“Oh, Hilda, I forgot about Mosina! Aren’t you the bestest baby! She ought to have her milk, Hilda, and I’ll give her some while you’re fixing luncheon on the table.”
Cricket poured some of the ice-cold milk out into a bowl, and crumbled some dry bread in it.
Mosina received each mouthful with a series of solemn smacks.
“I’m ready when you are, Cricket,” announced Hilda at length, surveying the somewhat scanty board with a hungry eye.
“There goes the last mouthful, Mosina,” said Cricket, stuffing the spoon so hastily into Mosina’s open mouth that the baby choked.
“There! never mind, baby! it didn’t hurt. Now I’m ready, Hilda. Oh, just think! we’ve been so busy with washing and cooking that we’ve forgotten to play for ever so long.”
KEEPING HOUSE.
“Yes, but don’t let’s play now, for goodness sake! I’m too starving hungry! Sit down and begin.”
Cricket and Hilda drew up their chairs to the delicious banquet. On one plate lay a curious-looking heap of what Hilda called toast. It consisted of wedges of bread an inch and a half thick on one side, and nothing at all on the other, burnt crisp on the thin edges, and scorched on the thick ones, with the dust of the ashes which it had collected in its numerous descents into the fire still sticking to it. It was perfectly cold, so that the small lumps of white butter stuck to it unmelted. Two herrings, burnt perfectly black on one side, and, of course, as hard as a piece of coal, reposed side by side on a saucer. Potatoes cut in little chunks, each very black as to one side and very white as to the other, were heaped up on another saucer. These dainties comprised all the meal.