One night our little daughter was disturbed by plaster falling on her face as she lay in bed. A glance at the ceiling revealed the cause. The stalwart foot and leg of the cook protruded from it! In going to dip her pitcher into the tank she had unwarily deviated from the narrow pathway which led to it, putting her foot through the unprotected lath and plaster! Perhaps the most singular Irish bull was that of the functionary who had been directed to make the sandwiches “half jelly and half mutton.” When we were well started on our travels we tasted the luncheon. It was horribly queer. Suddenly the truth flashed upon me! The literal-minded cook had combined these warring materials in every sandwich! The mistress made some mistakes as well as the cook. Seeing a material of the color of the gingerbread often made in New England, I unhesitatingly mixed it with the batter. When the supposititious gingerbread came on the table it was very heavy and quite uneatable. Something must have been wrong with the oven! The next time I began to make gingerbread the cook caught my hand. “Oh, Mrs. Hall! Don’t put that in! _That’s mustard._” My family were mercilessly merry over this mistake. I described the misadventure in _Demorest’s Magazine_, receiving five dollars for the article. Thus every time any one poked fun at me about the mustard gingerbread I countered with the five dollars! Better still, by persistent efforts I learned—from Marion Harland’s excellent receipt-book—to make gingerbread that appeared seraphic to my children. When my husband once heartlessly observed that our sons could never twit their wives with mother’s cooking, a chorus went around the table, “Oh, but Mamma makes such lovely gingerbread!” And so I was honorably avenged. Fortunately we had a tower of strength in the children’s faithful nurse, Mary Thompson. When cooks periodically failed us she valiantly walked into the kitchen and did their work, as well as her own. It must be confessed that Mary did not get along very well with the various cooks. She was greatly their superior in intelligence and character, as she well knew. Hence she did not always take enough pains to be agreeable to the reigning queen of the kitchen. One woman complained to me of this. “There we sit at table like two dumb _brutes_!” she indignantly remarked. In spite of all the troubles and trials of suburban life my husband and I greatly enjoyed having a house of our own. I was very anxious that my old friend, Sister Constance, should visit us during her summer vacation. She was at this time established at the head of a branch sisterhood in Memphis, Tennessee. Her parents had unavailingly remonstrated with the authorities over this change of domicile, for a Southern climate did not agree with her.