"I'll sicken her of the Chinese," she added: "I'll bring one into the kitchen to cook; then perhaps she'll feel more compunction about acknowledging that she is part Celestial. She actually seems as if she were proud of the fact now."
Grandmother remonstrated, but my aunt replied: "I have always been wanting to try a Chinese cook; they are really the world's cooks and so careful and clean, it is said. Then I would like to give Pearl enough of it. She will not be so fond of claiming kinship with the cook."
The result of all this was that inside of twenty-four hours a Chinaman was installed in the kitchen—and the biscuits are perfect.
His name is Yee Yick; of course he has three names, all Chinamen have; but trying to become Americanised they use only two in this country.
My aunt has decided that it is sufficient to call him Yick. "The English call their servants by their surnames," was all the explanation she made.
Yick is a dude; he has a suit for almost every day in the week, and is very vain of his appearance. His queue is rolled up around his head, which is a sign that he has not yet abandoned his home gods. He is very anxious to learn English, and Betty tells me that he has a slate hanging up in the kitchen on which he is writing English words every spare moment.
I had watched Yick a good deal, but I never exchanged a word with him, until the event occurred about which I am going to write; and I know he never dreamed that I could speak his language. Poor Yick! if he is "chief cook and bottle-washer," as my aunt says, he is my countryman, and I cannot help taking an interest in him.
One day I walked to the end of the veranda which runs the whole length of the house, and glancing in through the kitchen window as I passed, I saw Yick making his tea-biscuits. He had the flour and shortening all mixed, and raising the bowl of milk which was on the table, he took a great mouthful, and then began to force it out in a heavy spray through his teeth into the dish of prepared flour, in the same manner as the Chinese laundryman sprinkles clothes.
I wrung my hands, and cried within myself, "Oh, Yick, you terrible man! You horrible little pigtail!"