S. Arthur

PHILADELPHIA:

1859.






INTRODUCTION.





UNDER the title of Confessions of a Housekeeper, a portion of the
matter in this volume has already appeared. The book is now
considerably increased, and the range of subjects made to embrace
the grave and instructive, as well as the agreeable and amusing. The
author is sure, that no lady reader, familiar with the trials,
perplexities, and incidents of housekeeping, can fail to recognize
many of her own experiences, for nearly every picture that is here
presented, has been drawn from life.






CONTENTS.






CHAPTER I. MY SPECULATION IN CHINA WARE.
II. SOMETHING ABOUT COOKS.
III. LIGHT ON THE SUBJECT.
IV. CHEAP FURNITURE.
V. IS IT ECONOMY?
VI. LIVING AT A CONVENIENT DISTANCE.
VII. THE PICKED-UP DINNER.
VIII. WHO IS KRISS KRINGLE?
IX. NOT AT HOME.
X. SHIRT BUTTONS.
XI. PAVEMENT WASHING IN WINTER.
XII. REGARD FOR THE POOR.
XIII. SOMETHING MORE ABOUT COOKS.
XIV. NOT A RAG ON THEIR BACKS.
XV. CURIOSITY.
XVI. HOUSE CLEANING.
XVII. BROILING A LOBSTER.
XVIII. THE STRAWBERRY-WOMAN.
XIX. LOTS OF THINGS.
XX. A CURE FOR LOW SPIRITS.
XXI. A BARGAIN.
XXII. A PEEVISH DAY AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
XXIII. WORDS.
XXIV. MAY BE SO.
XXV. "THE POOR CHILD DIED"
XXVI. THE RIVAL BONNETS.
XXVII. MY WASHERMAN.
XXVIII. MY BORROWING NEIGHBOR.
XXIX. EXPERIENCE IN TAKING BOARDERS.
XXX. TWO WAYS WITH DOMESTICS.
XXXI. A MOTHER'S DUTY.










CONFESSIONS OF A HOUSEKEEPER.

CHAPTER I.

MY SPECULATION IN CHINA WARE.





THIS happened a very few years after, my marriage, and is one of
those feeling incidents in life that we never forget. My husband's
income was moderate, and we found it necessary to deny ourselves
many little articles of ornament and luxury, to the end that there
might be no serious abatement in the comforts of life. In furnishing
our house, we had been obliged to content ourselves mainly with
things useful. Our parlor could boast of nine cane-seat chairs; one
high-backed cane-seat rocking chair; a pair of card tables; a pair
of ottomans, the covers for which I had worked in worsted; and a few
illustrated books upon the card tables. There were no pictures on
the walls, nor ornaments on the mantle pieces.

For a time after my marriage with Mr. Smith, I did not think much
about the plainness of our style of living; but after a while,
contracts between my own parlors and those of one or two friends,
would take place in my mind; and I often found myself wishing that
we could afford a set of candelabras, a pair of china vases, or some
choice pieces of Bohemian glass. In fact, I set my heart on
something of the kind, though I concealed the weakness from my
husband.

Time stole on, and one increase after another to our family, kept up
the necessity for careful expenditure, and at no time was there
money enough in the purse to justify any outlay beyond what the
wants of the household required. So my mantel pieces remained bare
as at first, notwithstanding the desire for something to put on them
still remained active.

One afternoon, as I sat at work renovating an old garment, with the
hope of making it look almost "as good as new," my cook entered and
said--

"There's a man down stairs, Mrs. Smith, with a basket full of the
most beautiful glass dishes and china ornaments that you ever did
see; and he says that he will sell them for old clothes."

"For old clothes?" I responded, but half comprehending what the girl
meant.

"Yes ma'am. if you have got an old coat, or a pair of pantaloons
that aint good for nothing, he will buy them, and pay you in glass
or china."

I paused for a moment to think, and then said--

"Tell him to come up into the dining room, Mary."

The girl went down stairs, and soon came back in company with a dull
looking old man, who carried on his arm a large basket, in which
were temptingly displayed rich china vases, motto and presentation
cups and saucers, glass dishes, and sundry other articles of a like
character.

"Any old coats, pantaloons or vests?" said the man, as he placed,
carefully, his basket on the floor. "Don't want any money. See here!
Beautiful!"

And as he spoke, he took up a pair of vases and held them before my
eyes. They were just the thing for my mantle pieces, and I covetted
them on the instant.

"What's the price?" I enquired.

"Got an old coat?" was my only answer. "Don't want money."

My husband was the possessor of a coat that had seen pretty good
service, and which he had not worn for some time. In fact, it had
been voted superannuated, and consigned to a dark corner of the
clothes-press. The thought of this garment came very naturally into
my mind, and with the thought a pleasant exhilaration of feeling,
for I already saw the vases on my mantles.

"Any old clothes?" repeated the vender of china ware.

Without a word I left the dining room, and hurried up to where our
large clothes-press stood, in the passage above. From this I soon
abstracted the coat, and then descended with quick steps.

The dull face of the old man brightened, the moment his eyes fell
upon the garment. He seized it with a nervous movement, and seemed
to take in its condition at a single glance. Apparently, the
examination was not very satisfactory, for he let the coat fall, in
a careless manner, across a chair, giving his shoulders a shrug,
while a slight expression of contempt flitted over his countenance.

"Not much good!" fell from his lips after a pause.

By this time I had turned to his basket, and was examining, more
carefully, its contents. Most prominent stood the china vases, upon
which my heart was already set; and instinctively I took them in my
hands.

"What will you give for the coat?" said I.

The old man gave his head a significant shake, as he replied--

"No very good."

"It's worth something," I returned. "Many a poor person would be
glad to buy it for a small sum of money. It's only a little defaced.
I'm sure its richly worth four or five dollars."

"Pho! Pho! Five dollar! Pho!" The old man seemed angry at my most
unreasonable assumption.

"Well, well," said I, beginning to feel a little impatient, "just
tell me what you will give for it."

"What you want?" he enquired, his manner visibly changing.

"I want these vases, at any rate," I answered, holding up the
articles I had mentioned.

"Worth four, five dollar!" ejaculated the dealer, in well feigned
surprise.

I shook my head. He shrugged his shoulders, and commenced searching
his basket, from which, after a while, he took a china cup and
saucer, on which I read, in gilt letters, "For my Husband."

"Give you this," said he.

It was now my time to show surprise; I answered--

"Indeed you won't, then. But I'll tell you what I will do; I'll let
you have the coat for the vases and this cup and saucer."

To this proposition the man gave an instant and decided negative,
and seemed half offended by my offer. He threw the coat, which was
in his hands again, upon a chair, and stooping down took his basket
on his arm. I was deceived by his manner, and began to think that I
had proposed rather a hard bargain; so I said--

"You can have the coat for the vases, if you care to make the
exchange; if not, why no harm is done."

For the space of nearly half a minute, the old man stood in apparent
irresolution, then he replied, as he set down his basket and took
out the pair of vases--

"I don't care; you shall have them."

I took the vases and he took the coat. A moment or two more, and I
heard the street door close behind the dealer in china ware, with a
very decided jar.

"Ain't they beautiful, aunty?" said I to my old aunt Rachel, who had
been a silent witness of the scene I have just described; and I held
the pair of vases before her eyes.

"Why yes, they are rather pretty, Jane," replied aunt Rachel, a
little coldly, as I thought.

"Rather pretty! They are beautiful," said I warmly. "See there!" And
I placed them on the dining room mantle. "How much they will improve
our parlors."

"Not half so much as that old coat you as good as gave away would
have improved the feelings as well as the looks of poor Mr. Bryan,
who lives across the street," was the unexpected and rebuking answer
of aunt Rachel.

The words smote on my feelings. Mr. Bryan was a poor, but honest and
industrious young man, upon whose daily labor a wife and five
children were dependent. He went meanly clad, because he could not
earn enough, in addition to what his family required, to buy
comfortable clothing for himself. I saw, in an instant, what the
true disposition of the coat should have been. The china vases would
a little improve the appearance of my parlors; but how many pleasant
feelings and hours and days of comfort, would the old coat have
given to Mr. Bryan. I said no more. Aunt Rachel went on with her
knitting, and I took the vases down into the parlors and placed them
on the mantles--one in each room. But they looked small, and seemed
quite solitary. So I put one on each end of a single mantle. This
did better; still, I was disappointed in the appearance they made,
and a good deal displeased with myself. I felt that I had made a bad
bargain--that is, one from which I should obtain no real pleasure.

For a while I sat opposite the mantle-piece, looking at the
vases--but, not admiringly; then I left the parlor, and went about
my household duties, but, with a pressure on my feelings. I was far,
very far from being satisfied with myself.

About an hour afterwards my husband came home. I did not take him
into the parlor to show him my little purchase, for, I had no heart
to do so. As we sat at the tea table, he said, addressing me--

"You know that old coat of mine that is up in the clothes-press?"

I nodded my head in assent, but did not venture to speak.

"I've been thinking to-day," added my husband, "that it would be
just the thing for Mr. Bryan, who lives opposite. It's rather too
much worn for me, but will look quite decent on him, compared with
the clothes he now wears. Don't you think it is a good thought? We
will, of course, make him a present of the garment."

My eyes drooped to the table, and I felt the blood crimsoning my
face. For a moment or two I remained silent, and then answered--

"I'm sorry you didn't think of this before; but it's too late now."

"Too late! Why?" enquired my husband.

"I sold the coat this afternoon," was my reply.

"Sold it!"

"Yes. A man came along with some handsome china ornaments, and I
sold the coat for a pair of vases to set on our mantle-pieces."

There was an instant change in my husband's face. He disapproved of
what I had done; and, though he uttered no condemning words, his
countenance gave too clear an index to his feelings.

"The coat would have done poor Mr. (sic) Byran a great deal more
good than the vases will ever do Jane," spoke up aunt Rachel, with
less regard for my feelings than was manifested by my husband. "I
don't think," she continued, "that any body ought to sell old
clothes for either money or nicknackeries to put on the
mantle-pieces. Let them be given to the poor, and they'll do some
good. There isn't a housekeeper in moderate circumstances that
couldn't almost clothe some poor family, by giving away the cast off
garments that every year accumulate on her hands."

How sharply did I feel the rebuking spirit in these words of aunt
Rachel.

"What's done can't be helped now," said my husband kindly,
interrupting, as he spoke, some further remarks that aunt Rachel
evidently intended to make. "We must do better next time."

"I must do better," was my quick remark, made in penitent tones. "I
was very thoughtless."

To relieve my mind, my husband changed the subject of conversation;
but, nothing could relieve the pressure upon my feelings, caused by
a too acute consciousness of having done what in the eyes of my
husband, looked like a want of true humanity. I could not bear that
he should think me void of sympathy for others.

The day following was Sunday. Church time came, and Mr. Smith went
to the clothes press for his best coat, which had been worn only for
a few months.

"Jane!" he called to me suddenly, in a voice that made me start.
"Jane! Where is my best coat?"

"In the clothes press," I replied, coming out from our chamber into
the passage, as I spoke.

"No; it's not here," was his reply. "And, I shouldn't wonder if you
had sold my good coat for those china vases."

"No such thing!" I quickly answered, though my heart gave a great
bound at his words; and then sunk in my bosom with a low tremor of
alarm.

"Here's my old coat," said Mr. Smith, holding up that defaced
garment--"Where is the new one?"

"The old clothes man has it, as sure as I live!" burst from my lips.

"Well, that is a nice piece of work, I must confess!"

This was all my husband said; but it was enough to smite me almost
to the floor. Covering my face with my hands, I dropped into a
chair, and sat and sobbed for a while bitterly.

"It can't be helped now, Jane," said Mr. Smith, at length, in a
soothing voice. "The coat is gone, and there is no help for it. You
will know better next time."

That was all he said to me then, and I was grateful for his kind
consideration. He saw that I was punished quite severely enough, and
did not add to my pain by rebuke or complaint.

An attempt was made during the week to recover the coat, valued at
some twenty dollars; but the china ornament-man was not to be
found--he had made too good a bargain to run the risk of having it
broken.

About an hour after the discovery of the loss of my husband's coat,
I went quietly down into the parlor, and taking from the
mantle-piece the china vases, worth, probably, a dollar for the
pair, concealed them under my apron, lest any one should see what I
had; and, returning up stairs, hid them away in a dark closet, where
they have ever since remained.

The reader may be sure that I never forgot this, my first and last
speculation in china ware.






CHAPTER II.

SOMETHING ABOUT COOKS.





WAS there ever a good cook who hadn't some prominent fault that
completely overshadowed her professional good qualities? If my
experience is to answer the question, the reply will be--_no_.

I had been married several years before I was fortunate enough to
obtain a cook that could be trusted to boil a potato, or broil a
steak. I felt as if completely made up when Margaret served her
first dinner. The roast was just right, and all the vegetables were
cooked and flavored as well as if I had done it myself--in fact, a
little better. My husband eat with a relish not often exhibited, and
praised almost every thing on the table.

For a week, one good meal followed another in daily succession. We
had hot cakes, light and fine-flavored, every morning for breakfast,
with coffee not to be beaten--and chops or steaks steaming from the
gridiron, that would have gladdened the heart of an epicure. Dinner
was served, during the time, with a punctuality that was rarely a
minute at fault, while every article of food brought upon the table,
fairly tempted the appetite. Light rolls, rice cakes, or "Sally
Luns," made without suggestion on my part usually met us at tea
time. In fact, the very delight of Margaret's life appeared to be in
cooking. She was born for a cook.

Moreover, strange to say, Margaret was good-tempered, a most
remarkable thing in a good cook; and more remarkable still, was tidy
in her person, and cleanly in her work.

"She is a treasure," said I to my husband, one day, as we passed
from the dining-room, after having partaken of one of her excellent
dinners.

"She's too good," replied Mr. Smith--"too good to last. There must
be some bad fault about her--good cooks always have bad faults--and
I am looking for its appearance every day."

"Don't talk so, Mr. Smith. There is no reason in the world why a
good cook should not be as faultless as any one else."

Even while I said this, certain misgivings intruded themselves. My
husband went to his store soon after.

About three o'clock Margaret presented herself, all dressed to go
out, and said that she was going to see her sister, but would be
back in time to get tea.

She came back, as she promised, but, alas for my good cook! The
fault appeared. She was so much intoxicated that, in attempting to
lift the kettle from the fire, she let it fall, and came near
scalding herself dreadfully. Oh, dear! I shall never forget the sad
disappointment of that hour. How the pleasant images of good dinners
and comfortable breakfasts and suppers faded from my vision. The old
trouble was to come back again, for the faultless cook had
manifested a fault that vitiated, for us, all her good qualities.

On the next day, I told Margaret that we must part; but she begged
so hard to be kept in her place, and promised good behaviour in
future so earnestly, that I was prevailed on to try her again. It
was of no use, however--in less than a week she was drunk again, and
I had to let her go.

After that, for some months, we had burnt steaks, waxy potatoes, and
dried roast beef to our hearts' content; while such luxuries as
muffins, hot cakes, and the like were not to be seen on our
uninviting table.

My next good cook had such a violent temper, that I was actually
afraid to show my face in the kitchen. I bore with her until
patience was no longer a virtue, and then she went.

Biddy, who took charge of my "kitchen cabinet," a year or so
afterwards, proved herself a culinary artist of no ordinary merit.
But, alas! Biddy "kept a room;" and so many strange disappearances
of bars of soap, bowls of sugar, prints of butter, etc., took place,
that I was forced to the unwilling conclusion that her room was
simply a store room for the surplussage of mine. Some pretty strong
evidence on this point coming to my mind, I dismissed Biddy, who was
particularly forward in declaring her honesty, although I had never
accused her of being wanting in that inestimable virtue.

Some of my experiences in cooks have been musing enough. Or, I
should rather say, are musing enough to _think_ about: they were
rather annoying at the time of their occurrence. One of these
experiences I will relate. I had obtained a "treasure" in a new
cook, who was not only good tempered and cleanly, but understood her
business reasonably well. Kitty was a little different from former
incumbents of her office in this, that she took an interest in
reading, and generally dipped into the morning paper before it found
its way up stairs. To this, of course, I had no objection, but was
rather pleased to see it. Time, however, which proves all things,
showed my cook to be rather too literary in her inclinations. I
often found her reading, when it was but reasonable for me to expect
that she would be working; and overdone or burnt dishes occasionally
marked the degree in which her mind was absorbed in her literary
pleasures, which I discovered in time, were not of the highest
order-such books as the "Mysteries of Paris" furnishing the aliment
that fed her imagination.

"Jane," said my husband to me one morning, as he was about leaving
the house, "I believe I must invite my old friend Green to dine with
me to-day. He will leave the city to-morrow, and I may not have the
pleasure of a social hour with him again for years. Besides, I want
to introduce him to you. We were intimate as young men, and much
attached to each other. I would like you to know him."

"Invite him, by all means," was my reply.

"I will send home a turkey from market," said Mr. Smith, as he stood
holding on to the open door. "Tell Kitty to cook it just right. Mrs.
Green, I am told, is a first-rate housekeeper, and I feel like
showing you off to the best advantage."

"Don't look for too much," I replied, smiling, "lest you be
disappointed."

Mr. Smith went away, and I walked back to the kitchen door to say a
word to Kitty. As I looked in, the sound of my feet on the floor
caused her to start. She was standing near a window, and at my
appearance she hurriedly concealed something under her apron.

"Kitty," said I, "we are to have company to dine with us to-day. Mr.
Smith will send home a turkey, which you must dress and cook in the
best manner. I will be down during the morning to make some lemon
puddings. Be sure to have a good fire in the range, and see that all
the drafts are clear."

Kitty promised that every thing should be right, and I went up
stairs. In due time the marketing came home. About eleven o'clock I
repaired to the kitchen, and, much to my surprise, found all in
disorder.

"What in the world have you been doing all the morning?" said I,
feeling a little fretted.

Kitty excused herself good naturedly, and commenced bustling about
to put things to rights, while I got flour and other articles
necessary for my purpose, and went to work at my lemon puddings,
which were, in due time, ready for the oven. Giving all necessary
directions as to their baking, and charging Kitty to be sure to have
every thing on the table precisely at our usual hour for dining, I
went up into the nursery to look after the children, and to see
about other matters requiring my attention.

Time passed on until, to my surprise, I heard the clock strike one.
I had yet to dress for dinner.

"I wonder how Kitty is coming on?" said I to myself. "I hope she
will not let the puddings get all dried up."

But, I felt too much in a hurry to go down and satisfy myself as to
the state of affairs in the kitchen; and took it for granted that
all was right.

A little while afterwards, I perceived an odor as of something
burning.

"What is that?" came instinctively from my lips. "If Kitty has let
the puddings burn!"

Quick as thought I turned from my room, and went gliding down
stairs. As I neared the kitchen, the smell of burned flour, or
pastry, grew stronger. All was silent below; and I approached in
silence. On entering Kitty's domain, I perceived that lady seated in
front of the range, with a brown covered pamphlet novel held close
to her face, in the pages of which she was completely lost. I never
saw any one more entirely absorbed in a book. No sign of dinner was
any where to be seen. Upon the range was a kettle of water boiling
over into the fire, and from one of the ovens poured forth a dark
smoke, that told too plainly the ruin of my lemon puddings. And, to
cap all, the turkey, yet guiltless of fire or dripping pan, was upon
the floor, in possession of a strange cat, which had come in through
the open window. Bending over the still entranced cook, I read the
title of her book. It was "THE WANDERING JEW."

"Kitty!" I don't much wonder, now, at the start she gave, for I
presume there was not the zephyr's softness in my voice.

"Oh, ma'am!" She caught her breath as her eyes rested upon the cat
and the turkey. "Indeed, ma'am!" And then she made a spring towards
puss, who, nimbly eluding her, passed out by the way through which
she had come in.

By this time I had jerked open the oven door, when there came
rushing out a cloud of smoke, which instantly filled the room. My
puddings were burned to a crisp!

As for the turkey, the cat had eaten off one side of the breast, and
it was no longer fit for the table.

"Well! this is fine work!" said I, in an angry, yet despairing
voice. "Fine work, upon my word!"

"Oh, ma'am!" Kitty interrupted me by saying, "I'll run right off and
buy another turkey, and have it cooked in time. Indeed I will,
ma'am! And I'll pay for it. It's all my fault! oh dear! dear me! Now
don't be angry, Mrs. Smith! I'll have dinner all ready in time, and
no one will be any the wiser for this."

"In time!" and I raised my finger towards the kitchen clock, the
hands of which marked the period of half past one. Two o'clock was
our regular dinner hour.

"Mercy!" ejaculated the frightened cook, as she sank back upon a
chair; "I thought it was only a little past eleven. I am sure it was
only eleven when I sat down just to read a page or two while the
puddings were in the oven!"

The truth was, the "Wandering Jew," in the most exciting portion of
which she happened to be, proved too much for her imagination. Her
mind had taken no note of time, and two hours passed with the
rapidity of a few minutes.

"I don't exactly comprehend this," said my husband, as he sat down
with his old friend, to dine off of broiled steak and potatoes, at
half-past two o'clock.

"It's all the fault of the, 'Wandering Jew!'" I replied, making an
effort to drive away, with a smile, the red signs of mortification
that were in my face.

"The Wandering Jew!" returned my husband, looking mystified.

"Yes, the fault lies with that imaginary personage," said I,
"strange as it may seem." And then I related the mishaps of the
morning. For desert, we had some preserved fruit and cream, and a
hearty laugh over the burnt puddings and disfigured turkey.

Poor Kitty couldn't survive the mortification. She never smiled
again in my house; and, at the close of the week, removed to another
home.






CHAPTER III.

LIGHT ON THE SUBJECT.





"THE oil's out, mum," said Hannah, the domestic who succeeded Kitty,
pushing her head into the room where I sat sewing.

"It can't be," I replied.

"Indade, mum, and it is. There isn't the full of a lamp left," was
the positive answer.

"Then, what have you done with it?" said I, in a firm voice. "It
isn't four days since a gallon was sent home from the store."

"Four days! It's more nor a week, mum!"

"Don't tell me that, Hannah," I replied, firmly; "for I know better.
I was out on last Monday, and told Brown to send us home a gallon."

"Sure, and it's burned, mum, thin! What else could go with it?"

"It never was burned in our lamps," said I, in answer to this.
"You've either wasted it, or given it away."

At this Hannah, as in honor bound, became highly indignant, and
indulged in certain impertinences which I did not feel inclined to
notice.

But, as the oil was all gone, and no mistake; and, as the prospect
of sitting in darkness was not, by any means, an agreeable one--the
only remedy was to order another gallon.

Something was wrong; that was clear. The oil had never been burned.

That evening, myself and husband talked over the matter, and both of
us came to the conclusion, that it would never do. The evil must be
remedied. A gallon of oil must not again disappear in four days.

"Why," said my husband, "it ought to last us at least a week and a
half."

"Not quite so long," I replied. "We burn a gallon a week."

"Not fairly, I'm inclined to think. But four days is out of all
conscience."

I readily assented to this, adding some trite remark about the
unconscionable wastefulness of domestics.

On the next morning, as my husband arose from bed, he shivered in
the chilly air, saying, as he did so:

"That girl's let the fire go out again in the heater! Isn't it too
bad? This thing happens now every little while. I'm sure I've said
enough to her about it. There's nothing wanted but a little
attention."

"It is too bad, indeed," I added.

"There's that fishy smell again!" exclaimed Mr. Smith. "What can it
be?"

"Fishy smell! So there is."

"Did you get any mackerel from the store yesterday?"

"None."

"Perhaps Hannah ordered some?"

"No. I had a ham sent home, and told her to have a slice of that
broiled for breakfast."

"I don't know what to make of it. Every now and then that same smell
comes up through the register--particularly in the morning. I'll bet
a sixpence there's some old fish tub in the cellar of which she's
made kindling."

"That may be it," said I.

And, for want of a better reason, we agreed, for the time being,
upon that hypothesis.

At the end of another four days, word came up that our best sperm
oil, for which we paid a dollar and forty cents a gallon, was out
again.

"Impossible!" I ejaculated.

"But it is mum," said Hannah. "There's not a scrimption left--not so
much as the full of a thimble."

"You must be mistaken. A gallon of oil has never been burned in this
house in four days."

"We burned the other gallon in four days," said Hannah, with
provoking coolness. "The evenings are very long, and we have a great
many lights. There's the parlor light, and the passage light, and
the--"

"It's no use for you to talk, Hannah," I replied, interrupting her.
"No use in the world. A gallon of oil in four days has never gone by
fair means in this house. So don't try to make me believe it--for I
won't. I'm too old a housekeeper for that."

Finding that I was not to be convinced, Hannah became angry, and
said something about her not being a "thafe." I was unmoved by this,
however; and told her, with as much sternness of manner as I could
assume, that I should hold her responsible for any future waste of
the article; and that if she did not feel inclined to remain on such
terms, she had better go.

"Dade, thin, and I'll go to onst," was the girl's spirited answer.

"Very well, Hannah. You are your own mistress in this respect," said
I, coolly. "I'm not in the least troubled about filling your place;
nor fearful of getting one who will waste a gallon of oil in four
days."

Hannah retired from my presence in high indignation, and I fully
expected that she would desert my house forthwith. But, no; unlike
some others of her class, she knew when she had a good place, and
had sense enough to keep it as long as she could stay.

In due time she cooled off, and I heard no more about her getting
another place.

"There's that fishy smell again!" exclaimed my husband, as he arose
up in bed one morning, a day or two afterwards, and snuffed the air.
"And, as I live, the fire in the heater is all out again! I'll have
some light on this subject, see if I don't."

And he sprung upon the floor, at the same time hurriedly putting on
his dressing gown and a pair of slippers.

"Where are you going?" said I, seeing him moving towards the door.

"To find out where this fishy smell comes from," he replied,
disappearing as he spoke.

In about five minutes, Mr. Smith returned.

"Well, if that don't beat all!" he exclaimed, as he re-entered the
chamber.

"What?" I very naturally enquired.

"I've found out all about that fishy smell," said he.

"What about it? Where does it come from?"

"You wouldn't guess in a month of Sundays! Well, this is a great
world! Live and learn!"

"Explain yourself, Mr. Smith. I'm all impatience."

"I will; and in a few words. The fire was out in the heater."

"Yes."

"And I very naturally took my way down to where I expected to find
our lady at work in the re-kindling process."

"Well?"

"Sure enough, there she was, kindling the fire with a vengeance."

"With what?" I asked. "With a vengeance?"

"Yes, with a vengeance to my pocket. She had the oil can in her
hands, and was pouring its contents freely into the furnace, in
order to quicken combustion. I now understand all about this fishy
smell."

"And I all about the remarkable disappearance of a gallon of oil in
four days. Kindling the fire with dollar and forty cent oil!"

"Even so!"

"What did you say to her, Mr. Smith?"

"Nothing. But I rather think she'll not want me to look at her
again, the huzzy!"

"Kindling fire with my best sperm oil! Well, I can't get over that!"

Something in this wise I continued to ejaculate, now and then, until
my astonishment fairly wore itself out.

I didn't consider it worth while to say any thing to Hannah when I
went down stairs, thinking it best to let the look my husband spoke
of, do its work. By the way, I don't much wonder that she was
frightened at his look--for he can--But I forgot--I am speaking of
my husband, and he might happen to read this.

Of course, Hannah's days in my house were numbered. No faith was to
be placed in a creature who could so shamefully destroy a useful
article placed in her hands. If she would burn up the oil, it was
but fair to infer that she would as remorselessly make way with
other things. So I parted with her. She begged me to let her stay,
and made all sorts of promises. But I was immovable.

Whether I bettered myself in the change, is somewhat doubtful.






CHAPTER IV.

CHEAP FURNITURE.





ONE of the cardinal virtues, at least for housekeepers who are not
overburdened in the matter of income, is economy. In the early part
of our married life, Mr. Smith and myself were forced to the
practice of this virtue, or incur debt, of which both of us had a
natural horror. For a few years we lived in the plain style with
which we had begun the world. But, when our circumstances improved,
we very naturally desired to improve the appearance of things in our
household. Our cane seat chairs and ingrain carpet looked less and
less attractive every day. And, when we went out to spend an
evening, socially, with our friends, the contrast between home and
abroad was strikingly apparent to our minds.

"I think," said Mr. Smith to me, one day, "that it is time we
re-furnished our parlors."

"If you can afford the outlay," I remarked.

"It won't cost a great deal," he returned.

"Not over three hundred dollars," said I.

Mr. Smith shook his head as he answered: "Half that sum ought to be
sufficient. What will we want?"

"A dozen mahogany chairs to begin with," I replied. "There will be
sixty dollars."

"You don't expect to pay five dollars a-piece for chairs?" said my
husband, in a tone of surprise.

"I don't think you can get good ones for less."

"Indeed we can. I was looking at a very handsome set yesterday; and
the man only asked four dollars for them. I don't in the least doubt
that I could get them for three and a half."

"And a dear bargain you would make of that, I do not in the least
doubt. It is poor economy, Mr. Smith, to buy cheap furniture. It
costs a great deal more in the end, than good furniture, and never
gives you any satisfaction."

"But these were good chairs, Jane. As good as I would wish to look
at. The man said they were from one of the best shops in the city,
and of superior workmanship and finish."

As I make it a point never to prolong an argument with my husband,
when I see his mind bent in one direction, I did not urge my view of
the case any farther. It was settled, however, that we could afford
to re-furnish our parlors in a better style, and that in the course
of the coming week, we should go out together and select a Brussels
carpet, a sofa, a dozen mahogany chairs, a centre table, &c.

As I had foreseen from the beginning, my husband's ideas of economy
were destined to mar everything. At one of the cabinet ware-rooms
was a very neat, well-made set of chairs, for which five dollars and
a half were asked, but which the dealer, seeing that he was beyond
our mark, offered for five dollars. They were cheap at that price.
But Mr. Smith could not see that they were a whit better than the
set of chairs just mentioned as offered for four dollars; and which
he was satisfied could be bought for three and a half. So I went
with him to look at them. They proved to be showy enough, if that
were any recommendation, but had a common look in my eyes. They were
not to be compared with the set we had just been examining.

"Now, are they not very beautiful, Jane?" said my husband. "To me
they are quite as handsome as those we were asked sixty dollars
for."

From this I could not but dissent, seeing which, the cunning dealer
came quickly to my husband's side of the question with various
convincing arguments, among the strongest of which was an abatement
in the price of the chairs--he seeing it to be for his interest to
offer them for three dollars and three-quarters a-piece.

"I'll give you three and a-half," said Mr. Smith, promptly.

"Too little, that, sir," returned the dealer. "I don't make a cent
on them at three and three-quarters. They are fully equal, in every
respect, to the chairs you were offered at five dollars. I know the
manufacturer, and have had his articles often."

"Say three and a-half, and it's a bargain," was the only reply made
to this by my economical husband.

I was greatly in hopes that the man would decline this offer; but,
was disappointed. He hesitated for some time, and, at last, said:

"Well, I don't care, take them along; though it is throwing them
away. Such a bargain you will never get again, if you live to be as
old as Mathuselah. But, now, don't you want something else? I can
sell you cheaper and better articles in the furniture line than you
can get in the city. Small profits and quick sales--I go in for the
nimble sixpence."

My husband was in the sphere of attraction, and I saw that it would
take a stronger effort on my part to draw him out than I wished to
make. So, I yielded with as good a grace as possible, and aided in
the selection of a cheap sofa, a cheap, overgrown centre table, and
two or three other article that were almost "thrown away."

Well, our parlor was furnished with its new dress in good time, and
made quite a respectable appearance. Mr. Smith was delighted with
everything; the more particularly as the cost had been so moderate.
I had my own thoughts on the subject; and looked very confidently
for some evidences of imperfection in our great bargains. I was not
very long kept in suspense. One morning, about two weeks after all
had been fitted out so elegantly, while engaged in dusting the
chairs, a part of the mahogany ornament in the back of one of them
fell off. On the next day, another showed the same evidence of
imperfect workmanship. A few evenings afterwards, as we sat at the
centre table, one of our children leaned on it rather heavily, when
there was a sudden crack, and the side upon which he was bearing his
weight, swayed down the distance of half an inch or more. The next
untoward event was the dropping of one of its feet by the sofa, and
the warping up of a large piece of veneering on the back. While
lamenting over this, we discovered a broken spring ready to make its
way through the hair cloth covering.

"So much for cheap furniture," said I, in a tone of involuntary
triumph.

My husband looked at me half reproachfully, and so I said no more.

It was now needful to send for a cabinet maker, and submit our sofa
and chairs to his handy workmanship. He quickly discovered other
imperfections, and gave us the consoling information that our fine
furniture was little above fourth-rate in quality, and dear at any
price. A ten dollar bill was required to pay the damage they had
already sustained, even under our careful hands.

A more striking evidence of our folly in buying cheap furniture was,
however, yet to come. An intimate friend came in one evening to sit
a few hours with us. After conversing for a time, both he and my
husband took up books, and commenced reading, while I availed myself
of the opportunity to write a brief letter. Our visitor, who was a
pretty stout man, had the bad fault of leaning back in his chair,
and balancing himself on its hind legs; an experiment most trying to
the best (sic) mahogahy chairs that were ever made.

We were all sitting around the centre table, upon which burned a
tall astral lamp, and I was getting absorbed in my letter, when
suddenly there was a loud crash, followed by the breaking of the
table from its centre, and the pitching over of the astral lamp,
which, in falling, just grazed my side, and went down, oil and all,
upon our new carpet! An instant more, and we were in total darkness.
But, ere the light went out, a glance had revealed a scene that I
shall never forget. Our visitor, whose weight, as he tried his usual
balancing experiment, had caused the slender legs of his chair to
snap off short, had fallen backwards. In trying to save himself, he
had caught at the table, and wrenched that from its centre
fastening. Startled by this sudden catastrophe, my husband had
sprung to his feet, grasping his chair with the intent of drawing it
away, when the top of the back came off in his hand. I saw all this
at a single glance--and then we were shrouded in darkness.

Of the scene that followed, I will not speak. My lady readers can,
(sic) witout any effort of the mind, imagine something of its
unpleasant reality. As for our visitor, when lights were brought in,
he was no where to be seen. I have a faint recollection of having
heard the street door shut amid the confusion that succeeded the
incident just described.

About a week afterwards, the whole of our cheap furniture was sent
to auction, where it brought less than half its first cost. It was
then replaced with good articles, by good workmen, at a fair price;
not one of which has cost us, to this day, a single cent for
repairs.

A housekeeping friend of mine, committed, not, long since, a similar
error. Her husband could spare her a couple of hundred dollars for
re-furnishing purposes; but, as his business absorbed nearly all of
his time and thoughts, he left with her the selection of the new
articles that were to beautify their parlors and chambers, merely
saying to her:

"Let what you get be good. It is cheapest in the end."

Well, my friend had set her heart on a dozen chairs, a new sofa,
centre table, and "what-not," for her parlors; and on a
dressing-bureau, mahogany bedstead, and wash-stand, for her chamber,
besides a new chamber carpet. Her first visit was to the ware-rooms
of one of our best cabinet makers; but, his prices completely
frightened her--for, at his rate, the articles she wanted would
amount to more than all the money she had to spend, and leave
nothing for the new chamber carpet.

"I must buy cheaper," said she.

"The cheapest is generally dearest in the end," returned the cabinet
maker.

"I don't know about that," remarked the lady, whose thoughts did not
take in the meaning of the man's words. "All I know is, that I can
get as good articles as I desire at lower prices than you ask."

It did not once occur to my friend, that it would be wisest to
lessen the number of articles, and get the remainder of the first
quality. No; her heart covered the whole inventory at first made
out, and nothing less would answer. So she went to an auction store,
and bought inferior articles at lower prices. I visited her soon
after. She showed me her bargains, and, with an air of exultation,
spoke of the cost.

"What do you think I paid for this?" said she, referring to a showy
dressing-bureau; and, as she spoke, she took hold of the suspended
looking-glass, and moved the upper portion of it forward. "Only
seventeen dollars!"

The words had scarcely passed her lips, ere the looking-glass broke
away from one of the screws that held it in the standards, and fell,
crashing, at our feet!

It cost just seven dollars to replace the glass. But, that was not
all--over thirty dollars were paid during the first year for
repairs. And this is only the beginning of troubles.

Cheap furniture is, in most cases, the dearest that housekeepers can
buy. It is always breaking, and usually costs more, in a year or
two, than the difference between its price and that of first-rate
articles; to say nothing of the vexation and want of satisfaction
that always attends its possession. Better be content with fewer
articles, if the purse be low, and have them good.

While on this subject, I will incorporate in these "Confessions" an
"Experience" of my sister and her husband, Mr. and Mrs. John Jones.
Mr. Jones is, in some respects, very much like Mr. Smith, and, as
will be seen in the story about to be given, my sister's ideas of
things and my own, run quite parallel to each other. The story has
found its way, elsewhere, into print, for Mr. Jones, like myself,
has a natural fondness for types. But its repetition here will do no
harm, and bring it before many who would not otherwise see it.






CHAPTER V.

IS IT ECONOMY?





THE "Experience" of my relative, Mr. John Jones, referred to in the
preceding chapter, is given in what follows. After reading it, we
think that few young housekeepers will commit the folly of indulging
to any very great extent in cheap furniture.

We had been married five years, and during the time had boarded for
economy's sake. But the addition of one after another to our family,
admonished us that it was getting time to enlarge our borders; and
so we were determined to go to housekeeping. In matters of domestic
economy both my wife and myself were a little "green," but I think
that I was the greenest of the two.

To get a house was our first concern, and to select furniture was
our next. The house was found after two months' diligent search, and
at the expense of a good deal of precious shoe leather. Save me from
another siege at house-hunting! I would about as soon undertake to
build a suitable dwelling with my own hands, as to find one "exactly
the thing" already up, and waiting with open doors for a tenant. All
the really desirable houses that we found ticketed "to let," were at
least two prices above our limit, and most of those within our means
we would hardly have lived in rent free.

At last, however, we found a cosey little nest of a house, just
built, and clean and neat as a new pin, from top to bottom. It
suited us to a T. And now came the next most important
business--selecting furniture. My wife's ideas had always been a
little in advance of mine. That is, she liked to have every thing of
the best quality; and had the weakness, so to speak, of desiring to
make an appearance. As my income, at the time, was but moderate, and
the prospect of an increase thereof not very flattering, I felt like
being exceedingly prudent in all outlays for furniture.

"We must be content with things few and plain," said I, as we sat
down one morning to figure up what we must get.

"But let them be good," said my wife.

"Strong and substantial," was my reply. "But we can't afford to pay
for much extra polish and (sic) filagree work."

"I don't want any thing very extra, Mr. Jones," returned my wife, a
little uneasily. "Though what I do have, I would like good. It's no
economy, in the end, to buy cheap things."

The emphasis on the word cheap, rather grated on my ear; for I was
in favor of getting every thing as cheap as possible.

"What kind of chairs did you think of getting?" asked Mrs. Jones.

"A handsome set of cane-seat," I replied, thinking that in this, at
least, I would be even with her ideas on the subject of parlor
chairs. But her face did not brighten.

"What would you like?" said I.

"I believe it would be more economical in the end to get good
stuffed seat, mahogany chairs," replied Mrs. Jones.

"At five dollars a-piece, Ellen?"

"Yes. Even at five dollars a-piece. They would last us our
life-time; while cane-seat chairs, if we get them, will have to be
renewed two or three times, and cost a great deal more in the end,
without being half so comfortable, or looking half-so well."

"Sixty dollars for a dozen chairs, when very good ones can be had
for twenty-four dollars! Indeed, Ellen, we mustn't think of such a
thing. We can't afford it. Remember, there are a great many other
things to buy."

"I know, dear; but I am sure it will be much more economical in the
end for us to diminish the number of articles, and add to the
quality of what we do have. I am very much like the poor woman who
preferred a cup of clear, strong, fragrant coffee, three times a
week, to a decoction of burnt rye every day. What I have, I do like
good."

"And so do I, Ellen. But, as I said before, there will be, diminish
as we may, a great many things to buy, and we must make the cost of
each as small as possible. We must not think of such extravagance as
mahogany chairs now. At some other time we may get them."

My wife here gave up the point, and, what I thought a little
remarkable, made no more points on the subject of furniture. I had
every thing my own way; I bought cheap to my heart's content. It was
only necessary for me to express my approval of an article, for her
to assent to its purchase.

As to patronizing your fashionable cabinet makers and high-priced
upholsterers, we were not guilty of the folly, but bought at
reasonable rates from auction stores and at public sales. Our parlor
carpets cost but ninety cents a yard, and were handsomer than those
for which a lady of our acquaintance. paid a dollar and
thirty-eight. Our chairs were of a neat, fancy pattern, and had cost
thirty dollars a dozen. We had hesitated for some time between a set
at twenty-four dollars a dozen and these; but the style being so
much more attractive, we let our taste govern in the selection. The
price of our sofa was eighteen dollars, and I thought it a really
genteel affair, though my wife was not in raptures about it. A pair
of card tables for fifteen dollars, and a marble-top centre table
for fourteen, gave our parlors quite a handsome appearance.

"I wouldn't ask any thing more comfortable or genteel than this,"
said, I, when the parlors were all "fixed" right.

Mrs. Jones looked pleased with the appearance of things, but did not
express herself extravagantly.

In selecting our chamber furniture, a handsome dressing-bureau and
French bedstead that my wife went to look at in the ware-room of a
high-priced cabinet maker, tempted her strongly, and it was with
some difficulty that I could get her ideas back to a regular maple
four-poster, a plain, ten dollar bureau, and a two dollar
dressing-glass. Twenty and thirty dollar mattresses, too, were in
her mind, but when articles of the kind, just as good to wear, could
be had at eight and ten dollars, where was the use of wasting money
in going higher?

The ratio of cost set down against the foregoing articles, was
maintained from garret to kitchen; and I was agreeably disappointed
to find, after the last bill for purchases was paid, that I was
within the limit of expenditures I had proposed to make by over a
hundred dollars.

The change from a boarding-house to a comfortable home was, indeed,
pleasant. We could never get done talking about it. Every thing was
so quiet, so new, so clean, and so orderly.

"This is living," would drop from our lips a dozen times a week.

One day, about three months after we had commenced housekeeping, I
came home, and, on entering the parlor, the first thing that met my
eyes was a large spot of white on the new sofa. A piece of the
veneering had been knocked off, completely disfiguring it.

"What did that?" I asked of my wife.

"In setting back a chair that I had dusted," she replied, "one of
the feet touched the sofa lightly, when off dropped that veneer like
a loose flake. I've been examining the sofa since, and find that it
is a very bad piece of work. Just look here."

And she drew me over to the place where my eighteen dollar sofa
stood, and pointed out sundry large seams that had gaped open, loose
spots in the veneering, and rickety joints. I saw now, what I had
not before seen, that the whole article was of exceedingly common
material and common workmanship.

"A miserable piece of furniture!" said I.

"It is, indeed," returned Mrs. Jones. "To buy an article like this,
is little better than throwing money into the street."

For a month the disfigured sofa remained in the parlor, a perfect
eye-sore, when another piece of the veneering sloughed off, and one
of the feet became loose. It was then sent to a cabinet maker for
repair; and cost for removing and mending just five dollars.

Not long after this, the bureau had to take a like journey, for it
had, strangely enough, fallen into sudden dilapidation. All the
locks were out of order, half the knobs were off, there was not a
drawer that didn't require the most accurate balancing of forces in
order to get it shut after it was once open, and it showed
premonitory symptoms of shedding its skin like a snake. A five
dollar bill was expended in putting this into something like
_usable_ order and respectable aspect. By this time a new set of
castors was needed for the maple four-poster, which was obtained at
the expense of two dollars. Moreover, the head-board to said
four-poster, which, from its exceeding ugliness, had, from the
first, been a terrible eye-sore to Mrs. Jones, as well as to myself,
was, about this period, removed, and one of more sightly appearance
substituted, at the additional charge of six dollars. No tester
frame had accompanied the cheap bedstead at its original purchase,
and now my wife wished to have one, and also a light curtain above
and valance below. All these, with trimmings, etc., to match, cost
the round sum of ten dollars.

"It looks very neat," said Mrs. Jones, after her curtains were up.

"It does, indeed," said I.

"Still," returned Mrs. Jones, "I would much rather have had a
handsome mahogany French bedstead."

"So would I," was my answer. "But you know they cost some thirty
dollars, and we paid but sixteen for this."

"Sixteen!" said my wife, turning quickly toward me. "It cost more
than that."

"Oh, no. I have the bill in my desk," was my confident answer.

"Sixteen was originally paid, I know," said Mrs. Jones. "But then,
remember, what it has cost since. Two dollars for castors, six for a
new head-board, and ten for tester and curtains. Thirty-four dollars
in all; when a very handsome French bedstead, of good workmanship,
can be bought for thirty dollars."

I must own that I was taken somewhat aback by this array of figures
"that don't lie."

"And for twenty dollars we could have bought a neat, well made
dressing-bureau, at Moore and Campion's, that would have lasted for
twice as many years, and always looked in credit."

"But ours, you know, only cost ten," said I.

"The bureau, such as it is, cost ten, and the glass two. Add five
that we have already paid for repairs, and the four that our maple
bedstead has cost above the price of a handsome French, one, and we
will have the sum of twenty-one dollars,--enough to purchase as
handsome a dressing-bureau as I would ask. So you see. Mr. Jones,
that our cheap furniture is not going to turn out so cheap after
all. And as for looks, why no one can say there is much to brag of."

This was a new view of the case, and certainly one not very
flattering to my economical vanity. I gave in, of course, and,
admitted that Mrs. Jones was right.

But the dilapidations and expenses for repairs, to which I have just
referred, were but as the "beginning of sorrows." It took, about
three years to show the full fruits of my error. By the end of that
time, half my parlor chairs had been rendered useless in consequence
of the back-breaking and seat-rending ordeals through which they had
been called to pass. The sofa was unanimously condemned to the
dining room, and the ninety cent carpet had gone on fading and
defacing, until my wife said she was ashamed to put it even on her
chambers. For repairs, our furniture had cost, up to this period, to
say nothing of the perpetual annoyance of having it put out of
order, and running for the cabinet maker and upholsterer, not less
than a couple of hundred dollars.

Finally, I grew desperate.

"I'll have decent, well made furniture, let it cost what it will,"
said I, to Mrs. Jones.

"You will find it cheapest in the end," was her quiet reply.

On the next day we went to a cabinet maker, whose reputation for
good work stood among the highest in the city; and ordered new
parlor and chamber furniture--mahogany chairs, French bedstead,
dressing-bureau and all, and as soon as they came home, cleared the
house of all the old cheap (dear!) trash with which we had been
worried since the day we commenced housekeeping

A good many years have passed since, and we have not paid the first
five dollar bill for repairs. All the drawers run as smoothly as
railroad cars; knobs are tight; locks in prime order, and veneers
cling as tightly to their places as if they had grown there. All is
right and tight, and wears an orderly, genteel appearance; and what
is best of all the cost of every thing we have, good as it is, is
far below the _real_ cost of what is inferior.

"It is better--much better," said I to Mrs. Jones, the other day.

"Better!" was her reply. "Yes, indeed, a thousand times better to
have good things at once. Cheap furniture is dearest in the end.
Every housekeeper ought to know this in the beginning. If we had
known it, see what we would have saved."

"If _I_ had known it, you mean," said I.

My wife looked kindly, not triumphantly, into my face, and smiled.
When she again spoke, it was on another subject.






CHAPTER VI.

LIVING AT A CONVENIENT DISTANCE.





THERE are few of us who do not feel, at some time in life, the
desire for change. Indeed, change of place corresponding, as it
does, in outward nature, to change of state in the mind, it is not
at all surprising that we should, now and then, feel a strong desire
to remove from the old, and get into new locations, and amid
different external associations. Thus, we find, in many families, an
ever recurring tendency to removal. Indeed, I have some housekeeping
friends who are rarely to be found in the same house, or in the same
part of the city, in any two consecutive years. Three moves,
Franklin used to say, were equal to a fire. There are some to whom I
could point, who have been, if this holds true, as good as burned
out, three or four times in the last ten years.

But, I must not write too long a preface to my present story. Mr.
Smith and myself cannot boast of larger organs of Inhabitativeness--
I believe, that is the word used by phrenologists--than many of
our neighbors. Occasionally we have felt dissatisfied with the
state of things around us, and become possessed of the demon of
change. We have moved quite frequently, sometimes attaining superior
comfort, and some times, getting rather the worst of, it for
"the change."

A few years ago, in the early spring-time, Mr. Smith said to me, one
day:

"I noticed, in riding out yesterday, a very pleasant country house
on the Frankford Road, to let, and it struck me that it would be a
fine thing for us, both as to health and comfort, to rent it for the
summer season. What do you think of it?"

"I always, loved the country, you know," was my response.

My heart had leaped at the proposition.

"It is such a convenient distance from the city," said Mr. Smith.

"How far?"

"About four miles."

"Do the stages pass frequently?"

"Every half hour; and the fare is only twelve and a half cents."

"So low! That is certainly an inducement."

"Yes, it is. Suppose we go out and look at the house?"

"Very well," said I. And then we talked over the pleasures and
advantage that would result from a residence in the country, at such
a convenient distance from the city.

On the next day we went to look at the place, and found much, both
in the house and grounds, to attract us. There was a fine shaded
lawn, and garden with a stock of small and large fruit.

"What a delightful place for the children," I exclaimed.

"And at such a convenient distance from the city," said my husband.
"I can go in and out to business, and scarcely miss the time. But do
you think you would like the country?"

"O, yes. I've always loved the country."

"We can move back into the city when the summer closes," said Mr.
Smith.

"Why not remain here permanently? It will be too expensive to keep
both a city and country house," I returned.

"It will be too dreary through the winter."

"I don't think so. I always feel cheerful in the country. And, then,
you know, the house is at such a convenient distance, and the stages
pass the door at every half hour. You can get to business as easily
as if we resided in the city."

I was in the mood for a change, and so it happened was Mr. Smith.
The more we thought and talked about the matters, the more inclined
were we to break up in the city, and go permanently to the country.
And, finally, we resolved to try the experiment.

So the pleasant country house was taken, and the town house given
up, and, in due time, we took our flight to where nature had just
carpeted the earth in freshest green, and caused the buds to expand,
and the trees of the forest to clothe themselves in verdure.

How pleasant was every thing. A gardener had been employed to put
the garden and lawn in order, and soon we were delighted to see the
first shoots from seeds that had been planted, making their way
through the ground. To me, all was delightful. I felt almost as
light-hearted as a child, and never tired of expressing my pleasure
at the change.

"Come and see us," said I, to one city friend and another, on
meeting them. "We're in a most delightful place, and at such a
convenient distance from the city. Just get into the Frankford
omnibus, which starts from Hall's, in Second street above Market,
every half hour, and you will come to our very door. And I shall be
so delighted to have a visit from you."

In moving from the city, I took with me two good domestics, who had
lived in my family for over a year. Each had expressed herself as
delighted at the prospect of getting into the country, and I was
delighted to think they were so well satisfied, for I had feared
lest they would be disinclined to accompany us.

About a month after our removal, one of them, who had looked
dissatisfied about something, came to me and said:

"I want to go back to the city, Mrs. Smith; I don't like living in
the country."

"Very well," I replied. "You must do as you please. But I thought
you preferred this to the city?"

"I thought I would like it, but I don't. It's too lonesome."

I did not persuade her to stay. That error I had once or twice, ere
this, fallen into, and learned to avoid it in future. So she went
back to the city, and I was left with but a single girl. Three days
only elapsed before this one announced her intended departure.

"But you will stay," said I, "until I can get some one in your
place."

"My week will be up on Saturday," was replied. "Can you get a girl
by that time?"

"That leaves me only two days, Mary; I'm afraid not."

Mary looked unamiable enough at this answer. We said no more to each
other. In the afternoon I went to the city to find a new domestic,
if possible, but returned unsuccessful.

Saturday came, and to my surprise and trouble, Mary persisted in
going away. So I was left, with my family of six persons, without
any domestic at all.

Sunday proved to me any thing but a day of rest. After washing and
dressing the children, preparing breakfast, clearing away the table,
making the beds, and putting the house to order, I set about getting
dinner. This meal furnished and eaten, and the dishes washed and put
away, I found myself not only completely tired out, but suffering
from a most dreadful headache. I was lying down, about four o'clock,
in a half-waking and sleeping state, with my head a little easier,
when my husband, who was sitting by the window, exclaimed:

"If there isn't Mr. and Mrs. Peters and their three children,
getting out of the stage!"

"Not coming here!" said I, starting up in bed, while, at the same
moment, my headache returned with a throbbing intensity that almost
blinded me.

"Yes, coming here," replied Mr. Smith.

"How unfortunate!" came from my lips, as I clasped my hands to my
temples.

Now, Mr. and Mrs. Peters were people for whom we had no particular
friendship. We visited each other scarcely once a year, and had
never reciprocated an evening to tea. True, I had, on the occasion
of meeting Mrs. Peters, about a week before, while stopping in the
city, said to her, while praising my new country home:

"You must come and see me sometime during the summer."

The invitation was intended as a compliment more than anything else.
I didn't particularly care about a visit from her; and certainly had
no idea that she would take me at my word. So much for insincerity.

"Go down and ask them into the parlor," said I to Mr. Smith. "I will
dress myself and join you in a little while."

In about half an hour I left my room, feeling really quite unwell. I
found my visitors walking in the garden, and their children ranging
about like wild colts, to the particular detriment of choice
shrubbery and garden beds.

"Oh, what a delightful place!" exclaimed Mrs. Peters, on my meeting
her. "I really envy you! You see that I have accepted your very kind
invitation. I said to my husband to-day, says I, wouldn't it be nice
to make the Smiths a visit this afternoon. They live at such a
convenient distance; and it will be such a treat to the children.
Well, just as you like, said Mr. Peters. And so, as soon as dinner
was over, we got ready and came out. Oh, I'm delighted! What a sweet
spot you have chosen. I shall come and see you often."

And thus she (sic) run on, while I smiled, and responded with all
due politeness, and to a certain extent, hypocritical pretence of
pleasure at the visit.

They had come to spend the afternoon, and take tea with us, of
course, and, as the last stage went by at seven o'clock, I was soon
under the necessity of leaving my guests, in order to engage in
certain preliminary acts that looked towards an early supper. Oh,
how my head did throb; and with what an effort did I drag my weary
feet about!

But, the longest trial--the most painful ordeal has an end; and the
end of this came at length. Our visitors, after spending a few
hours, and being served with tea, took their departure, assuring us,
as they did so, that they had spent a delightful afternoon, and
would be certain to come again soon.

In ten minutes after they had left the house, I was in bed.

Two whole weeks elapsed before I succeeded in getting a girl; and
six times during that period, we had friends out from the city to
take tea with us; and one young lady spent three whole days!

When the season of fruits came, as we had a few apple and pear
trees, besides a strawberry bed, and a fine row of raspberry bushes,
our city friends, especially those who had children, were even more
particular in their attentions. Our own children, we could make
understand the propriety of leaving the small fruit to be picked for
table use, so that all could share in its enjoyment. But, visitors'
children comprehended nothing of this, and rifled our beds and
bushes so constantly, that, although they would have given our table
a fair supply of berries, in the season, we never once could get
enough to be worth using, and so were forced to purchase our fruit
in the city.

After a destructive visitation of this nature, during strawberry
time, I said to Mr. Smith, as he was leaving for the city one
morning--

"I wish you would take a small basket with you, and bring out two or
three quarts of strawberries for tea. I've only tasted them once or
twice, and it's hopeless to think of getting any from our garden."

Well, when Mr. Smith came home with his two or three quarts of
strawberries, we had six women and children, visitors from the city,
to partake of them. Of course, our own children, who had been
promised strawberries at tea time, and who had been looking for
them, did'nt get a taste.

And thus it happened over and over again.

As the weather grew warmer and warmer, particular friends whom we
were glad to see, and friends, so called, into whose houses we had
rarely, if ever ventured, came out to get a "mouthful of fresh air,"
and to "see something green." We lived at "such a convenient
distance," that it was no trouble at all to run out and look at us.

Twice again during the summer, I was left without a single domestic.
Girls didn't like to leave the city, where they had been used to
meeting their acquaintances every few days; and, therefore, it was
hard to retain them. So it went on.

I had poor help, and was overrun with company, at such a rate, that
I was completely worn out. I rarely heard the rumble of the
approaching stage that I did not get nervous.

Early in August, Mr. Smith said to me, one evening after returning
from the city--on that very morning, a family of four had left me,
after staying three days--

"I met Mr. Gray this afternoon, and he told me that they were coming
out to see you to-morrow. That he was going away for a while, and
his wife thought that it would be such a pleasant time to redeem her
promise of making you a visit."

"Oh dear! What next!" I exclaimed in a distressed voice. "Is there
to be no end to this?"

"Not before frost, I presume," returned Mr. Smith, meaningly.

"I wish frost would come along quickly, then," was my response. "But
how long is Mr. Gray going to be absent from home?"

"He didn't say."

"And we're to have his whole family, I suppose, during his absence."

"Doubtless."

"Well, I call that taxing hospitality and good feeling a little too
far. I don't want them here! I've no room for them without
inconvenience to ourselves. Besides, my help is poor."

But, all my feelings of repugnance were of no avail. As I was
sitting, on the next day, by a window, that overlooked the road, I
saw the stage draw up, and issue therefrom Mr. Jones, Mrs. Jones,
servant and five children--two of the latter twin-babies. They had
boxes, carpet bags, bundles, &c., indicating a prolonged sojourn,
and one little boy dragged after him a pet dog, that came also to
honor us with a visit.

Down to meet them at the door, with as good a grace as possible, I
hurried. Words of welcome and pleasure were on my tongue, though I
am not sure that my face did not belie my utterance. But, they were
all too pleased to get into our snug country quarters, to perceive
any drawback in their reception.

I will not describe my experience during the next three weeks--for,
Mr. Gray took the tour of the Lakes before returning, and was gone
full three weeks, leaving his family to our care for the whole time.

"Heaven be praised, that is over!" was my exclamation, when I saw
the stage move off that bore them from our door.

Frost at length came, and with it expired the visiting season. We
were still at a convenient distance from the city; but, our friends,
all at once, seemed to have forgotten us.

"You are not going to move back, now," said a friend in surprise, to
whom I mentioned in the following March our intention to return to
the city.

"Yes," I replied.

"Just as spring is about opening? Why, surely, after passing the
dreary winter in the country, you will not come to the hot and dusty
town to spend the summer? You are at such a convenient distance too;
and your friends can visit you so easily."

Yes, the distance was convenient; and we had learned to appreciate
that advantage. But back to the city we removed; and, when next we
venture to the country, will take good care to get beyond a
convenient distance.






CHAPTER VII.

THE PICKED-UP DINNER.





IT was "washing day;" that day of all days in the week most dreaded
by housekeepers. We had a poor breakfast, of course. Cook had to
help with the washing, and, as washing was the important thing for
the day, every thing else was doomed to suffer. The wash kettle was
to her of greater moment than the tea kettle or coffee pot; and the
boiling of wash water first in consideration, compared with broiling
the steak.

The breakfast bell rung nearly half an hour later than usual. As I
entered the dining room, I saw that nearly every thing was in
disorder, and that the table was little over half set. Scarcely had
I taken my seat, ere the bell was in my hand.

"There's no sugar on the table, Kitty."

These were my words, as the girl entered, in obedience to my
summons.

"Oh, I forgot!" she ejaculated, and hurriedly supplied the
deficiency.

Ting-a-ling-a-ling, went my bell, ere she had reached the kitchen.

"There's no knife and fork for the steak," said I, as Kitty
re-appeared.

The knife and fork were furnished, but not with a very amiable
grace.

"What's the matter with this coffee?" asked Mr. Smith, after sipping
a spoonful or two. "It's got a queer taste."

"I'm sure I don't know."

It was plain that I was going to have another trying day; and I
began to feel a little worried. My reply was not, therefore, made in
a very composed voice.

Mr. Smith continued to sip his coffee with a spoon, and to taste the
liquid doubtingly. At length he pushed his cup from him, saying:

"It's no use; I can't drink that! I wish you would just taste it. I
do believe Kitty has dropped a piece of soap into the coffee pot."

By this time I had turned out a cup of the fluid for myself, and
proceeded to try its quality. It certainly had a queer taste; but,
as to the substance to which it was indebted for its peculiar
flavor, I was in total ignorance. My husband insisted that it was
soap. I thought differently; but we made no argument on the subject.

The steak was found, on trial, to be burned so badly that it was not
fit to be eaten. And my husband had to make his meal of bread and
butter and cold water. As for myself, this spoiling of our breakfast
for no good reason, completely destroyed both my appetite and my
temper.

"You'd better get your dinner at an eating house, Mr. Smith," said
I, as he arose from the table. "It's washing day, and we shall have
nothing comfortable."

"Things will be no more comfortable for you than for me," was kindly
replied by my husband.

"We shall only have a picked-up dinner," said I.

"I like a good picked-up dinner," answered Mr. Smith. "There is
something so out of the ordinary routine of ribs, loins, and
sirloins--something so comfortable and independent about it. No, you
cannot eat your picked-up dinner alone."

"Drop the word _good_ from your description, and the picked-up
dinner will be altogether another affair," said I. "No, don't come
home to-day, if you please; for every thing promises to be most
uncomfortable. Get yourself a good dinner at an eating house, and
leave me to go through the day as well as I can."

"And you are really in earnest?" said my husband, seriously.

"I certainly am," was my reply. "Entirely in earnest. So, just
oblige me by not coming home to dinner."

Mr. Smith promised; and there was so much off of my mind. I could
not let him come home without seeing that he had a good dinner. But,
almost any thing would do for me and the children.

In some things, I am compelled to say that my husband is a little
uncertain. His memory is not always to be depended on. Deeply
absorbed in business, as he was at that time, he frequently let
things of minor importance pass from his thoughts altogether.

So it happened on the present occasion. He forgot that it was
washing day, and that he had promised to dine down town. Punctually
at half-past one he left his place of business, as usual, and took
his way homeward. As he walked along, he met an old friend who lived
in a neighboring town, and who was on a visit to our city.

"Why, Mr. Jones! How glad I am to see you! When did you arrive?"

And my husband grasped the hand of his friend eagerly.

"Came in last evening," replied Mr. Jones. "How well you look,
Smith! How is your family?"

"Well--very well. When do you leave?"

"By this afternoon's line."

"So soon? You make no stay at all?"

"I came on business, and must go back again with as little delay as
possible."

"Then you must go and dine with me, Jones. I won't take no for an
answer. Want to have a long talk with you about old times."

"Thank you, Mr. Smith," replied Jones. "But, as I don't happen to
know your good lady, I hardly feel free to accept your invitation."

"Don't hesitate for that. She'll be delighted to see you. Always
glad to meet any of my old friends. So come along. I've a dozen
things to say to you."

"I'm really afraid of intruding on your wife," said Mr. Jones, still
holding back from the invitation.

"Nonsense!" answered my husband. "My friends are hers. She will be
delighted to see you. I've talked of you to her a hundred times."

At this Mr. Jones yielded.

"I can't promise you any thing extra," said Mr. Smith, as they
walked along. "Nothing more than a good, plain family dinner, and a
warm welcome."

"All I could ask or desire," returned Mr. Jones.

It was a few minutes to two o'clock. The bell had rung for dinner;
and I was just rising to go to the dining room, when I heard the
street door open, and the sound of my husband's voice in the
passage. There was a man in company with him, for I distinctly heard
the tread of a pair of feet. What could this mean? I remained
seated, listening with attention.

My husband entered the parlor with his companion, talking in a
cheerful, animated strain; and I heard him pull up the blinds and
throw open the shutters. Presently he came tripping lightly up the
stairs to my sitting room.

"I've brought a friend home to dinner, Jane," said he, as coolly and
as confidently as if it were not washing day; and as if he had not
told me on going out, that he would dine at an eating house.

This was a little too much for my patience and forbearance.

"Are you beside yourself, Mr. Smith?" I replied, my face instantly
becoming flushed, and my eyes glancing out upon him the sudden
indignation I felt at such treatment.

"Why, Jane! Jane! This is not kind in you," said my husband, with
regret and displeasure in his voice. "It is rather hard if a man
can't ask an old friend home to dine with him once in five years,
without asking the special permission of his wife."

"Mr. Smith! Are you not aware that this is washing day?"

There was an instant change in my husband's countenance. He seemed
bewildered for a few moments.

"And, moreover," I continued, "are you not aware that I was to have
a picked-up dinner at home, and that you were to dine at an eating
house?"

"I declare!" Mr. Smith struck his hands together, and turned around
once upon his heel.--"I entirely forgot about that."

"What's to be done?" said I, almost crying with vexation. "I've
nothing for dinner but fried ham and eggs."

"The best we can do is the best," returned Mr. Smith. "You can give
Mr. Jones a hearty welcome, and that will compensate for any defects
in the dinner. I forewarned him that we should not entertain him
very sumptuously."

"You'd better tell him the whole truth at once," said I, in answer
to this; "and then take him to an eating house."

But my good husband would hear to nothing of this. He had invited
his old friend to dine with him; and dine he must, if it was only on
a piece of dry bread.

"Pick up something. Do the best you can," he returned. "We can wait
for half an hour."

"I've nothing in the house, I tell you," was my answer made in no
very pleasant tones; for I felt very much irritated and outraged by
my husband's thoughtless conduct.

"There, there, Jane. Don't get excited about the matter," said he
soothingly. But his words were not like oil to the troubled waters
of my spirit.

"I am excited," was my response. "How can I help being so? It is too
much! You should have had more consideration."

But, talking was of no use. Mr. Jones was in the parlor, and had
come to take a family dinner with us. So, nothing was left but to
put a good face on the matter; or, at least, to try and do so.

"Dinner's on the table now," said I. "All is there that we can have
to-day. So just invite your friend to the dining room, where you
will find me."

So saying, I took a little fellow by the hand, who always eat with
us, and led him away, feeling, as my lady readers will very
naturally suppose, in not the most amiable humor in the world. I had
just got the child, who was pretty hungry, seated in his high chair,
when my husband and his guest made their appearance; and I was
introduced.

Sorry am I to chronicle the fact--but truth compels me to make a
faithful record--that my reception of the stranger was by no means
gracious. I tried to smile; but a smile was such a mockery of my
real feelings, that every facial muscle refused to play the
hypocrite. The man was not welcome, and it was impossible for me to
conceal this.

"A plain family dinner, you see," said Mr. Smith, as we took our
places at the meagre board. "We are plain people. Shall I help you
to some of the ham and eggs?"

He tried to smile pleasantly, and to seem very much at his ease.
But, the attempt was far from successful.

"I want some! Don't give him all!" screamed out the hungry child at
my side, stretching out his hands towards the poorly supplied dish,
from which my husband was about supplying our guest.

My face, which was red enough before, now became like scarlet. A
moment longer I remained at the table, and then rising up quickly
took the impatient child in my arms, and carried him screaming from
the room. I did not return to grace the dinner table with my
unattractive presence. Of what passed, particularly, between my
husband and his friend Mr. Jones, who had left his luxurious dinner
at the hotel to enjoy "a plain family dinner" with his old
acquaintance, I never ventured to make enquiry. They did not remain
very long at the table; nor very long in the house after finishing
their frugal meal.

I have heard since that Mr. Jones has expressed commiseration for my
husband, as the married partner of a real termigant. I don't much
wonder at his indifferent opinion; for, I rather think I must have
shown in my face something of the indignant fire that was in me.

Mr. Smith, who was too much in the habit of inviting people home to
take a "family dinner" with him on the spur of the moment, has never
committed that error since. His mortification was too severe to be
easily forgotten.






CHAPTER VIII.

WHO IS KRISS KRINGLE?





IT was the day before Christmas--always a day of restless, hopeful
excitement among the children; and my thoughts were busy, as is
usual at this season, with little plans for increasing the gladness
of my happy household. The name of the good genius who presides over
toys and sugar plums was often on my lips, but oftener on the lips
of the children.

"Who is Kriss Kringle, mamma?" asked a pair of rosy lips, close to
my ear, as I stood at the kitchen table, rolling out and cutting
cakes.

I turned at the question, and met the earnest gaze of a couple of
bright eyes, the roguish owner of which had climbed into a chair for
the purpose of taking note of my doings.

I kissed the sweet lips, but did not answer.

"Say, mamma? Who is Kriss Kringle?" persevered the little one.

"Why, don't you know?" said I, smiling.

"No, mamma. Who is he?"

"Why, he is--he is--Kriss Kringle."

"Oh, mamma! Say, won't you tell me?"

"Ask papa when. he comes home," I returned, evasively.

I never like deceiving children in any thing. And yet, Christmas
after Christmas, I have imposed on them the pleasant fiction of
Kriss Kringle, without suffering very severe pangs of conscience.
Dear little creatures! how fully they believed, at first, the story;
how soberly and confidingly they hung their stockings in the chimney
corner; with what faith and joy did they receive their many gifts on
the never-to-be-forgotten Christmas morning!

Yes, it is a pleasant fiction; and if there be in it a leaven of
wrong, it is indeed a small portion.

"But why won't you tell me, mamma?" persisted my little
interrogator. "Don't you know Kriss Kringle?"

"I never saw him, dear," said I.

"Has papa seen him?"

"Ask him when he comes home."

"I wish Krissy would bring me, Oh, such an elegant carriage and four
horses, with a driver that could get down and go up again."

"If I see him, I'll tell him to bring you just such a nice
carriage."

"And will he do it, mamma?" The dear child clapped his hands
together with delight.

"I guess so."

"I wish I could see him," he said, more soberly and thoughtfully.
And then, as if some new impression had crossed his mind, he
hastened down from the chair, and went gliding from the room.

Half an hour afterwards, as I came into the nursery, I saw my three
"olive branches," clustered together in a corner, holding grave
counsel on some subject of importance; at least to themselves. They
became silent at my presence; but soon began to talk aloud. I
listened to a few words, but perceived nothing of particular
concern; then turned my thoughts away.

"Who is Kriss Kringle, papa?" I heard my cherry-lipped boy asking of
Mr. Smith, soon after he came home in the evening.

The answer I did not hear. Enough that the enquirer did not appear
satisfied therewith.

At tea-time, the children were not in very good appetite, though in
fine spirits.

As soon as the evening meal was over, Mr. Smith went out to buy
presents for our little ones, while I took upon myself the task of
getting them off early to bed.

A Christmas tree had been obtained during the day, and it stood in
one of the parlors, on a table. Into this parlor the good genius was
to descend during the night, and hang on the branches of the tree,
or leave upon the table, his gifts for the children. This was our
arrangement. The little ones expressed some doubts as to whether
Kriss Kringle would come to this particular room; and little "cherry
lips" couldn't just see how the genius was going to get down the
chimney, when the fire-place was closed up.

"Never mind, love; Kriss will find his way here," was my answer to
all objections.

"But how do you know, mother? Have you sent him word?"

"Oh, I know."

Thus I put aside their enquiries, and hurried them off to bed.

"Now go to sleep right quickly," said I, after they were snugly
under their warm blankets and comforts; "and to-morrow morning be up
bright and early."

And so I left them to their peaceful slumbers.

An hour it was, or more, ere Mr. Smith returned, with his pockets
well laden. I was in the parlor, where we had placed the Christmas
tree, engaged in decorating it with rosettes, sugar toys, and the
like. At this work I had been some fifteen or twenty minutes, and
had, I will own, become a little nervous. My domestic had gone out,
and I was alone in the house. Once or twice, as I sat in the silent
room, I imagined that I heard a movement in the one adjoining. And
several times I was sure that my ear detected something like the
smothered breathing of a man.

"All imagination," said I to myself. But again and again the same
sounds stirred upon the silent air.

"Could there be a robber concealed in the next room?"

The thought made me shudder. I was afraid to move from where I sat.
What a relief when I heard my husband's key in the door, followed by
the sound of his well known tread in the passage! My fears vanished
in a moment.

As Mr. Smith stood near me, in the act of unloading his pockets, he
bent close to my ear and whispered:

"Will is under the table. I caught a glance. of his bright eyes,
just now."

"What!"

"It's true. And the other little rogues are in the next room,
peeping through the door, at this very moment."

I was silent with surprise.

"They're determined to know who Kriss Kringle is," added my husband;
then speaking aloud, he said:

"Come, dear, I want to show you something up in the dining-room."

I understood Mr. Smith, and arose up instantly, not so much as
glancing towards the partly opened folding door.

We were hardly in the dining room before we heard the light
pattering of feet, and low, smothered tittering on the stairway.
Then all was still, and we descended to the parlors again, quite as
much pleased with what had occurred as the little rogues were
themselves.

"I declare! Really, I thought them all sound asleep an hour ago,"
said I, on resuming my work of decorating the Christmas tree, "Who
could have believed them cunning enough for this? It's all Will's
doings. He'll get through the world."

"Aye will he," returned Mr. Smith. "Oh if you could have seen his
face as I saw it, just peering from under the table cloth, his eyes
as bright as stars, and full of merriment and delight."

"Bless his heart! He's a dear little fellow!"

How could I help saying this?

"And the others! You lost half the pleasure of the whole affair by
not seeing them."

"We shall have a frolic with the rogues to-morrow morning. I can see
the triumph on Will's face. I understand now what all their
whisperings meant this afternoon. They were concocting this plan. I
couldn't have believed it of them?"

"Children are curious bodies," said Mr. Smith.

"I thought I heard some one in the next room," I remarked, "while
you were out, and became really nervous for a while. I heard the
breathing of some one near me, also; but tried to argue myself into
the belief that it was only imagination."

Thus we conned over the little incident, while we arranged the
children's toys.

"I know who Kriss Kringle is! I know!" was the triumphant
affirmation of one and another of the children, as we gathered at
the breakfast table next morning.

"Do you, indeed?" said I, trying to look grave.

"Yes; it is papa."

"Papa, Kriss Kringle! How can that be?"

"Oh, we know! We found out!"

"Indeed!"

And we, made, of course, a great wonder of this assertion. The merry
elves! What a happy Christmas it was for them. Ever since, they have
dated from the time when they found out who Kriss Kringle was. It is
all to no purpose that we pleasantly suggest the possibility of
their having dreamed of what they allege to have occurred under
their actual vision; they have recorded it in their memories, and
refer to it as a veritable fact.

Dear children! How little they really ask of us, to make them happy.
Did we give them but a twentieth part of the time we devote to
business, care, and pleasure, how greatly would we promote their
good, and increase the measure of their enjoyment. Not alone at
Christmas time, but all the year should we remember and care for
their pleasures; for, the state of innocent pleasure, in children,
is one in which good affections are implanted, and these take root
and grow, and produce fruit in after life.






CHAPTER IX.

NOT AT HOME.





NEVER but once did I venture upon the utterance of that little white
lie, "Not at home," and then I was well punished for my weakness and
folly. It occurred at a time when there were in my family two new
inmates: a niece from New York, and a raw Irish girl that I had
taken a few days before, on trial.

My niece, Agnes, was a young lady in her nineteenth year, the
daughter of my brother. I had not seen her before since her
school-girl days; and knew little of her character. Her mother I had
always esteemed as a right-thinking, true-hearted woman. I was much
pleased to have a visit from Agnes, and felt drawn toward her more
and more every day. There was something pure and good about her.

"Now, Aggy, dear," said I to her, one morning after breakfast, as we
took our work and retired from the dining-room to one of the
parlors, where I was occasionally in the habit of sitting,--"we must
sew for dear life until dinner time, so as to finish these two
frocks for the children to wear this evening. It isn't right, I
know, to impose on you in this way. But you sew so quick and neatly;
and then it will help me through, and leave me free to visit Girard
College with you this afternoon."

"Don't speak of it, aunt," returned Agnes.--"I'm never happier than
when employed. And, besides, it's only fair that I should sew for
you in the morning, if you are to go pleasuring with me in the
afternoon."

Lightly the hours flew by, passed in cheerful conversation. I found
that the mind of my niece had been highly cultivated; that her
tastes were refined, and her moral sense acute. To say that I was
pleased with her, would but half express what I felt.

There was to be a juvenile party at the house of one of our
acquaintances that evening, to which the children were invited; and
we were at work in preparing dresses and other matters suitable for
them to appear in.

Twelve o'clock came very quickly--too quickly for me, in fact; for I
had not accomplished near so much as I had hoped to do. It would
require the most diligent application, through every moment of time
that intervened until the dinner hour, for us to get through with
what we were doing, so as to have the afternoon to ourselves for the
intended excursion.

As the clock rung out the hour of noon, I exclaimed:

"Is it possible! I had no idea that it was so late. How slowly I do
seem to get along!"

Just at this moment the bell rung.

"Bless me! I hope we are not to have visitors this morning," said I,
as I let my hands fall in my lap. I thought hurriedly for a moment,
and then remarked, in a decided way:

"Of course we cannot see any one. We are engaged."

By this time I heard the footsteps of Mary on her way from the
kitchen, and I very naturally passed quickly to the parlor door to
intercept and give her my instructions.

"Say that I'm engaged," was on my tongue. But, somehow or other, I
had not the courage to give these words utterance. The visitor might
be a person to whom such an excuse for not appearing would seem
unkind, or be an offence. In this uncertain state, my mind fell into
confusion. Mary was before me, and awaiting the direction she saw
that I was about giving.

"Say that I'm not at home, if any one asks to see me," came in a
sudden impulse from my lips.

And then my cheeks flushed to think that I had instructed my servant
to give utterance to a falsehood.

"Yes, mim," answered the girl, glancing into my face with a knowing
leer, that produced an instant sense of humiliation; and away she
went to do my bidding.

I did not glance towards Agnes, as I returned to my seat and took up
my work. I had not the courage to do this. That I had lowered myself
in her estimation, I felt certain. I heard the street door open, and
bent, involuntarily, in a listening attitude. The voice of a lady
uttered my name.

"She's not at home, mim," came distinctly on my ears, causing the
flush on my cheeks to become still deeper.

A murmur of voices followed. Then I heard the closing of the
vestibule door, and Mary returning to the back parlor where we were
sitting.

"Who was it, Mary?" I enquired, as the girl entered.

"Mrs.--Mrs.--Now what was it? Sure, and I've forgotten their names
intirely."

But, lack of memory did not long keep me in ignorance as to who were
my visitors, for, as ill luck would have it, they had bethought
themselves of some message they wished to leave, and, re-opening the
vestibule door, left a-jar by Mary, followed her along the passage
to the room they saw her enter. As they pushed open the door of the
parlor, Mary heard them, and, turning quickly, exclaimed, in
consternation--

"Och, murther!"

A moment she stood, confronting, in no very graceful attitude, a
couple of ladies, and then escaped to the kitchen.

Here was a scene of embarrassment. Not among all my acquaintances
were there, perhaps, two persons, whom I would have least desired to
witness in me such a fault as the one of which I had been guilty.
For a little while, I knew not what to say. I sat, overcome with
mortification. At length, I arose, and said with an effort,

"Walk in, ladies! How are you this morning? I'm pleased to see you.
Take chairs. My niece, Mrs. Williams, and Mrs. Glenn. I hope you
will excuse us. We were--"

"Oh, no apologies, Mrs. Smith," returned one of the ladies, with a
quiet smile, and an air of self-possession. "Pardon this intrusion.
We understood the servant that you were not at home."

"Engaged, she meant," said I, a deeper crimson suffusing my face.
"The fact is, we are working for dear life, to get the children
ready for a party to-night, and wished to be excused from seeing any
one."

"Certainly--all right," returned Mrs. Williams, "I merely came in to
say to your domestic (I had forgotten it at the door) that my sister
expected to leave for her home in New York in a day or two, and
would call here with me, to-morrow afternoon."

"I shall be very happy to see her," said I,--"very happy. Do come in
and sit down for a little while. If I had only known it was you."

Now that last sentence, spoken in embarrassment and mental
confusion, was only making matters worse. It placed me in a false
and despicable light before my visitors; for in it was the savor of
hypocrisy, which is foreign to my nature.

"No, thank you," replied my visitors. "Good morning!"

And they retired, leaving me so overcome with shame, mortification,
confusion, and distress, that I burst into tears.

"To think that I should have done such a thing!" was my first
remark, so soon as I had a little recovered my self-possession; and
I looked up, half timidly, into the face of my niece. I shall not
soon forget the expression of surprise and pain that was in her fair
young countenance. I had uttered a falsehood in her presence, and
thus done violence to the good opinion she had formed of me. The
beautiful ideal of her aunt, which had filled her mind, was blurred
over; and her heart was sad in consequence.

"Dear Aggy!" said I, throwing my work upon the floor, and bending
earnestly towards her.--"Don't think too meanly of me for this
little circumstance. I never was guilty of that thing before--never!
And well have I been punished for my thoughtless folly I spoke from
impulse, and not reflection, when I told Mary to say that I was not
at home, and repented of what I had done almost as soon as the words
passed my lips."

Agnes looked at me for some moments, until her eyes filled with
tears. Then she said in a low, sweet, earnest voice:

"Mother always says, if she cannot see any one who calls, that she
is engaged."

"And so do I, dear," I returned. "This is my first offence against
truth, and you may be sure that it will be the last."

And it was my last.

When next I met Mrs. Williams and Mrs. Glenn, there was, in both of
them, a reserve not seen before. I felt this change keenly. I had
wronged myself in their good opinion; and could not venture upon an
explanation of my conduct; for that, I felt, might only make matters
worse.

How often, since, has my cheek burned, as a vivid recollection came
up before my mind of what occurred on that morning! I can never
forget it.






CHAPTER X.

SHIRT BUTTONS.





IN a previous chapter, I gave the reader one of the Experiences of
my sister's husband, Mr. John Jones. I now give another.

There was a time in my married life, (thus Mr. Jones writes, in one
of _his_ "Confessions,") when I was less annoyed if my bosom or
wristband happened to be minus a button, than I am at present. But
continual dropping will wear away a stone, and the ever recurring
buttonless collar or wristband will wear out a man's patience, be he
naturally as enduring as the Man Of Uz.

I don't mean by this, that Mrs. Jones is a neglectful woman. Oh, no!
don't let that be imagined for a moment. Mrs. Jones is a woman who
has an eye for shirt buttons, and when that is said, a volume is
told in a few words.

But I don't care how careful a wife is, nor how good an eye she may
have for shirt buttons, there will come a time, when, from some
cause or other, she will momentarily abate her vigilance, and that
will be the very time when Betty's washing-board, or Nancy's
sad-iron, has been at work upon the buttons.

For a year or two after our marriage, I used to express impatience,
whenever, in putting on a clean shirt, I found a button gone. Mrs.
Jones, bore this for a while without exhibiting much feeling. But it
fretted her more than she permitted any one to see. At length, the
constant recurrence of the evil--I didn't know as much then as I do
now--annoyed me so that I passed from ejaculatory expressions of
impatience into more decided and emphatic disapprobation, and to

"Psha!" and "there it is again!" and the like were added:

"I declare, Mrs. Jones, this is too bad!" or

"I've given up hoping for a shirt with a full complement of
buttons--" or

"If you can't sew the buttons on my shirt, Mrs. Jones, I will hire
some one to do it."

This last expression of displeasure I never ventured upon but once.
I have always felt ashamed of it since, whenever a recollection of
my unreasonableness and impatience in the early times of the shirt
button trouble has crossed my mind. My wife took it so much to
heart, and so earnestly avowed her constant solicitude in regard to
the shirt buttons, that I resolved from that time, to bear the evil
like a man, and instead of grumbling or complaining, make known the
fact of a deficiency whenever it occurred, as a good joke. And so
for a year or so it used to be when the buttons were missing:

"Buttons again, Mrs. Jones;" or

"D'ye see that?" or

"Here's the old story"--

Always said laughingly, and varied as to the mood or fertility of
fancy. But on so grave a subject as shirt buttons, Mrs. Jones had no
heart for a joke. The fact that her vigilance had proved all in
vain, and that, spite of constant care, a shirt had found its way
into my drawer, lacking its full complement of buttons, was
something too serious for a smile or a jest, and my words, no matter
how lightly spoken, would be felt as a reproof. Any allusion,
therefore, to shirt buttons, was sure to produce a cloud upon the
otherwise calm brow of Mrs. Jones. It was a sore subject, and could
not be touched even by the light end of a feather without producing
pain.

What was I to do? Put off with the lack of a shirt button
uncomplainingly? Pin my collar, if the little circular piece of bone
or ivory were gone, and not hint at the omission? Yes; I resolved
not to say a word more about shirt buttons, but to bear the evil,
whenever it occurred, with the patience of a martyr. Many days had
not passed after this resolution was taken, before, on changing my
linen one morning, I found that there was a button less than the
usual number on the bosom of my shirt. Mrs. Jones had been up on the
evening before, half an hour after I was in bed, looking over my
shirts, to see if every thing was in order. But even her sharp eyes
had failed to discover the place left vacant by a deserting member
of the shirt button fraternity. I knew she had done her best, and I
pitied, rather than blamed her, for I was sensible that a knowledge
of the fact which had just come to light would trouble her a
thousand times more than it did me.

The breakfast hour passed without a discovery by Mrs. Jones of the
fact that there was a button off of the bosom of my shirt. But, when
I came in at dinner time, her first words, looking at me, were:
"Why, Mr. Jones, there's a button off your bosom."

"I know," said I, indifferently. "It was off when I put the shirt on
this morning. But it makes no difference--you can sew it on when the
shirt next comes from the wash."

I was really sincere in what I said, and took some merit to myself
for being as composed as I was on so agitating subject. Judge of my
surprise, then, to hear Mrs. Jones exclaim, with a flushed face,
"Indeed, Mr. Jones, this is too much! no difference, indeed? A nice
opinion people must have had of your wife, to see you going about
with your bosom all gaping open in that style?"

"Nobody noticed it," said I in reply. "Don't you see that the edges
lie perfectly smooth together, as much so as if held by a button?"

But it was no use to say anything; Mrs. Jones was hurt at my not
speaking of the button.

"I'm sure," she said, "that I am always ready to do anything for
you. I never complain about sewing on your buttons."

"Nonsense, Mrs. Jones! don't take it so much to heart," I replied;
"here, get your needle and thread, and you can have it all right in
a minute. It's but a trifle--I'm sure I havn't thought about it
since I put on the shirt this morning."

But all would not do--Mrs. Jones' grief was too real; and when I,
losing to some extent, my patience, said fretfully, "I wish somebody
would invent a shirt without buttons," she sighed deeply, and in a
little while I saw her handkerchief go quietly to her eyes. Again
and again I tried the say-nothing plane; but it worked worse, if any
thing, than the other; for Mrs. Jones was sure to find out the
truth, and then she would be dreadfully hurt about my omission to
speak.

And so the years have passed. Sometimes I fret a little when I find
a shirt button off; sometimes I ask mildly to have the omission
supplied when I discover its existence; sometimes I jest about it,
and sometimes I bear the evil in silence. But the effects produced
upon Mrs. Jones are about the same. Her equanimity of mind is
disturbed, and she will look unhappy for hours. Never but once have
I complained without a cause. But that one instance gave Mrs. Jones
a triumph which has done much to sustain her in all her subsequent
trials.

We had some friends staying with us, and among the various matters
of discussion that came up during the social evenings we spent
together, shirt buttons were, on one occasion, conspicuous. To
record all that was said about them would fill pages, and I will
not, therefore, attempt even a brief record of all the allegations
brought against the useful little shirt button. The final decision
was, that it must be the Apple of Discord in disguise.

"A button off, as usual!" I muttered to myself the next morning, as
I put on a clean shirt. Mrs. Jones had risen half an hour before me,
and was down stairs giving some directions about breakfast, so that
I could not ask to have it sewed on.

And after leaving my room, I thought it as well not to say any thing
about it. In due time we gathered with our friends around the
breakfast table. A sight of them reminded me of the conversation the
previous evening, and I felt an irresistible desire to allude to the
missing shirt button as quite an apropos and amusing incident. So,
speaking from the impulse of the moment, I said, glancing first at
Mrs. Jones, then around the table, and then pointing down at my
bosom, "The old story of shirt buttons again!"

Instantly the color mounted to the cheeks and brow of Mrs. Jones;
then the color as quickly melted away, and a look of triumph passed
over her face. She pushed back her chair quickly, and rising up,
came round to where I sat, took hold of the button I had failed to
see, and holding it between her fingers, said, "Oh, yes, this _is_
the old story, Mr. Jones!"

I drew down my chin so as to get a low angle of vision, and sure
enough, the button was there. A burst of laughter went around the
table, in which Mrs. Jones most heartily joined; and I laughed, too,
as glad as she was, that the joke was all on her side. I have never,
you may be sure, heard the last of this; but it was a lucky
incident, for it has given Mrs. Jones something to fall back upon,
and have her jest occasionally, whenever I happen to discover that a
button is among the missing, and that she can, even at times, find
it in her heart to jest on such a subject, is, I can assure you, a
great gain. So much for shirt buttons. I could say a great deal
more, for the subject is inexhaustible. But I will forbear.






CHAPTER XI.

PAVEMENT WASHING IN WINTER.





TWO weeks of spring-like weather in mid-winter, and then the
thermometer went hurrying down towards zero with alarming rapidity.
Evening closed in with a temperature so mild that fires were
permitted to expire in the ashes; and morning broke with a cold
nor-wester, whistling through every crack and cranny, in a tone that
made you shrink and shiver.

"Winter at last," said I, creeping forth from my warm bed, with a
very natural feeling of reluctance.

"Time," was the half asleep and half awake response of Mr. Smith, as
he drew the clothes about his shoulders, and turned himself over for
the enjoyment of his usual half hour morning nap.

It was Saturday--that busiest day in the seven; at least for
housekeepers--and as late as half past seven o'clock, yet the house
felt as cold as a barn. I stepped to the register to ascertain if
the fire had been made in the heater. Against my hand came a
pressure of air--cold air.

"Too bad!" I murmured fretfully, "that girl has never touched the
fire."

So I gave the bell a pretty vigorous jerk. In a few minutes up came
Nancy, the cook, in answer to my summons.

"Why hasn't Biddy made the fire in the heater?" I asked.

"She has made it, mum."

"There isn't a particle of heat coming up."

"I heard her at work down there. I guess she's made it up, but it
hasn't began to burn good yet."

"Tell her that I want her."

"She's washing the pavement, mum."

"Washing the pavement!"

"Yes, mum."

"What possessed her to wash the pavement on a day like this?"

"It's the right day, mum. It's Saturday."

"Saturday! Don't she know that the water will freeze almost as soon
as it touches the ground? Go and tell her to come in this minute,
and not throw another drop on the pavement."

Nancy withdrew, and I kept on speaking to myself--

"I never saw such creatures. No consideration in them! Washing the
pavement on a morning like this! Little do they care who falls on
the ice; or who has a broken arm, or a broken leg."

Just as I had said this, I heard a crash, and an exclamation
without, and hurrying to the window looked forth. Biddy's work was
done, and well done, for the pavement was one sheet of ice, as hard
and smooth as glass, and as slippery as oil. Prostrate thereon was a
grocer's boy, and just beyond the curb stone, in the gutter, lay the
fragments of a jug of molasses.

Stepping back quickly to where the bell rope hung against the wall,
I gave it a most determined jerk. Scarcely had I done this, ere the
door of the adjoining room, which was used as a nursery, opened, and
Biddy appeared therein.

"Why, Biddy!" I exclaimed, "what possessed you to throw water on the
pavement this morning?"

"Faix! And how was I to get it clane, mim, widout wather?" coolly
returned Biddy.

"Clean!"

"Yes, mim, clane."

"There was no crying necessity to have it clean to-day. Didn't you
see--"

"It's Sathurday, mim," interrupted Biddy, in a voice that showed the
argument in her mind to be unanswerable. "We always wash the
pavement on Sathurday."

"But it doesn't do to wash the pavement," I returned, now trying to
put a little reason into her head, "when it is so cold that water
will freeze as soon as it touches the ground. The bricks become as
slippery as glass, and people can't walk on them without falling."

"Och! And what hev we till do wid the paple. Lot 'em look 'till
their steps."

"But, Biddy, that won't do. People don't expect to find pavements
like glass; and they slip, often, while unaware of danger. Just at
this moment a poor lad fell, and broke his jug all to pieces."

"Did he! And less the pity for him. Why did'nt he walk along like an
orderly, dacent body? Why didn't he look 'till his steps?"

"Biddy," said I, seeing that it was useless to hold an argument with
her,--"Do you go this minute and throw ashes all over the pavement."

"Ashes on the clane pavement! Mrs. Smith!"

"Yes, Biddy; and do it at once. There! Somebody else has fallen."

I sprung to the window in time to see a woman on the pavement, and
the contents of her basket of marketing scattered all around her.

"Go this minute and throw ashes over the pavement!" I called to
Biddy in a voice of command.

The girl left the room with evident reluctance. The idea of
scattering ashes over her clean pavement, was, to her, no very
pleasant one.

It seemed to me, as I sat looking down from my windows upon the
slippery flags, and noted the difficulty which pedestrians had to
cross them safely, that Biddy would never appear with her pan of
ashes.

"Why don't the girl do as I directed?" had just passed, in an
impatient tone, from my lips, when two well dressed men came in
view, one at each (sic) exteremtiy of the sheet of ice. They were
approaching, and stepped with evident unconsciousness of danger,
upon the treacherous surface. I had a kind of presentiment that one
or both would fall, and my instinct was not at fault. Suddenly the
heels of one flew up, and he struck the pavement with a concussion
that sprung his hat from his head, and sent it some feet in the air.
In his efforts to recover himself, his legs became entangled in
those of the other, and over he went, backwards, his head striking
the ground with a terrible shock.

I started from the window, feeling, for an instant, faint and sick.
In a few moments I returned, and looked out again. Both the fallen
ones had regained their feet, and passed out of sight, and Biddy,
who had witnessed the last scene in this half comic, half tragic
performance, was giving the pavement a plentiful coating of ashes
and cinders.

I may be permitted to remark, that I trust other housekeepers, whose
pavements are washed on cold mornings--and their name, I had almost
said, is legion--are as innocent as I was in the above case, and
that the wrong to pedestrians lies at the door of thoughtless
servants. But is it not our duty to see the wrong has no further
repetition?

It has been remarked that the residence of a truly humane man may be
known by the ashes before his door on a slippery morning. If this be
so, what are we to think of those who coolly supply a sheet of ice
to the side walk?






CHAPTER XII.

REGARD FOR THE POOR.





WE sometimes get, by chance, as it were, glimpses of life altogether
new, yet full of instruction. I once had such a glimpse, and, at the
time, put it upon record as a lesson for myself as well as others.
Its introduction into this series of "Confessions" will be quite in
place.

"How many children have you?" I asked of a poor woman, one day, who,
with her tray of fish on her head, stopped at my door with the hope
of finding a customer.

"Four," she replied.

"All young?"

"Yes ma'am. The oldest is but seven years of age."

"Have you a husband?" I enquired.

The woman replied in a changed voice:

"Yes, ma'am. But he isn't much help to me. Like a great many other
men, he drinks too much. If it wasn't for that, you wouldn't find me
crying fish about the streets in the spring, and berries through the
summer, to get bread for my children. He could support us all
comfortably, if he was only sober; for he has a good trade, and is a
good workman. He used to earn ten and sometimes twelve dollars a
week."

"How much do you make towards supporting your family?" I asked.

"Nearly all they get to live on, and that isn't much," she said
bitterly. "My husband sometimes pays the rent, and sometimes he
doesn't even do that. I have made as high as four dollars in a week,
but oftener two or three is the most I get."

"How in the world can you support yourself, husband, and four
children on three dollars a week?"

"I have to do it," was her simple reply. "There are women who would
be glad to get three dollars a week, and think themselves well off."

"But how do you live on so small a sum?"

"We have to deny ourselves almost every little comfort, and confine
ourselves down to the mere necessaries of life. After those who can
afford to pay good prices for their marketing have been supplied, we
come in for a part of what remains. I often get meat enough for a
few cents to last me for several days. And its the same way with
vegetables. After the markets are over, the butchers and country
people, whom we know, let us have lots of things for almost nothing,
sooner than take them home. In this way we make our slender means go
a great deal farther than they would if we had to pay the highest
market price for every thing. But, it often happens that what we
gain here is lost in the eagerness we feel to sell whatever we have,
especially when, from having walked and cried for a long time, we
become much fatigued. Almost every one complains that we ask too
much for our things, if we happen to be one or two cents above what
somebody has paid in market, where there are almost as many
different prices as there are persons who sell. And in consequence,
almost every one tries to beat us down.

"It often happens that, after I have walked for hours and sold but
very little, I have parted with my whole stock at cost to some two
or three ladies, who would not have bought from me at all if they
hadn't known that they were making good bargains out of me; and this
because I could not bear up any longer. I think it very hard,
sometimes, when ladies, who have every thing in plenty, take off
nearly all my profits, after I have toiled through the hot sun for
hours, or shivered in the cold of winter. It is no doubt right
enough for every one to be prudent, and buy things as low as
possible; but it has never seemed to me as quite just for a rich
lady to beat down a poor fish-woman, or strawberry-woman, a cent or
two on a bunch or basket, when that very cent made, perhaps,
one-third, or one-half of her profits.

"It was only yesterday that I stopped at a house to sell a bunch of
fish. The lady took a fancy to a nice bunch of small rock, for which
I asked her twenty cents. They had cost me just sixteen cents.
'Won't you take three fips?' she asked. 'That leaves me too small a
profit, madam,' I replied. 'You want too much profit,' she returned;
'I saw just such a bunch of fish in market yesterday for three
fips.' 'Yes, but remember,' I replied, 'that here are the fish at
your door. You neither have to send for them nor to bring them home
yourself.' 'Oh, as to that,' she answered, 'I have a waiter whose
business it is to carry the marketing. It is all the same to me. So,
if you expect to sell me your things, you must do it at the market
prices. I will give you three fips for that bunch of fish, and no
more.' I had walked a great deal, and sold but little. I was tired,
and half sick with a dreadful headache. It was time for me to think
about getting home. So I said, 'Well, ma'am, I suppose you must take
them, but it leaves me only a mere trifle for my profit.' A servant
standing by took the fish, and the lady handed me a quarter, and
held out her hand for the change. I first put into it a five cent
piece. She continued holding it out, until I searched about in ny
pocket for a penny. This I next placed in her hand. 'So you've
cheated me out of a cent at last,' she said, half laughing and half
in earnest; 'you are a sad rogue.' A little boy was standing by.
'Here, Charley,' she said to him, 'is a penny I have just saved. You
can buy a candy with it.'

"As I turned away from the door of the large, beautiful house in
which that lady lived, I felt something rising in my throat and
choking me; I had bitter thoughts of all my kind.

"Happily, where I next stopped, I met with one more considerate. She
bought two bunches of my fish at my own price--spoke very kindly, to
me, and even went so far, seeing that I looked jaded out, to tell me
to go down into her kitchen and rest myself for a little while.

"Leaving my tub of fish in her yard, I accepted the kind offer. It
so happened that the cook was making tea for some one in the house
who was sick. The lady asked me if I would not like to have a cup. I
said yes; for my head was aching badly, and I felt faint; and
besides, I had not tasted a cup of tea for several days. She poured
it out with her own hands, and with her own hands brought it to me.
I think I never tasted such a cup of tea in my life. It was like
cordial. God bless her!--When I again went out upon the street my
headache was gone, and I felt as fresh as ever I did in my life.
Before I stopped at this kind lady's house, I was so worn down and
out of heart, that I determined to go home, even though not more
than half my fish were sold. But now I went on cheerful and with
confidence. In an hour my tray was empty, and my fish sold at fair
prices.

"You do not know, madam," continued the woman, "how much good a few
kindly spoken words, that cost nothing, or a little generous regard
for us, does our often discouraged hearts. But these we too rarely
meet. Much oftener we are talked to harshly about our exorbitant
prices--called a cheating set--or some such name that does not sound
very pleasant to our ears. That there are many among us who have no
honesty, nor, indeed, any care about what is right, is too true. But
all are not so. To judge us all, then, by the worst of our class, is
not right. It would not be well for the world if all were thus
judged."






CHAPTER XIII.

SOMETHING MORE ABOUT COOKS.





FOR sometime I had a treasure of a cook; a fine Bucks county girl,
whose strongest recommendation in my eyes, when I engaged her, was
that she had never been out of sight of land. But she left my house
for a "better place," as she said. I might have bribed her to
remain, by an offer of higher wages; but, experience had
demonstrated to my satisfaction, that this kind of bribery never
turns out well. Your servant, in most instances, soon becomes your
mistress--or, at least, makes bold efforts to assume that position.

So, I let my Bucks county girl go to her "better place." As to how
or why it was to be a better place, I did not make enquiry. That was
her business. She was a free agent, and I did not attempt to
influence her. In fact, being of rather an independent turn of mind
myself, I sympathize with others in their independence, and rarely
seek to interfere with a declared course of action.

My new cook, unfortunately, had been out of sight of land, and that
for weeks together. She was fresh from the Emerald Island. When she
presented herself I saw in her but small promise. Having learned on
enquiry that her name was Alice Mahoney, I said:

"How long have you been in this country, Alice?"

There was a moment or two of hesitation. Then she answered:

"Sax months, mum."

I learned afterwards that she had arrived only three days before.

"Can you cook?" I enquired.

"Och, yis! Ony thing, from a rib of bafe down till a parate."

"You're sure of that, Alice?"

"Och! sure, mum."

"Can you give me a reference?"

"I've got a char_ac_ter from Mrs. Jordan, where I lived in New York.
I've only been here a few days. Biddy Jones knows me."

And she produced a written testification of ability, signed "Mary
Jones, No.--William street, New York." There was a suspicious look
about this "char_ac_ter;" but of course I had no means of deciding
whether it were a true or false document.

After some debate with myself, I finally decided to give Alice a
trial.

It so happened that on the very day she came, an old lady friend of
my mother's, accompanied by her two daughters, both married and
housekeepers, called to spend the afternoon and take tea. As they
lived at some distance, I had tea quite early, not waiting for Mr.
Smith, whose business kept him away pretty late.

During the afternoon, my "butter man" came. Occasionally he brings
some very nice country sausages, and I always make it a point to
secure a few pounds when he does so. He had some on this occasion.

"Alice," said I, as I entered the kitchen about four o'clock, "I
want you to hurry and get tea ready as quickly as you can."

"Yes, mum," was the ready reply.

"And Alice," I added, "we'll have some of these sausages with the
tea. They are very fine ones--better than we usually get. Be sure to
cook them very nice."

"Yes, mum," promptly answered the girl, looking quite intelligent.

A few more directions as to what we were to have were given, and
then I went up to sit with my company.

It was not my intention to leave all to the doubtful skill of my new
cook, but, either the time passed very rapidly, or she was more
prompt and active than is usual among cooks, for the tea bell rung
before I was in expectation of hearing it.

"Ah," said I, "there is our tea bell," and I arose, adding, "will
you walk into the dining-room, ladies?"

The words were no sooner uttered than a doubt as to all being as I
could wish crossed my mind; and I regretted that I had not first
repaired to the dining-room alone. But, as it was too late now, or,
rather, I did not happen to have sufficient presence of mind to
recall my invitation to the ladies to walk in to tea, until I had
preceded them a few minutes.

Well, we were presently seated at the tea table. My practised eye
instantly saw that the cloth was laid crookedly, and that the dishes
were placed in a slovenly manner.

I couldn't help a passing apology, on the ground of a new domestic,
and then proceeded to the business of pouring out the tea. The cups
were handed around, and I soon noticed that my guests were sipping
from their spoons in a very unsatisfactory manner. I was in the act
of filling my own cup from the tea urn, when I missed the plate of
sausages, about which I had boasted to my lady friends as so