y on to destruction. "Elizabeth," he said,
sternly, "in view of your most unrefined and unladylike language it
behooves me to reprimand you severely. I will, therefore----"

[Illustration]

Then Lizzie and the green umbrella struck a Casey-at-the-bat pose and
cut in: "G'wan away from me with your dime-novel talk or I'll place the
back of me unladylike hand on your jowls!"

"Peter!" warningly exclaimed the perturbed Aunt Martha.

"Yes, Martha; you're right," the old gentleman said, turning hastily. "I
must hurry and finish my correspondence before the morning mail goes,"
and he faded away.

"It isn't an easy matter to get servants out here," Aunt Martha
whispered to us; "I must humor her. Now, Lizzie, what's wrong?"

"You told me, Mem, that I should have a room with a southern exposure,"
said the Queen of the Bungalow.

"And isn't the room as described?" inquired Aunt Martha.

"The room is all right, but I don't care for the exposure," said the
Princess of Porkchops.

"Well, what's wrong?" insisted our patient auntie.

"Sure," said the Baroness of Bread-pudding, "the room is so exposed,
Mem, that every breeze from the North Pole just nachully hikes in there
and keeps me settin' up in bed all night shiverin' like I was shakin'
dice for the drinks. When I want that kind of exercise I'll hire out as
chambermaid in a cold-storage. I'm a cook, Mem, it's true, but I'm no
relation to Doctor Cook, and I ain't eager to sleep in a room where even
a Polar bear would be growlin' for a fur coat."

"Very well, Lizzie," said Aunt Martha, soothingly; "I'll have storm
windows put on at once and extra quilts sent to the room, and a gas
stove if you wish."

"All right, Mem," said the Countess of Cornbeef, removing the lid, "I'll
stay; but keep that husband of yours with the woozy lingo out of the
kitchen, because I'm a nervous woman--I am that!" and then the Duchess
of Devilledkidneys got a strangle-hold on her green umbrella and ducked
for the grub foundry.

Aunt Martha sighed and went in the house.

"Hep," I said; "this scene with Her Highness of Clamchowder ought to be
an awful warning to you. No man should get married these days unless
he's sure his wife can juggle the frying pan and take a fall out of an
egg-beater. They've had eight cooks in eight days, and every time a new
face comes in the kitchen the coal-scuttle screams with fright.

"You can see where they've worn a new trail across the lawn on the
retreat to