as pretty.

The tongue was sliced evenly, and arranged on a plate with tender leaves
of lettuce around its edge.

The biscuits I made myself. Mother taught me how. First I took a quart
of flour, and dropped into it two teaspoonfuls of our favorite
baking-powder. This I sifted twice, so that the powder and flour were
thoroughly blended. Mother says that cakes and biscuits and all kinds of
pastry are nicer and lighter if the flour is sifted twice, or even three
times. I added now a tablespoonful of lard and a half teaspoonful of
salt, and mixed the biscuit with milk. The rule is to handle as little
as possible, and have the dough very soft. Roll into a mass an inch
thick, and cut the little cakes apart with a tin biscuit-cutter. They
must be baked in a very hot oven.

No little housekeeper need expect to have perfect biscuits the first
time she makes them. It is very much like playing the piano. One needs
practice. But after she has followed this receipt a half dozen times,
she will know exactly how much milk she will require for her dough, and
she will have no difficulty in handling the soft mass. A dust of flour
over the hands will prevent it from sticking to them.

Mother always insists that a good cook should get all her materials
together before she begins her work.

The way is to think in the first place of every ingredient and utensil
needed, then to set the sugar, flour, spice, salt, lard, butter, milk,
eggs, cream, molasses, flavoring, sieves, spoons, egg-beaters, cups,
strainers, rolling-pins, and pans, in a convenient spot, so that you do
not have to stop at some important step in the process, while you go to
hunt for a necessary thing which has disappeared or been forgotten.

Mother has often told me of a funny time she had when she was quite a
young housekeeper, afflicted with a borrowing neighbor. This lady seldom
had anything of her own at hand when it was wanted, so she depended upon
the obliging disposition of her friends.

One day my mother put on her large housekeeping apron and stepped
across the yard to her outdoor kitchen. The kitchens in Kentucky were
never a part of the house, but always at a little distance from it, in a
separate building.

"Aunt Phyllis," said my mother to the cook, who was browning coffee
grains in a skillet over the fire, "I thought I told you that I was
coming here to make pound cake and cream pies this morning. Why is
nothing ready?"

"La, me, Miss Emmeline!" repli