University of Virginia Library

[Eva to Harry's Mother.]

DEAR Mother: I have kept you well informed of
all our prosperities in undertaking and doing: how
everything we have set our hand to has turned out beautifully;
how “our evenings” have been a triumphant
success; and how we and our neighbors are all coming
into the spirit of love and unity, getting acquainted, mingling
and melting into each other's sympathy and knowledge.
I have had the most delightful run of compliments
about my house, as so bright, so cheerful, so
social and cosy, and about my skill in managing to
always have every thing so nice, and in entertaining with
so little parade and trouble, that I really began to plume
myself on something very uncommon in the way of what
Aunt Prissy Diamond calls “faculty.” Well, you know,
next in course after the Palace Beautiful comes the Valley
of Humiliation—whence my letter is dated—where I
am at this present writing. Honest old John Bunyan
says that, although people do not descend into this place
with a very good grace, but with many a sore bruise and
tumble, yet the air thereof is mild and refreshing, and
many sweet flowers grow here that are not found in more
exalted regions.

I have not found the flowers yet, and feel only the
soreness and bruises of the descent. To drop the metaphor:
I have been now three days conducting my

establishment without Mary, and with no other assistant
than her daughter, the little ten-year-old midget I told
you about. You remember about poor Maggie, and
what we were trying to do for her, and how she fled from
our house? Well, Jim Fellows set the detectives upon
her track, and the last that was heard of her, she had
gone up to Poughkeepsie; and, as Mary has relations
somewhere in that neighborhood, she thought, perhaps,
if she went immediately, she should find her among them.
The dear, faithful soul felt dreadfully about leaving me,
knowing that, as to all practical matters, I am a poor
“sheep in the wilderness;” and if I had made any opposition,
or argued against it, I suppose that I might have
kept her from going, but I did not. I did all I could to
hurry her off, and talked heroically about how I would
try to get along without her, and little Midge swelled
with importance, and seemed to long for the opportunity
to display her latent powers; and so Mary departed
suddenly one morning, and left me in possession of the
field.

The situation was the graver that we had a gentleman
invited to dinner, and Mary had not time even to stuff
the turkey, as she had to hurry off to the cars. “What
will you do, Miss Eva?” she said, ruefully; and I said
cheerily: “Oh, never fear, Mary; I never found a situation
yet that I was not adequate to,” and I saw her out
of the door, and then turned to my kitchen and my turkey.
My soul was fired with energy. I would prove to
Harry what a wonderful and unexplored field of domestic
science lay in my little person. Everything should be so
perfect that the absence of Mary should not even be suspected!

So I came airily upon the stage of action, and took
an observation of the field. This turkey should be
stuffed, of course; turkeys always were stuffed; but

what with? How very shadowy and indefinite my
knowledge grew, as I contemplated those yawning rifts
and caverns which were to be filled up with something
savory—I didn't precisely know what! But the cook-book
came to my relief. I read and studied the
directions, and proceeded to explore for the articles.
“Midge, where does your mother keep the sweet herbs?”
Midge was prompt and alert in her researches and
brought them to light, and I proceeded gravely to measure
and mix, while Midge, delighted at the opportunity
of exploring forbidden territory, began a miscellaneous
system of rummaging and upsetting in Mary's orderly
closets. “Here's the mustard, ma'am, and here's the
French mustard, and here's the vanilla, and the cloves is
here, and the nutmeg-grater, ma'am, and the nutmegs is
here;” and so on, till I was half crazy.

“Midge, put all those things back and shut the cupboard
door, and stop talking,” said I, decisively. And
Midge obeyed.

“Now,” said I, “I wonder where Mary keeps her
needles; this must be sewed up.”

Midge was on hand again, and pulled forth needles,
and thread, and twine, and after some pulling and pinching
of my fingers, and some unsuccessful struggles with
the stiff wings that wouldn't lie down, and the stiff legs
that would kick out, my turkey was fairly bound and
captive, and handsomely awaiting his destiny.

“Now, Midge,” said I, triumphant; “open the oven
door!”

“Oh! please, ma'am, it's only ten o'clock. You
don't want to roast him all day.”

Sure enough; I had not thought of that. Our dinner
hour was five o'clock; and, for the first time in my
life, the idea of time as connected with a roast turkey
rose in my head.

“Midge, when does your mother put the turkey in?”

“Oh! not till some time in the afternoon,” said
Midge, wisely.

“How long does it take a turkey to roast?” said I.

“Oh! a good while,” said Midge, confidently, “'cordin'
as how large they is.”

I turned to my cook-book, and saw that so much
time must be given to so many pounds; but I had not
the remotest idea how many pounds there were in the
turkey. So I set Midge to cleaning the silver, and ran
across the way, to get light of Miss Dorcas.

How thankful I was for the neighborly running-in
terms on which I stood with my old ladies; it stood me
in good stead in this time of need. I ran in at the back
door and found Miss Dorcas in her kitchen, presiding
over some special Eleusinean mysteries in the way of
preserves. The good soul had on a morning-cap calculated
to strike terror into an inexperienced beholder, but
her face beamed with benignity, and she entered into the
situation at once.

“Cookery books are not worth a fly in such cases,”
she remarked, sententiously. “You must use your judgment.”

“But what if you haven't got any judgment to use?”
said I. “I haven't a bit.”

“Well, then, dear child, you must use Dinah's, as I
do. Dinah can tell to a T, how long a turkey takes to
roast, by looking at it. Here, Dinah, run over, and
`talk turkey' to Mrs. Henderson.”

Dinah went back with me, boiling over with giggle.
She laughed so immoderately over my turkey that I began
to fear I had made some disgraceful blunder; but I
was relieved by a facetious poke in the side which she
gave me, declaring:

“Lord's sakes alive, Mis' Henderson, you's dun it

like a bawn cook, you has. Land sake! but it just kills
me to see ladies work,” she added, going into another
chuckle of delight. “Waall, now, Mis' Henderson, dat
'are turkey 'll want a mighty sight of doin'. Tell ye
what—I'll come over and put him in for you, 'bout three
o'clock,” she concluded, giving me a matronizing pat on
the back.

“Besides,” said little Midge, wisely, “there's all the
chambers and the parlors to do.”

Sure enough! I had forgotten that beds do not make
themselves, nor chambers arrange themselves, as always
had seemed to me before. But I went at the work, with
little Midge for handmaid, guiding her zeal and directing
and superintending her somewhat erratic movements,
till bedrooms, parlors, house, were all in wonted order.
In the course of this experience, it occurred to me a
number of times how much activity, and thought, and
care and labor of some one went to make the foundation
on which the habitual ease, quiet and composure of my
daily life was built; and I mentally voted Mary a place
among the saints.

Punctually to appointment, Dinah came over and
lifted my big turkey into the oven, and I shut the door
on him, and thought my dinner was fairly under way.

But the kitchen stove, which always seemed to me
the most matter-of-fact, simple, self-evident verity in
nature, suddenly became an inscrutable labyrinth of
mystery in my eyes. After putting in my turkey, I went
on inspecting my china-closet, and laying out napkins,
and peering into preserve-jars, till half an hour had
passed, when I thought of taking a peep at him. There
he lay, scarcely warmed through, with a sort of chilly
whiteness upon him.

“Midge,” I cried, “why don't this fire burn? This
turkey isn't cooking.”

“Oh, dear me, mum! you've forgot the drafts is
shut,” said Midge, just as if I had ever thought of
drafts, or supposed there was any craft or mystery about
them.

Midge, however, proceeded to open certain mysterious
slides, whereat the stove gave a purr of satisfaction,
which soon broadened into a roar.

“That will do splendidly,” said I; “and now, Midge,
go and get the potatoes and turnips, peel them, and have
them ready.”

The stove roared away merrily, and I went on with
my china-closet arrangements, laying out a dessert, till
suddenly I smelled a smell of burning. I went into the
kitchen, and found the stove raging like a great red
dragon, and the top glowing hot, and, opening the oven
door, a puff of burning fume flew in my face.

“Oh, Midge, Midge,” I cried, “what is the matter?
The turkey is all burning up!” and Midge came running
from the cellar.

“Why, mother shuts them slides part up, when the
fire gets agoing too fast,” said Midge—“so;” and Midge
manipulated the mysterious slides, and the roaring monster
grew calm.

But my turkey needed to be turned, and I essayed to
turn him—a thing which seems the simplest thing in life,
till one tries it and becomes convinced of the utter depravity
of matter. The wretched contrary bird of evil!
how he slipped and slid, and went every way but the
right way! How I wrestled with him, getting hot and
combative, outwardly and inwardly! How I burned my
hand on the oven door, till finally over he flounced,
spattering hot gravy all over my hand and the front
breadth of my dress. I had a view then that I never had
had before of the amount of Christian patience needed
by a cook. I really got into quite a vengeful state of

feeling with the monster, and shut the oven door with a
malignant bang, as Hensel and Gretel did when they
burned the old witch in the fairy story.

But now came the improvising of my dessert! I had
projected an elegant arrangement of boiled custard, with
sponge-cake at the bottom, and feathery snow of eggfroth
on top—a showy composition, which, when displayed
in a high cut-glass dish, strikingly ornaments the
table.

I felt entirely equal to boiled custard. I had seen
Mary make it dozens of times. I knew just how many
eggs went to the quart of milk, and that it must be stirred
gently all the time, in a kettle of boiling water, till the
golden moment of projection arrived. So I stirred and
stirred, with a hot face and smarting hands; for the
burned places burned so much worse in the heat as to
send a doubt through my mind whether I ever should
have grace enough to be a martyr at the stake, for any
faith or cause whatever.

But I bore all for the sake of my custard; when, oh!
from some cruel, mysterious, unexplained cause, just at
the last moment, the golden creamy preparation suddenly
separated into curd and whey, leaving my soul desolate
within me!

What had I done? What had I omitted? I was
sure every rite and form of the incantation had been
performed just as I had seen Mary do it hundreds of
times; yet hers proved a rich, smooth, golden cream,
and mine unsightly curd and watery whey!

The mysteriousness of natural laws was never so
borne in upon me. There is a kink in every one of
them, meant to puzzle us. In my distress, I ran across
to the back door again and consulted Dinah.

“What can be the matter, Dinah? My custard won't
come, when I've mixed everything exactly right, according

to the rules; and it's all turned to curd and
whey!”

“Land sake, missis, it's jest cause it will do so
sometimes—dat are's de reason,” said Dinah, with the
certainty of a philosopher. “Soft custard is jest de aggravatinest
thing! you don't never know when it's goin'
to be contrary and flare up agin you.”

“Well, Dinah,” said Miss Dorcas, “you try your luck
with some of our fresh morning's milk—you always have
luck—and carry it over to Mrs. Henderson.”

The dear old angel! No morning cap, however fearful,
could disguise her. I fell upon her neck and kissed
her, then and there, she was so good! She is the best
old soul, mother, and I feel proud of having discovered
her worth. I told her how I did hope some time she
would let me do something for her, and we had quite a
time, pledging our friendship to each other in the kitchen.

Well, Dinah brought over the custard, thick and
smooth, and I arranged it in my high cut-glass dish and
covered it with foamy billows of whites of egg tipped
off with sparkles of jelly, so that Dinah declared that it
looked as well “as dem perfectioners could do it;” and
she staid to take my turkey out for me at the dinner
hour; and I, remembering my past struggle and burned
fingers, was only too glad to humbly accept her services.

Dinah is not a beauty, by any of the laws of art,
but she did look beautiful to me, when I left her getting
up the turkey, and retired to wash my hot cheeks and
burning hands and make my toilette; for I was to appear
serene and smiling in a voluminous robe, and with unsullied
ribbons, like the queen of the interior, whose morning
had been passed in luxurious ease and ignorant of care.

To say the truth, dear mother, I was so tired and
worn out with the little I had done that I would much
rather have lain down for a nap than to have enacted the

part of charming hostess. Talk about women meeting
men with a smile, when they come in from the cares of
business! I reflected that, if this sort of thing went on
much longer, Harry would have to meet me with a smile,
and a good many smiles, to keep up my spirits at this end
of the lever. However, it was but for once; I summoned
my energies and was on time, nicely dressed, serene
and fresh as if nothing had happened, and we went
through our dinner without a break down, for little
Midge was a well-trained waiter and did heroically.

Only, when I came to pour the coffee after dinner, I
was astonished at its unusual appearance. Our clear,
limpid, golden coffee had always been one of our strong
points, and one on which I had often received special
compliments. People had said, “How do you contrive
to always have such coffee?” and I had accepted with a
graceful humility, declaring, as is proper in such cases,
that I was not aware of any particular merit in it, etc.

The fact is, I never had thought about coffee at all.
I had seen, as I supposed, how Mary made it, and never
doubted that mine would be like hers; so that when a
black, thick, cloudy liquid poured out of my coffee pot,
I was, I confess, appalled.

Harry, like a good fellow, took no notice, and covered
my defect by beginning an animated conversation on the
merits of the last book our gentleman had published.
The good man forgot all about his coffee in his delight
at the obliging things Harry was saying, and took off the
muddy draught with a cheerful zeal, as if it was so much
nectar.

But, on our way to the parlor, Harry contrived to
whisper,

“What has got into Mary about her coffee to-day?”

“O Harry,” I replied, “Mary's gone. I had to get
the dinner all alone.”

“You did! You wonderful little puss!” said the
good boy. “Never mind the coffee! Better luck next
time.”

And, after we were alone that night, Harry praised
and admired me, and I got out the cookery book to see
how I ought to have made my coffee.

The directions, however, were not near as much to
the point as the light I got from Dinah, who came across
on a gossiping expedition to our kitchen that evening,
and to whom I propounded the inquiry, “Why wasn't
my coffee clear and nice like Mary's?”

“Land sakes, Mis' Henderson, ye did n't put in no
fish-skin, nor nothing to clar it.”

“No. I never heard of such a thing.”

“Some uses fish-skin, and some takes an egg,” continued
Dinah. “When eggs is cheap, I takes an egg.
Don't nobody have no clarer coffee 'n mine.”

I made Dinah illustrate her theme by one practical
experiment, after the manner of chemical lecturers, and
then I was mistress of the situation. Coffee was a vanquished
realm, a subjugated province, the power whereof
was vested henceforth, not in Mary, but myself.

Since then, we have been anxiously looking for Mary
every day; for Thursday is coming round, and how are
we to have “our evening” without her? Alice and Angie
are both staying with me now to help me, and on the
whole we have pretty good times, though there isn't any
surplus of practical knowledge among us. We have all
rather plumed ourselves on being sensible domestic girls.
We can all make lovely sponge cake, and Angie excels
in chocolate caramels, and Alice had a great success in
currant jelly. But the thousand little practical points
that meet one in getting the simplest meal, nobody
knows till he tries. For instance, we fried our sausages
in butter, the first morning, to the great scandal of little

Midge, who instructed us gravely that they were made
to fry themselves.

Since “our boys” have found out that we are sole
mistresses of the kitchen, they often drop in to lighten
our labors and to profess their own culinary accomplishments.
Jim Fellows declares that nobody can equal
him in coffee, and that he can cook a steak with tomato
sauce in a manner unequaled; and Bolton professes a
perculiar skill in an omelette; so we agreed yesterday
to let them try their hand, and we had a great
frolic over the getting up of a composition dinner.
Each of us took a particular thing to be responsible
for; and so we got up a pic-nic performance, which we
ate with great jollity. Dr. Campbell came in with a glass
coffee-making machine by which coffee was to be made
on table for the amusement of the guests as well as for the
gratification of appetite; and he undertook, for his part,
to engineer it. Altogether we had a capital time, and
more fun than if we had got the dinner under the usual
auspices; and, to crown all, I got a letter from Mary that
she is coming back to-morrow,—so all's well that ends
well. Meanwhile, dear mother, though I have burned
my hands and greased the front breadth of my new winter
dress, yet I have gained something quite worth
having by the experience of the last few days.

I think I shall have more patience with the faults and
short-comings of the servants after this; and if the custard
is a failure, or the meat is burned, or the coffee
doesn't come perfectly clear, I shall remember that she is
a sister woman of like passions with myself, and perhaps
trying to do her very best when she fails, just as I was
when I failed. I am quite sure that I shall be a better
mistress for having served an apprenticeship as a maid.

So good by, dear mother.