CHAPTER XVII
BROILING A LOBSTER
MR. SMITH'S appetite sometimes takes an epicurean turn, and then we indulge in a lobster, calf's-head soup, terrapins, or something of that sort.
Once upon a time, he sent home a lobster. I did not feel very well that day, and concluded to leave the cooking of the animal to a new girl that I had taken a week or two before, on a strong recommendation. She claimed to be a finished cook, and her testimonials were distinct on that head.
"Kitty," said I, "Mr. Smith has sent home a lobster, I believe?"
I had summoned the girl to my room.
"Yes, ma'am," she replied. "Is it for dinner?"
"Of course it is; and you must see that it is well cooked."
Kitty lingered a few moments, as if not entirely satisfied about something, and then retired to the kitchen.
"I wonder if she knows how to boil a lobster?" said I to myself.
But then, the remembrance that she had come to me as a finished cook, crossed my mind, and I answered, mentally, my own question, by saying:
"Of course she does."
Not long afterwards, I went to the dining-room, which was over the kitchen. I had been there only a little while, when I heard an unusual noise below, followed by an exclamation from Kitty—
"Oh! murderation! I can't cook the straddling thing. I wonder what Mr. Smith brought it home alive for!"
I was, of course, all attention now, and going to the top of the stairs, stood listening to what was going on below.
"There now. Lie still!" I heard Kitty say. This was followed by a rattling of tongs, or some other iron implements, and a rapid shuffling of feet.
Curious to know what was going on, I stepped lightly down the stairs, and through the open door had a full view of both Kitty and the lobster.
Live coals had been raked out upon the hearth. Over these was placed a gridiron, and on this not very comfortable bed Kitty was endeavoring to force Mr. Lobster to lie still and be cooked. But this he was by no means inclined to do; and no sooner did she place him on the heated bars, than he made his way off in the quickest possible time. Then she caught hold of him with the tongs, restored him to his proper position on the gridiron, and with poker and tongs strove to hold him there.
As the lobster, a second and a third time, struggled free of Kitty's tongs and poker, I could no longer restrain myself, but burst forth into a loud fit of laughter. By the time this subsided, his lobstership was in the middle of the kitchen floor. Picking him up, I threw him into a pot of boiling water, and then retreated from the kitchen, so convulsed with laughter that I could not utter a word.
Kitty did not soon hear the last of her attempt to broil a lobster.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE STRAWBERRY-WOMAN
THE observance of economy in matters of family expenditure, is the duty of every housekeeper. But, there is an economy that involves wrong to others, which, as being unjust and really dishonest, should be carefully avoided. In a previous chapter, I introduced the story of a poor fish-woman, as affording a lesson for the humane. Let me here give another, which forcibly illustrates the subject of oppressive and unjust economy. It is the story of a "Strawberry-Woman," and appeared in one of the magazines some years ago.
"Strawb'rees! Strawb'rees! cried a poorly clad, tired-looking woman, about eleven o clock one sultry June morning. She was passing a handsome house in Walnut street, into the windows of which she looked earnestly, in the hope of seeing the face of a customer. She did not look in vain, for the shrill sound of her voice brought forward a lady, dressed in a silk morning-wrapper, who beckoned her to stop. The woman lifted the heavy, tray from her bead, and placing it upon the door-step, sat wearily down.
"What's the price of your strawberries?" asked the lady, as she came to the door.
"Ten cents a box, madam. They are right fresh."
"Ten cents!" replied the lady, in a tone of surprise, drawing herself up, and looking grave. Then shaking her head and compressing her lips firmly, she added:
"I can't give ten cents for strawberries. It's too much."
"You can't get such strawberries as these for less, madam," said the woman. "I got a levy a box for them yesterday."
"Then you got too much, that's all I have to say. I never pay such prices. I bought strawberries in the market yesterday, just as good as yours, for eight cents a box."
"Don't know how they do to sell them at that price," returned the woman. "Mine cost nearly eight cents, and ought to bring me at least twelve. But I am willing to take ten, so that I can, sell out quickly. It's a very hot day." And the woman wiped, with her apron, the perspiration from her glowing face.
"No, I won't pay ten cents," said the lady (?) coldly. "I'll give you forty cents for five boxes, and nothing more."
"But, madam, they cost me within a trifle of eight cents a box."
"I can't help that. You paid too much for them, and this must be your loss, not mine, if I buy your strawberries. I never pay for other people's mistakes. I understand the use of money much better than that."
The poor woman did not feel very well. The day was unusually hot and sultry, and her tray felt heavier, and tired her more than usual. Five boxes would lighten it, and if she sold her berries at eight cents, she would clear two cents and a half, and that would be better than nothing.
"I'll tell you what I will do," she said, after thinking a few moments; "I don't feel as well as usual to-day, and my tray is heavy. Five boxes sold will be something. You shall have them at nine cents. They cost me seven and a half, and I'm sure it's worth a cent and a half a box to cry them about the streets such hot weather as this."
"I have told you, my good woman, exactly what I will do," said the customer, with dignity. "If you are willing to take what I offer you, say so; if not, we needn't stand here any longer."
"Well, I suppose you will have to take them," replied the strawberry-woman, seeing that there was no hope of doing better. "But it's too little."
"It's enough," said the lady, as she turned to call a servant. Five boxes of fine large strawberries were received, and forty cents paid for them. The lady re-entered the parlor, pleased at her good bargain, while the poor woman turned from the door sad and disheartened. She walked nearly the distance of a square before she could trust her voice to utter her monotonous cry of
"Strawb'rees! Strawb'rees!"
An hour afterward, a friend called upon Mrs. Mier, the lady who had bought the strawberries. After talking about various matters and things interesting to lady housekeepers, Mrs. Mier said:
"How much did you pay for strawberries this morning?"
"Ten cents."
"You paid too much. I bought them for eight."
"For eight! Were they good ones?"
"Step into the dining-room, and I will show them to you."
The ladies stepped into the dining-room, when Mrs. Mier displayed her large, red berries, which were really much finer than she had at first supposed them to be.
"You didn't get them for eight cents," remarked the visitor, incredulously.
"Yes I did. I paid forty cents for five boxes."
"While I paid fifty for some not near so good."
"I suppose you paid just what you were asked?"
"Yes, I always do that. I buy from one woman during the season, who agrees to furnish me at the regular market price."
"Which you will always find to be two or three cents above what you can get them for in the market."
"You always buy in market."
"I bought these from a woman at the door."
"Did she only ask eight cents for them?"
"Oh, no! She asked ten cents, and pretended that she got twelve and a half for the same quality of berries yesterday. But I never give these people what they ask."
"While I never can find it in my heart to ask a poor, tired-looking woman at my door, to take a cent less for her fruit than she asks me. A cent or two, while it is of little account to me, must be of great importance to her."
"You are a very poor economist, I see," said Mrs. Mier. "If that is the way you deal with every one, your husband no doubt finds his expense account a very serious item."
"I don't know about that. He never complains. He allows me a certain sum every week to keep the house, and find my own and the children's clothes; and so far from ever calling on him for more, I always have fifty or a hundred dollars lying by me."
"You must have a precious large allowance, then, considering your want of economy in paying everybody just what they ask for their things."
"Oh, no! I don't do that, exactly, Mrs. Mier. If I consider the price of a thing too high, I don't buy it."
"You paid too high for your strawberries today."
"Perhaps I did; although I am by no means certain."
"You can judge for yourself. Mine cost but eight cents, and you own that they are superior to yours at ten cents."
"Still, yours may have been too cheap, instead of mine too dear."
"Too cheap! That is funny! I never saw any thing too cheap in my life. The great trouble is, that every thing is too dear. What do you mean by too cheap?"
"The person who sold them to you may not have made profit enough upon them to pay for her time and labor. If this were the case, she sold them to you too cheap."
"Suppose she paid too high for them? Is the purchaser to pay for her error?"
"Whether she did so, it would be hard to tell; and even if she had made such a mistake, I think it would be more just and humane to pay her a price that would give her a fair profit, instead of taking from her the means of buying bread for her children. At least, this is my way of reasoning."
"And a precious lot of money it must take to support such a system of reasoning. But how much, pray, do you have a week to keep the family? I am curious to know."
"Thirty-five dollars."
"Thirty-five dollars! You are jesting."
"Oh, no! That is exactly what I receive, and as I have said, I find the sum ample."
"While I receive fifty dollars a week," said Mrs. Mier, "and am forever calling on my husband to settle some bill or other for me. And yet I never pay the exorbitant prices asked by everybody for every thing. I am strictly economical in my family. While other people pay their domestics a dollar and a half and two dollars a week, I give but a dollar and a quarter each to my cook and chambermaid, and require the chamber maid to help the washer-woman on Mondays. Nothing is wasted in my kitchen, for I take care in marketing, not to allow room for waste. I don't know how it is that you save money on thirty-five dollars with your system, while I find fifty dollars inadequate with my system."
The exact difference in the two systems will be clearly understood by the reader, when he is informed that although Mrs. Mier never paid any body as much as was at first asked for an article, and was always talking about economy, and trying to practice it, by withholding from others what was justly their due, as in the case of the strawberry-woman, yet she was a very extravagant person, and spared no money in gratifying her own pride. Mrs. Gilman, her visitor, was, on the contrary, really economical, because she was moderate in all her desires, and was usually as well satisfied with an article of dress or furniture that cost ten or twenty dollars, as Mrs. Mier was with one that cost forty or fifty dollars. In little things, the former was not so particular as to infringe the rights of others, while in larger matters, she was careful not to run into extravagance in order to gratify her own or children's pride and vanity, while the latter pursued a course directly opposite.
Mrs. Gilman was not as much dissatisfied, on reflection, about the price she had paid for her strawberries, as she had felt at first.
"I would rather pay these poor creatures two cents a box too much than too little," she said to herself—"dear knows, they earn their money hard enough, and get but a scanty portion after all."
Although the tray of the poor strawberry-woman, when she passed from the presence of Mrs. Mier, was lighter by five boxes, her heart was heavier, and that made her steps more weary than before. The next place at which she stopped, she found the same disposition to beat her down in her price.
"I'll give you nine cents, and take four boxes," said the lady.
"Indeed, madam, that is too little," replied the woman; "ten cents is the lowest at which I can sell them and make even a reasonable profit."
"Well, say thirty-seven and a half for four boxes, and I will take them. It is only two cents and a half less than you ask for them."
"Give me a fip, ma!—there comes the candy-man!" exclaimed a little fellow, pressing up to the side of the lady. "Quick, ma! Here, candy-man!" calling after an old man with a tin cylinder under his arm, that looked something like an ice cream freezer. The lady drew out her purse, and searched among its contents for the small coin her child wanted.
"I havn't any thing less than a levy," she at length said.
"Oh, well, he can change it. Candy-man, you can change a levy?"
By this time the "candy-man" stood smiling beside the strawberry-woman. As he was counting out the fip's worth of candy, the child spoke up in an earnest voice, and said:
"Get a levy's worth, mother, do, wont you? Cousin Lu's coming to see us to-morrow."
"Let him have a levy's worth, candy-man. He's such a rogue I can't resist him," responded the mother. The candy was counted out, and the levy paid, when the man retired in his usual good humor.
"Shall I take these strawberries for thirty-seven and a half cents?" said the lady, the smile fading from her face. "It is all I am willing to give."
"If you wont pay any more, I musn't stand for two cents and a half," replied the woman, "although they would nearly buy a loaf of bread for the children," she mentally added.
The four boxes were sold for the sum offered, and the woman lifted the tray upon her head, and moved on again. The sun shone out still hotter and hotter as the day advanced. Large beads of perspiration rolled from the throbbing temples of the strawberry-woman, as she passed wearily up one street and down another, crying her fruit at the top of her voice. At length all were sold but five boxes, and now it was past one o'clock. Long before this she ought to have been at home. Faint from over-exertion, she lifted her tray from her head, and placing it upon a door-step, sat down to rest. As she sat thus, a lady came up, and paused at the door of the house, as if about to enter.
"You look tired, my good woman," she said kindly. "This is a very hot day for such hard work as yours. How do you sell your strawberries?"
"I ought to have ten cents for them, but nobody seems willing to give ten cents to-day, although they are very fine, and cost me as much as some I have got twelve and a half for."
"How many boxes have you?"
"Five, ma'am."
"They are very fine, sure enough," said the lady, stooping down and examining them; "and well worth ten cents. I'll take them."
"Thanky, ma'am. I was afraid I should have to take them home," said the woman, her heart bounding up lightly.
The lady rung the bell, for it was at her door that the tired strawberry-woman had stopped to rest herself. While she was waiting for the door to be opened, the lady took from her purse the money for the strawberries, and handing it to the woman, said:
"Here is your money. Shall I tell the servant to bring you out a glass of cool water? You are hot and tired."
"If you please, ma'am," said the woman, with a grateful look.
The water was sent out by the servant who was to receive the strawberries, and the tired woman drank it eagerly. Its refreshing coolness flowed through every vein, and when she took up her tray to return home, both heart and step were lighter.
The lady whose benevolent feelings had prompted her to the performance of this little act of kindness, could not help remembering the woman's grateful look. She had not done much—not more than it was every one's duty to do; but the recollection of even that was pleasant, far more pleasant than could possibly have been Mrs. Mier's self-gratulations at having saved ten cents on her purchase of five boxes of strawberries, notwithstanding the assurance of the poor woman who vended them, that, at the reduced rate, her profit on the whole would only be two cents and a half.
After dinner Mrs. Mier went out and spent thirty dollars in purchasing jewelry for her eldest daughter, a young lady not yet eighteen years of age. That evening, at the tea-table, the strawberries were highly commended as being the largest and most delicious in flavor of any they had yet had; in reply to which, Mrs. Mier stated, with an air of peculiar satisfaction, that she had got them for eight cents a box, when they were worth at least ten cents.
"The woman asked me ten cents," she said, "but I offered her eight, and she took them."
While the family of Mrs. Mier were enjoying their pleasant repast, the strawberry-woman sat at a small table, around which were gathered three young children, the oldest but six years of age. She had started out in the morning with thirty boxes of strawberries, for which she was to pay seven and a half cents a box. If all had brought the ten cents a box, she would have made seventy-five cents; but such was not the case. Rich ladies had beaten her down in her price—had chaffered with her for the few pennies of profits to which her hard labor entitled her—and actually robbed her of the meager pittance she strove to earn for her children. Instead of realizing the small sum of seventy-five cents, she had cleared only forty-five cents. With this she bought a little Indian meal and molasses for her own and her children's supper and breakfast.
As she sat with her children, eating the only food she was able to provide for them, and thought of what had occurred during the day, a feeling of bitterness toward her kind came over her; but the remembrance of the kind words, and the glass of cool water, so timely and thoughtfully tendered to her, was like leaves in the waters of Marah. Her heart softened, and with the tears stealing to her eyes, she glanced upward, and asked a blessing on her who had remembered that, though poor, she was still human.
Economy is a good thing, and should be practiced by all, but it should show itself in denying ourselves, not in oppressing others. We see persons spending dollar after dollar foolishly one hour, and in the next trying to save a five penny piece off of a wood-sawyer, coal-heaver, or market-woman. Such things are disgraceful, if not dishonest.
CHAPTER XIX
LOTS OF THINGS
"O DEAR!" said I to Mr. Smith one morning, as we arose from the breakfast-table, at which we had been partaking of rather a badly-cooked meal,—"more trouble in prospect."
"What's the matter now?" asked Mr. Smith, with a certain emphasis on the word "now" that didn't sound just agreeable to my ears.
"Oh, nothing! nothing!" I answered, with as much indifference of manner as I could assume.
"You spoke of trouble," said he, kindly, "and trouble, in my experience, is rather more tangible than 'nothing.'"
"I've another raw Irish girl in the kitchen, who, according to her own confession, hasn't been above ten days in the country. Isn't that enough?"
"I should think so. But, why, in the name of goodness did you take another of these green islanders into your house?"
"It's easy enough to ask questions, Mr. Smith," said I, a little fretfully; "but—" I checked myself. We looked at each other, smiled, and—said no more on the subject.
"Your name is Anna, I believe?" said I, as I stepped to the kitchen-door, a couple of hours afterwards.
"Thot's me name," replied the new domestic.
"I will send home a loin of veal and some green peas," said I. "They are for dinner, which must be ready at two o'clock. You know how to roast a piece of veal, I presume?"
"Lave me for thot same, honey!"
"And the green peas?"
"All right, mum. I've lived in quality houses since I was so high. I can cook ony thing."
"Very well, Anna. We will see. I have to go out this morning; and you must do the best you can. Don't fail to have dinner ready by two o'clock. Mr. Smith is a punctual man."
Anna was profuse in her promises.
"If," said I, recollecting myself, as I was about opening the street door, and returning along the passage,—"If any thing is sent home for me, be sure to take it up stairs and lay it carefully on my bed."
"Yes, mum."
"Now don't forget this, Anna."
"Och! niver fear a hate, mum," was the girl's answer. "I'll not forget a word iv y'r insthructions."
I turned away and left the house. My principal errand was a visit to the milliner's, where I wished to see a bonnet I had ordered, before it was sent home. It was this bonnet I referred to when I desired Anna to place carefully on the bed in my chamber, any thing that might come home.
On my way to the milliner's, I stopped at the grocer's where we were in the habit of dealing, and made selections of various things that were needed.
The bonnet proved just to my taste. It was a delicate white spring bonnet, with a neat trimming, and pleased my fancy wonderfully.
"The very thing," said I, the moment my eyes rested upon it.
"Do you want a box?" asked the milliner, after I had decided to take the bonnet.
"I have one," was my answer.
"O, very well. I will send the bonnet home in a box, and you can take it out."
"That will do."
"Shall I send it home this morning?"
"If you please."
"Very well. I'll see that it is done."
After this I made a number of calls, which occupied me until after one o'clock, when I turned my face homeward. On arriving, I was admitted by my new girl, and, as the thought of my beautiful bonnet now returned to my mind, my first words were:
"Has any thing been sent home for me, Anna?"
"Och! yis indade, mum," was her answer,—"lots o' things."
"Lots of things!" said I, with manifest surprise; for I only remembered at the moment my direction to the milliner to send home my bonnet.
"Yis, indade!" responded the girl. "Lots. And the mon brought 'em on the funniest whale barry ye iver seed."
"On a wheel barrow!"
"Yis. And such a whale barry! It had a whale on each side, as I'm a livin' sinner, mum and a cunnin' little whale in front, cocked 'way up intil the air, thot didn't touch nothin' at all—at all! There's no sich whale barrys as thot same in Ireland, me leddy!"
"And what did you do with the lots of things brought on this wheel barrow?" said I, now beginning to comprehend the girl.
"Put them on y'r bed, sure."
"On my bed!" I exclaimed, in consternation.
"Sure, and didn't I remember the last words ye spake till me? 'Anna,' says ye,—'Anna, if ony thing is sent home for me, be sure till take it carefully up stairs and lay it on me bed.' And I did thot same. Sure, I couldn't have found a nicer place, if I gone the house over."
Turning from the girl, I hurried up stairs.
It was as I had too good reason to fear. Such a sight as met my eyes! In the centre of my bed, with its snowy-white Marseilles covering, were piled "lots of things," and no mistake. Sugar, tea, cheese, coffee, soap, and various other articles, not excepting a bottle of olive oil, from the started cork of which was gently oozing a slender stream, lay in a jumbled heap; while, on a satin damask-covered chair, reposed a greasy ham. For a moment I stood confounded. Then, giving the bell a violent jerk, I awaited, in angry impatience, the appearance of Anna, who, in due time, after going to the street door, found her way to my chamber.
"Anna!" I exclaimed, "what, in the name of goodness, possessed you to do this?"
And I pointed to the bed.
"Sure, and ye towld me till put them on ye's bed."
"I told you no such thing, you stupid creature! I said if a bonnet came, to put it on the bed."
"Och! sorry a word did ye iver say about a bonnet, mum. It's the first time I iver heard ony thing about a bonnet from yer blessed lips. And thot's thrue."
"Where is my bonnet, then? Did one come home?"
"Plase, mum, and there did. And a purty one it is, too, as iver my two eyes looked upon."
"What did you do with it?" I enquired, with a good deal of concern.
"It's safe in thot great mahogany closet, mum," she replied, pointing to my wardrobe.
I stepped quickly to the "mahogany closet," and threw open the door. Alas! for my poor bonnet! It was crushed in between two of Mr. Smith's coats, and tied to a peg, by the strings, which were, of course, crumpled to a degree that made them useless.
"Too bad! Too bad!" I murmured, as I disengaged the bonnet from its unhappy companionship with broadcloth. As it came to the light, my eyes fell upon two dark spots on the front, the unmistakable prints of Anna's greasy fingers. This was too much! I tossed it, in a moment of passion, upon the bed, where, in contact with the "lots of things," it received its final touch of ruin from a portion of the oozing contents of the sweet oil bottle.
Of the scene that followed, and of the late, badly-cooked dinner to which my husband was introduced an hour afterwards, I will not trust myself to write. I was not, of course, in a very agreeable humor; and the record of what I said and did, and of how I looked, would be in no way flattering to my own good opinion of myself, nor prove particularly edifying to the reader.
I shall never forget Anna's new variety of "whale-barry," nor the "lots o' things" she deposited on my bed. She lived with me just seven days, and then made way for another a little more tolerable than herself.