Positively, nothing was to be done with the woman, I was convinced. She was naturally so thick-headed, that there was no making the least impression upon her; and really I do think one might just as well have tried to drill wisdom into a barber’s block as to have made her understand even the most every-day things imaginable. If a body, without thinking of it, used a word or a phrase with two meanings to it, and one was the right and the other the wrong, of course the bright genius would go and puzzle her brains till she found out the wrong one. And the worst of it was, she never would come and ask, or one wouldn’t have minded, so that I do think, as long as she was in the house, not one day went over our heads without some dreadful blunder or other being committed by the ninny. Now, for instance, Mr. Edward had been saying, in his nasty mean way, as he never had a pudding or a pie for dinner, he supposed ribbon had got so dear the housekeeping couldn’t afford pastry; so I thought I would put a stop to his shabby satire, and let him have a nice “dog in a blanket,” as a treat for dinner one day--especially as he’s very partial to it; and, certainly, if it’s made with a nice thin crust, and plenty of good strawberry--or even I don’t mind if it’s raspberry--jam, I do think it is as nice a dish as can well be put upon table--only the worst of it is, one’s apt to eat too much of it; and, I don’t know whether my fair readers find it so with them or not, but to me it’s rather indigestible, or, I must say, I should let dear Edward have it oftener. Accordingly, as, of course, I fancied _that_ silly Emma of mine, blockhead as she is, couldn’t well go making any mistake with so simple a dish as a “roley-poley pudding,” and I didn’t feel much in the humour to go messing with flour in that hot kitchen, I had the girl up, and to guard against mistakes, I asked her whether she knew what a dog in a blanket was? Of course the wiseacre did; anybody, she fancied, would know what a dog in a blanket was. “Well, then,” said I, “do you think you could manage one for me?” “Oh! yes, certainly, mum,” answered Miss Clever; “I used to have to do one every night at my last missus’s.” “Very well, then,” I replied, though I really can’t tell how I could ever have been so stupid as to have fancied that any woman--however partial she might be to roley-poleys--could have managed to eat one of the heavy things every night of her life before going to bed--“here’s some strawberry jam for you, and, for heaven’s sake, don’t spare it, but take care and spread it at least an inch thick upon your crust, or else it’s not worth eating!”