h, you good-for-nothing slut!” cried the house-wife, as she this time filled the pan herself. “You would ruin the richest, with your careless ways; there’s a whole quart of good milk spoilt at once.” “And that’s twopence,” cried a voice from the chimney, a queer whining voice like some old body who was always grumbling over something.
The house-wife had not left the saucepan for two minutes when the milk boiled over, and it was all burnt and smoked as before. “The pan must be dirty,” cried the house-wife in a rage; “and there are two full quarts of milk as good as thrown to the dogs.” “And that’s fourpence,” said the voice in the chimney.
After a long scrubbing the saucepan was once more filled and set on the fire, but it was not the least use, the milk was burnt and smoked again, and the house-wife burst into tears at the waste, crying out, “Never before did such a thing happen to me since I kept house! Three quarts of milk burnt for one meal!” “And that’s sixpence,” cried the voice from the chimney. “You didn’t save the tinker after all,” with which the hill-man himself came tumbling down the chimney, and went off laughing through the door. But from that time the saucepan was as good as any other.
Juliana Horatia Ewing.
