He had turned from his desk to talk with me and, while talking, looked ruefully at an inky forefinger.
“I should keep some pumice stone, or acetic acid, or acetate of soda, or ammonia, here to remove ink-stains,” he said. “I always spill ink in filling my fountain pen.”
A box of matches was in a pigeonhole; a wet sponge, used for stamping and sealing letters, was close to the disfigured hand. I bade him wet the match and rub it upon the stain until it disappeared—the work of a minute. The sulphur in the ever-convenient match acted upon the black spots without blackening the skin, whereas any one of the four detersives he had mentioned would have left a hard, disagreeable sensation upon the cuticle. He was all right as to the principles. The one driblet of practical wisdom was for the moment worth them all.
A bright young woman whom I am glad to know, has written a little book entitled, “First Aid to the Young Housekeeper.” It includes scores of things which everybody ought to know, and which everybody else, especially the writer of household manuals, takes it for granted that the housewife does know. It is intelligent attention to this very matter of detail that constitutes the “finish” of work of whatever kind. One of the “Sunday books” of my childhood was a series called “The Week,” a story of English cottage life. I can recall many sentences and the whole story in substance. One remark was to this effect: “Mary was a good housekeeper; Nanny an indifferent. Nanny’s hearth was free of ashes and cinders, but dusty in the corners. Mary’s was not only swept, but pipe-clayed. Mary’s kettle was bright and black; Nanny’s clean, but brown and dull.”
That is, Nanny had mastered general principles; Mary looked to details.
I read last week in a woman’s corner of a daily paper a letter from a grateful housewife whose hall carpet had been deluged by the kerosene from a broken lamp. By the advice of a visitor she promptly covered the great spot with dry oatmeal. When this was swept off in the morning not a trace of the oil remained.
“My husband explains this by saying that the oatmeal is at once an alkali and an absorbent,” she writes. “I pass the useful knowledge on.”
A careless servant knocked a lamp from the table in the bedroom of my summer cottage and the matting got a full quart of the best kerosene. I had the floating oil wiped up with a clean, soft cloth, opened the windows, shut the door, and let no one enter the room for twelve hours. Not a trace of grease remained at the end of that time. The volatile oil had effaced itself. The alkaline absorbent was not needed.
“We are all fond of cauliflower; my husband and sons like young onions in the season,” said the mistress of a big house. “We can not have either of these vegetables cooked on account of the odor. It fills the house from cellar to attic.”
A housewife who lives in a tiny city flat has both of these dishes whenever she likes. The vegetables are put over the fire in cold water; a little salt is thrown in, and the pot is left uncovered. If these rules be strictly obeyed, the rising odor during cooking will be scarcely perceptible.