"It is no use for broth-er's wife to teach me about silver forks and finger-bowls, about not doing this, or that, or t'other thing; can't teach an old dog new tricks. But I let her fret. I am not afraid of her now, for whenever she gets on her high horse, broth-er fetches her right off with the word "damages." I can't tell for the life of me what it means. I've seen her change right round when he whispered it, as quick as a weather-cock, and it would be all fair weather in one minute. It's curious. How do you like your new place, Alvah?"
"Places are all about alike," said Alvah, dejectedly. "See one, you see all. Damask and satin in the parlor; French bedsteads and mirrors in my lady's chamber, and broken panes of glass up in the attic; lumpy straw beds, coarse, narrow sheets, torn coverlets, and one broken table and chair, will do for the servants' room. Always fretting and fault-finding too, just as if we had heart to work, when we are treated so like dogs; worse than dogs, for young master's Bruno has a dog-house all to himself, and a nice soft bed in it; which is more than I can say. I declare it is discouraging," said Alvah. "It fetches out all the bad in me, and chokes off all the good. Mistress came down the other day and scolded because I washed myself at the kitchen sink. Well, where should I wash? There is neither bowl, pitcher, wash-stand, or towels furnished in my attic, and, after cooking over the fire all day, it isn't reason to ask any body not to wash wherever they can get a chance. It don't follow that I like dirt, because I have to do dirty work. I can't put clean clothes over a soiled skin. I feel better-natured when I am clean—better-tempered and more human like. When I first went out to live, I was conscientious like; but now, I know it is wicked, but I get ugly and discouraged, and then I don't care. I say if they treat me like a dog, I shall snatch a bone when I can get it. Mistress, now, wants breakfast at just such a time. She is too stingy to find me in proper kindling for my fire, so in course it keeps going out as fast as I light it, and henders me; and then she gets in a fury 'cause breakfast don't come up. Well, I stood it as long as I could; now I pour lamp-oil on the wood to make it kindle; that does the business. I reckon it isn't no saving to her not to buy kindling. I know it isn't right; but I get aggravated to think they don't have no bowels for us poor servants."
Mrs. Becky Saffron paid little attention to this narrative. There was more attractive metal for her on the tea-table, upon which Sally had just placed some smoking hot cakes, and a fragrant pot of tea. Mrs. Becky's great yellow black eyes rolled salaciously round in her head, and her two tusks commenced whetting themselves against each other, preparatory to a vigorous attack on the edibles.
"Green tea!" exclaimed Mrs. Becky, after the first satisfactory gulp—"not a bit of black in it—that's something like;" and untying her cap-strings, she spread her white handkerchief over her lap, and gave herself up to the gratification of her ruling passion, next to gossip. "How did you come by green tea in the kitchen?" asked the delighted Mrs. Becky.
"Oh, I laid in with the housekeeper," answered Sally; "she has dreadful low wages, and has hard work enough to get even that. I iron all her muslins, and she finds me in green tea. 'Live, and let live,' you know."
"That reminds me," minced Miss Place, who sometimes set up for a wit, "that's what I read on the side of a baker's cart the other day, 'Live, and let live;' but, unfortunately, right under it was written 'Pisin cakes!'"
About half an hour after this, Mrs. Becky choked over her sixth cup of tea; Miss Place's pun had just penetrated her obtuse intellect.