nt of the marvellous workings which pertain to the organ of
"faculty," on which we have before insisted. The kitchen of a New
England matron was her throne-room, her pride; it was the habit of her
life to produce the greatest possible results there with the slightest
possible discomposure; and what any woman could do, Mrs. Katy Scudder
could do _par excellence_. Everything there seemed to be always done and
never doing. Washing and baking, those formidable disturbers of the
composure of families, were all over with in those two or three
morning-hours when we are composing ourselves for a last nap,--and only
the fluttering of linen over the green yard, on Monday mornings,
proclaimed that the dreaded solemnity of a wash had transpired. A
breakfast arose there as by magic; and in an incredibly short space
after, every knife, fork, spoon, and trencher, clean and shining, was
looking as innocent and unconscious in its place as if it never had been
used and never expected to be.

The floor,--perhaps, Sir, you remember your grandmother's floor, of
snowy boards sanded with whitest sand; you remember the ancient
fireplace stretching quite across one end,--a vast cavern, in each
corner of which a cozy seat might be found, distant enough to enjoy the
crackle of the great jolly wood-fire; across the room ran a dresser, on
which was displayed great store of shining pewter dishes and plates,
which always shone with the same mysterious brightness; and by the side
of the fire, a commodious wooden "settee," or settle, offered repose to
people too little accustomed to luxury to ask for a cushion. Oh, that
kitchen of the olden times, the old, clean, roomy New England
kitchen!--who that has breakfasted, dined, and supped in one has not
cheery visions of its thrift, its warmth, its coolness? The noon-mark on
its floor was a dial that told of some of the happiest days; thereby did
we right up the shortcomings of the solemn old clock that tick-tacked in
the corner, and whose ticks seemed mysterious prophecies of unknown good
yet to arise out of the hours of life. How dreamy the winter twilight
came in there,--as yet the candles were not lighted,--when the crickets
chirped around the dark stone hearth, and shifting tongues of flame
flickered and cast dancing shadows and elfish lights on the walls, while
grandmother nodded over her knitting-work, and puss purred, and old
Rover lay dreamily opening now one eye and then the other on the family
gr