Having eaten these two meals with the family, it is as well to let the younglings have their simple tea by themselves before the family dinner. A dish of soft toast, or a bowl of bread and milk, or of crackers and milk, or of rice and milk, and bread and butter, are usually all they ought to have so soon before their bedtime. They may have a side table set in the dining-room, or a tray may be carried to them in the nursery, and the repast superintended by the mother or nurse. Sometimes papa will come home in time to look in upon his little folks at their final meal, and to help them to settle it afterwards by a romp. Knowing no other mode of life, the children will rarely think of questioning the judgment that sends them to bed early after their light supper, instead of permitting them to sit up to a late, heavy, and indigestible course dinner.
THE FAMILY TEA
A PLEASANT feature of domestic life which is done away with by the late dinner is the family tea. This meal, always an informal one, used to give play to the housekeeper's fancy in the concoction of dainty dishes with which to render the repast more appetizing to the tired and hungry master of the home. Now, to be sure, she has lunches upon which to expend her culinary ingenuity; but then the person for whom she best loves to cater, her husband, is rarely at home.
In some families it is the custom to have tea one night in the week. It may be on Saturday, when there is no school and the children can all be at home to an early dinner, or on Sunday, when many people dine in the middle of the day. Still other households prefer a noon dinner and a simple tea in summer, pleading the advantage of getting the heavy cookery out of the way in the morning, instead of being obliged to stand over a cook-stove through the long blazing afternoon.
In one way or another, then, there are few families where the tea-table is not spread at least once a week, while in many homes it is a daily institution. It only ceases to be delightful when it is, through carelessness, allowed to slip into a groove, and when the suggestion of making it attractive is put aside with the excuse, "Oh, anything will do for tea!"
Some years ago a party of city people spent a charming summer in a farm-house high up among the Berkshire hills. The accommodations of the roomy old-fashioned dwelling were good, the breakfasts and dinners excellent, well cooked, and liberal in provision. But the teas! Night after night the guests gathered about a tea-table adorned with plates of cold bread, of butter, and of cake, pitchers of milk, and occasionally a dish of berries or of stewed fruit. Tea there was, as a matter of course, but never a bit of meat or fish, or an egg in any form, boiled, poached, or in an omelet; not even a pat of pot-cheese or a few slices of dairy cheese. Warm biscuit, muffins, and waffles were likewise conspicuous by their absence.
It was all very well for those who ate bread and milk and were fond of cake, but for a party of ravenous young people, who had spent a long afternoon playing tennis, fishing or driving, or tramping over the hills in the hunger-provoking air, the sight of the table was not inspiriting; nor did it become more popular as the season advanced and the early frosty evenings improved appetites that had never been poor. Yet, in spite of loudly expressed hints, it never seemed to occur to the farmer's good wife that her tea-table was not supplied with every viand the most exacting eater could desire.