ntoxicated 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 bu