e stomach is the
real seat of happiness in this world. The kitchen is the chief temple
wherein we worship, its roaring fire is our vestal flame, and the cook
is our great high-priest. He is a mighty magician and a kindly one. He
soothes away all sorrow and care. He drives forth all enmity, gladdens
all love. Our God is great and the cook is his prophet. Let us eat,
drink, and be merry.

ON FURNISHED APARTMENTS.

"Oh, you have some rooms to let."

"Mother!"

"Well, what is it?"

"'Ere's a gentleman about the rooms."

"Ask 'im in. I'll be up in a minute."

"Will yer step inside, sir? Mother'll be up in a minute."

So you step inside and after a minute "mother" comes slowly up the
kitchen stairs, untying her apron as she comes and calling down
instructions to some one below about the potatoes.

"Good-morning, sir," says "mother," with a washed-out smile. "Will you
step this way, please?"

"Oh, it's hardly worth while my coming up," you say. "What sort of rooms
are they, and how much?"

"Well," says the landlady, "if you'll step upstairs I'll show them to
you."

So with a protesting murmur, meant to imply that any waste of time
complained of hereafter must not be laid to your charge, you follow
"mother" upstairs.

At the first landing you run up against a pail and a broom, whereupon
"mother" expatiates upon the unreliability of servant-girls, and bawls
over the balusters for Sarah to come and take them away at once. When
you get outside the rooms she pauses, with her hand upon the door, to
explain to you that they are rather untidy just at present, as the
last lodger left only yesterday; and she also adds that this is their
cleaning-day--it always is. With this understanding you enter, and both
stand solemnly feasting your eyes upon the scene before you. The rooms
cannot be said to appear inviting. Even "mother's" face betrays no
admiration. Untenanted "furnished apartments" viewed in the morning
sunlight do not inspire cheery sensations. There is a lifeless air about
them. It is a very different thing when you have settled down and are
living in them. With your old familiar household gods to greet your gaze
whenever you glance up, and all your little knick-knacks spread around
you--with the photos of all the girls that you have loved and lost
ranged upon the mantel-piece, and half a dozen disreputable-looking
pipes scattered about in painfully prominent positions--with one carpet
slipper peeping fr