50. L.
A HUM TRANSACTION.
Mrs. Billings lately becum helpless.
This kalamity was so well published, that the
door bel ov the house waz kept on a titter for a
week, with “out ov place,” “Bridgets,” “Margarets,”
and “Matildys.”
From so profuse a crop, it was difficult tew select;
each one had a karakter, that would hav lasted an
economikal person for life, and each one was az
demure az if they were about to take the veil.
They could all bile, and stew—hash, and frigasee,
wash, mend, and iron, bake, bru, and starch—in fackt
they were perfecktly elaborate, in aul cook and
laundry doings, and never staid out ov nights.
For sum reason, (bless the ladys, they never dew
ennything without a good reason,) a prodigious emerald
selekshun was made from the applicants, happy
in the immaculate prefix ov Mary, a queen among
pots and kittles, soups, gravy, and compounds.
She could do evrything!
She could sweep without disturbing enny dust;
she could bile a dumplin so light, az almost tew disfranchise
the long cherished principle ov gravitashun;
in fackt, if it was safe tew bet on her, she was a fust-klass
kitchin, within a kitchen; “ne plus ultra,” a
bonny fide “Eurkea,”—the last one out.
She was sworn in, with the usual serimony ov
pinteing out the ways and means, the kittles, and
closets, the coal, and cesspool, the pump, and bred
tickets, and lots ov other things, in the matter ov
nails for this rag, and rags for that nail.
The dinner tew be got up was quite ordnary, and
Mrs. Billings, willing tew levy but a light tax upon
the almost omniscient cook genius ov the accomplished
Mary, suggested for sass, that most simple az
well az most agreeable ov aul wheaten kompounds,
known amung fluent housewifes, az a “minnit puddin.”
“Ah, mum, it will plaze yee's to see me be after
makin the puddin.”
The mistick hour iz clus at hand, when the platter
iz tew smoke in the senter ov the snowy damask; a
gentle tap iz herd at the parler door; the glistening
Mary relates the vicktory ov meat and vegatables
below, and with a plezant pride nestling in her ize,
in virgin innocense, asks:
“Now mum, pleze, whare dew yu keep yure minits?”
P. S.—Comment seems tew be almoste unnecessary—but
perhaps it will be safe tew add, that, if
“ignorance iz bliss,” Irish cooks must be the verry
broth ov happiness.
