Hon. Furnace seem more depressed that afternoon p. m., so I sit beside him to shovel nourishment. Hon. Steam Gag say 14, which are very sick temperature. Hon. Furnace look dull-eye like fish, and more I coaled him the less he het. I feed him slight soap-box for light foods, and by 4:11 he smile more pleasanter and commence eating coal. At 5:12 Hon. Steam Gag awoke up to taxicab work. Thusly I left him and go to kitchen for make food for rest of family. But my soul would not get into that kitchen work, Mr. Editor. It were similar to a janitor attempting to be a chef. It might be done, but can it? I almost nearly put shovelful of coal in apple-pie, I was thinking so hard about what would tempt appetite of furnaces. Howeverly, I finished fashionable foods for that Humburg family to eat, to include considerable potatus and canned corn. Hon. Mrs. who went to Trenton for slight shop-buy, arrive back at 6:34 attached to her Husband. I observe that gentleman through door-hinge and notice his dishagreeable Wall Street appearance. He look entirely bear-market. First thing he do when approaching inside was to sneeze while walking to Hon. Radiator and touching him with diamond fingers. “Huh!” This from him. “Have you employed Hon. Doc Cook for janitor?” “Why so?” This from Hon. Mrs. “Because he makes North Poles wherever he goes,” snig Hon. Mr. I could not assimilate this compliment which might be otherwise. I brought in dinner-food on tray and set him to table. When Hon. Mr. took chair he looked to me with serious eyesight. “That are nice-looking niggero boy you employ,” he snuggest to Hon. Mrs. “He are not niggero,” she devolve. “He got that complexion from being attentive to furnace.” “Oh,” he snagger. “If he would put more coal in Hon. Furnace and less on that face, perhapsly I should feel less iced.” I could not chide that denaturized man, yet I thought so. After dinner-eat he approach to kitchen and say: “Togo,” he say with doggish voice, “furnaces are made for heats. Otherwisely we would use ice-boxes, which is just as handsome. Any cook who cannot feed my furnace should be banished for cruelty.” “I understand this knowledge,” I report chivalrously. “Did you permit Hon. Furnace to go out?” “Ah, no, not I did!” This I say. “I watch him entire day and give you my truthful insurance he did not leave that cellar.” “Tonight you must compel him to heat, no matter how desperado you act,” he snarrel, departing off with bang-slam. At hearing such adjectives, angry rages filled my hair with scorn. What is so ungrateful as ingratitude? Nothing!! Had I not sat by sick-bed of Hon. Furnace, feeding him what stumach would hold? Yes! And yet this crude gentleman reproach my firemanship with coolness. Nextly I become determined. I would compel that heater to a hotter thermometer if I cooked my soul doing so, I declare!