"There," said Mother Hubbard, taking off her spectacles; "now I can cook."
Could she?
"Little folks we is to keep house—isn't we?" buzzed the little torment that was left behind. "Hush! don't you talk, Prudy. When you shake the table, then I make blots with my pastry."
Prudy said nothing, but thoughtfully tasted the cake again. How could she tell whether she had left out the soda?
"Are you blind of your ears, Prudy, Can't you hear nuffin what I say? Rag's come off the stick. Please to tie it on. And I want to eat some o' that dough."
Mother Hubbard did her blundering best; but ill luck seemed to pursue the cooking.
"Needn't call that book the 'Young Housekeeper's Friend.' It's an enemy, a real bitter enemy," cried she, in great excitement. "Wood is hotter than coal, too. Mrs. Fixfax must have given it to me to plague me. How it does burn things up! I hope beefsteak is cheap. I won't ask anybody to eat this, all covered with ashes. I'll never try to broil any again on top of a stick of wood! I won't try that 'steamboat pudding.' Sounds as if 'twould burn, and I know it would. Let 'em go without pudding."
After the most tiresome afternoon she had ever spent in her life, Mother Hubbard went down with Fly, whom she dared not leave by herself, to call her boarders to dinner.