est wrought schemes. Always it was the oven's
fault that the snowy bun appeared to have been made of red sandstone,
the macaroni cheese of Cambrian clay. One might have sympathised with
him more had his language been more restrained. As it was, the virulence
of his reproaches almost inclined one to take the part of the oven.

Concerning our house-maid, I can speak in terms of unqualified praise.
There are, alas, fussy house-maids--who has not known and suffered
them?--who overdo the thing, have no repose, no instinct telling
them when to ease up and let the place alone. I have always held the
perpetual stirring up of dust a scientific error; left to itself, it is
harmless, may even be regarded as a delicate domestic bloom, bestowing
a touch of homeliness upon objects that without it gleam cold and
unsympathetic. Let sleeping dogs lie. Why be continually waking up the
stuff, filling the air with all manner of unhealthy germs? Nature in her
infinite wisdom has ordained that upon table, floor, or picture frame it
shall sink and settle. There it remains, quiet and inoffensive; there it
will continue to remain so long as nobody interferes with it: why worry
it? So also with crumbs, odd bits of string, particles of egg-shell,
stumps of matches, ends of cigarettes: what fitter place for such than
under the nearest mat? To sweep them up is tiresome work. They cling to
the carpet, you get cross with them, curse them for their obstinacy,
and feel ashamed of yourself for your childishness. For every one you
do persuade into the dust-pan, two jump out again. You lose your temper,
feel bitter towards the man that dropped them. Your whole character
becomes deteriorated. Under the mat they are always willing to go.
Compromise is true statesmanship. There will come a day when you will
be glad of an excuse for not doing something else that you ought to
be doing. Then you can take up the mats and feel quite industrious,
contemplating the amount of work that really must be done--some time or
another.

To differentiate between the essential and the non-essential, that
is where woman fails. In the name of common sense, what is the use of
washing a cup that half an hour later is going to be made dirty again?
If the cat be willing and able to so clean a plate that not one speck of
grease remain upon it, why deprive her of pleasure to inflict toil upon
yourself? If a bed looks made and feels made, then for all practical
purposes it is made; w