When the fig growns on the thistle, And the silk purse on the sow; When one swallow brings the summer, And blue moons on her brow!!!!! Then we may look for strength and skill, Experience, good health, good will, Art and science well combined, Honest soul and able mind, Servants built upon this plan, One to wait on every man, Patiently from youth to age,-- For less than a street cleaner's wage! When the parson's gay on Mondays, When we meet a month of Sundays, We may look for them and find them-- But Not Now! When young Mrs. Weatherstone swept her trailing crepe from the automobile to her friend's door, it was opened by a quick, soft-footed maid with a pleasant face, who showed her into a parlor, not only cool and flower-lit, but having that fresh smell that tells of new-washed floors. Mrs. Porne came flying down to meet her, with such a look of rest and comfort as roused instant notice. “Why, Belle! I haven't seen you look so bright in ever so long. It must be the new maid!” “That's it--she's 'Bell' too--'Miss Bell' if you please!” The visitor looked puzzled. “Is she a--a friend?” she ventured, not sure of her ground. “I should say she was! A friend in need! Sit here by the window, Viva--and I'll tell you all about it--as far as it goes.” She gaily recounted her climax of confusion and weariness, and the sudden appearance of this ministering angel. “She arrived at about quarter of ten. I engaged her inside of five minutes. She was into a gingham gown and at work by ten o'clock!” “What promptness! And I suppose there was plenty to do!” Mrs. Porne laughed unblushingly. “There was enough for ten women it seemed to me! Let's see--it's about five now--seven hours. We have nine rooms, besides the halls and stairs, and my shop. She hasn't touched that yet. But the house is clean--_clean_! Smell it!” She took her guest out into the hall, through the library and dining-room, upstairs where the pleasant bedrooms stretched open and orderly. “She said that if I didn't mind she'd give it a superficial general cleaning today and be more thorough later!” Mrs. Weatherstone looked about her with a rather languid interest. “I'm very glad for you, Belle, dear--but--what an endless nuisance it all is--don't you think so?” “Nuisance! It's slow death! to me at least,” Mrs. Porne answered. “But I don't see why you should mind. I thought Madam Weatherstone ran that--palace, of yours, and you didn't have any trouble at all.” “Oh yes, she runs it. I couldn't get along with her at all if she didn't. That's her life. It was my mother's too. Always fussing and fussing. Their houses on their backs--like snails!” “Don't see why, with ten (or is it fifteen?) servants.” “Its twenty, I think. But my dear Belle, if you imagine that when you have twenty servants you have neither work nor care--come and try it awhile, that's all!”