THE PICKED-UP DINNER.
IT was "washing day;" that day of all days in the week most dreaded by housekeepers. We had a poor breakfast, of course. Cook had to help with the washing, and, as washing was the important thing for the day, every thing else was doomed to suffer. The wash kettle was to her of greater moment than the tea kettle or coffee pot; and the boiling of wash water first in consideration, compared with broiling the steak.
The breakfast bell rung nearly half an hour later than usual. As I entered the dining room, I saw that nearly every thing was in disorder, and that the table was little over half set. Scarcely had I taken my seat, ere the bell was in my hand.
"There's no sugar on the table, Kitty."
These were my words, as the girl entered, in obedience to my summons.
"Oh, I forgot!" she ejaculated, and hurriedly supplied the deficiency.
Ting-a-ling-a-ling, went my bell, ere she had reached the kitchen.
"There's no knife and fork for the steak," said I, as Kitty re-appeared.
The knife and fork were furnished, but not with a very amiable grace.
"What's the matter with this coffee?" asked Mr. Smith, after sipping a spoonful or two. "It's got a queer taste."