ar-heard whistle is doomed for evermore to deluge my soul
in a 'sea of soft-blue memories.'

Our carpets are of matting and oil-cloth, islanded here and there with a
choice bit of rug. My little kitchen is exultant in shining tins, a
glittering 'Hotspur,' patented 1860, and a capacious cupboard, through
the glass doors of which shines forth a complete set of 'Ironstone.' On
Mondays a little Bohemian--with surprising strength in her diminutive
person--comes, and out from the fury of suds and steam issues a line of
snowy, flapping clothes. She receives her 'tri shealing' and trots home.
Aside from washing, I am addicted to that unpoetical, homely, dry, and
utterly plebeian practice of doing my own work. Think you I could endure
to have a poetic mood burst in upon by a red-faced girl, smelling of
dish-water, exclaiming, '_The tay's out_'? Besides, I never was born to,
had thrust upon me, or achieved, any surplus amount of 'greatness,'
consequently my laurels will not suffer from being in contact with
sauce-pans and toasting-forks. (But fancy the idea of Mrs. Browning
a-frying _flapjacks_!) I have lived for the most part in the country,
you know, and at the old home I was applauded on by an appreciative
mamma to rare feats in this department of humble life. I combine the
artist with the cook--the ideal with the material. I consult color and
the nice shades of taste. Indeed, I make cooking and furniture-arranging
an art. The emerald lettuce I mingle with the ruby radish; the carefully
browned trout I surround with a wall of snowy and hot potatoes; the
roseate shavings of beef and ham flank the golden butter, which is
stamped in a very superior manner, I may say, with the American Eagle;
the amber honey sides with the royal purple of grape-jelly; and the
creamy biscuit contrasts with the deep chrome of the sponge-cake beside
it, etc., etc. Of various pastries and _entrees_--of which I alone hold
the original recipes--I will not speak. Suffice to say, that it may be
of interest to some housekeepers to send me a prepaid envelope!

Should you go Minnehahaing this summer, I shall hope that you may fail
to make connections with the St. Paul Packet Company, so that while
waiting a boat you may find it convenient to immortalize 'The Hermitage'
by breaking fast beneath its humble roof.

Hermetically thine,
MARIE.

We would that we could. Alas! there is very little 'ha-ha-ing' of any
kind this serious 'battle-summer'--least of