Mine house is not an old-fashioned, picturesque one; it boasts of no mullioned windows or deep embrasures. It is like hundreds of others to be found scattered over England—built after the same plan and decorated after the same fashion. It stands in a street, and is reduplicated on every hand like a cardboard expanding toy. It draws a peaked gable roof over its red brick face, and has no originality to awake attention.
In one thing only is mine house unique. Its general architecture it owes to its builder, its cupboards to a certain little old lady who lived therein for many years. Every spot has been utilised, and I rejoice in the most comfortable interior it is possible to imagine. "A place for everything and everything in its place" is a motto easily followed in this mine house.
Nowadays most matrons have wakened to the delights of a well-cupboarded "manio," or abiding-place. The first thing looked for in taking a new house is its capabilities in this direction. The long-headed woman values every recess and corner as a possible press. She knows a few shillings spent in pine-boards, hooks, curtains, and locks, can transform dust-collecting angles into dust-resisting receptacles. With a little forethought and contrivance, our carpenter can be so superintended that such work need not be made into "fixtures"—sliding grooves and panels, a few staples and screws, insure easily taken-down wardrobes, and need not strain the purse of even a frequent flitter.
The first necessary cupboard in mine house is the linen press. This should, if possible, be built over those unseemly hot-water pipes which supply the bath from our kitchen boiler. There should be graduated shelves in it—wide ones to hold sheets, narrow ones for table napkins, d'oyleys, etc. Every shelf should be neatly lined with white paper, and one at least must have linen laps to tie over our least-used napery. Plenty of lavender bags—measuring the length of the press—should be placed everywhere; not tiny satchel-like things, which rumple into corners and get mislaid, but at least a yard in length and just as wide as each shelf.
On the door should be pasted a list of the linen stored in this our press. This list varies much in each house; but I will tell you what I consider absolutely necessary only. First, there should be six Irish linen tablecloths for parlour use and three breakfast cloths; six fine table-napkins for every member of the family. For kitchen wear, three smaller coarser cloths are required, and, if you wish to inculcate habits of nicety in your maids, three napkins apiece must be provided. This allows for one in use, one at the laundry, and one in reserve. Half-a-dozen fringed tea-cloths, half-a-dozen sideboard slips, a couple of dozen oval, round, and square d'oyleys, and the embellishment of the dining-table is secured.
We next come to the sleeping rooms. In our press we must number three pair of sheets for each bed—each upper one frilled and embroidered with our monogram. These sheets may be of twilled cotton, but their accompanying fellow slips must be of linen. Linen wears better, looks better, and feels nicer than cotton. There should be six to each single bed. Cash's hem-stitched frilling gives a dainty finish to these slips, and will wear as long as the linen. Beside the bed-linen should lie chamber-towels; of these it is nice to have several dozen, with different borders, when possible, so that each room may keep to its own set. Cheap towels are most expensive in the long run; those flimsy honeycomb ones requiring incessant laundrying. Buy good huckaback, or satin diaper, and beautify them with marking initials in cross stitch. This is easily done by tacking a small square of coarse canvas into the corner and withdrawing its strands after working. Ingrain cottons of all colours can now be bought for this work; the red wears and washes best.
Our dressing-tables also claim a niche in our linen press. Three sets of covers being necessary for each.
At the very top of our press, it is well to have some very wide shelves fixed. They will be overhead, so may jut out into the room. In this cupboard—lined with brown holland, and scented with camphor balls—we shall do well to store spare blankets in the summer, down quilts when not in use, and any straw pillows. They will always be warm and ready for immediate service, as the hot-water pipes will keep them well aired.
So much about furnishing our linen press. The replenishment of it should be constant. Even when we use our dozens of towels in rotation, they will wear out, and it is necessary to keep up the stock by occasional purchases. Careful mending, too, is necessary. No pillow-slips minus buttons or tapes, no tiny hole in a tablecloth, should be seen in a well-kept linen press. When sheets wear thin, they should be split in half, sides brought to the centre, and the worn edges hemmed. When constant folding brings frays in a tablecloth, the laundress should be directed to fold them across instead of lengthways. This will double the life of our finest diaper. Towels, when ragged, can be doubled and made into bath cloths and chamber rubbers; loops of tape attached will be useful for hanging in place.
The next cupboard claiming attention in mine house is the crockery one. Here are stored cups and saucers, plenty of spare glass, water-jugs and crofts. It is well to keep in this press extra lamp-chimneys and gas-globes. Best dessert dishes, too, should be placed on the top shelf and any ornaments not in daily use.