nything we please,
so I think it is no wonder that we like it, though it be, in point of
fact, a kitchen. We cover the table, and (commonly) part of the floor,
with an amount of books, papers, and belongings of various sorts, such
as we should scruple to deluge the drawing-room with. The fire crackles
and blazes, so that we do not mind the wind, though there are no blinds
to the kitchen, and if we do not "cotter" the shutters, we look out upon
the black night, and the tall Scotch pine that has been tossed so wildly
for so many years, and is not torn down yet.

Keziah the cook takes much pride in this same kitchen, which partly
accounts for its being in a state so suitable to our use. She "stones"
the floor with excruciating regularity. (At least, some people hate the
scraping sound. I do not mind it myself.) She "pot-moulds" the hearth in
fantastic patterns; the chests, the old chairs, the settle, the dresser,
the clock and the corner cupboards are so many mirrors from constant
polishing. She says, with justice, that "a body might eat his dinner off
anything in the place."

We dine early, and the cooking for the late supper is performed in what
we call "the second kitchen," beyond this. I believe that what is now
the Vicarage was originally an old farmhouse, of which this same
charming kitchen was the chief "living-room." It is quite a journey,
through long, low passages, to get from the modern part of the house to
this.

One year, when the "languages fad" was strong upon us, Eleanor and I
earned many a backache by carrying the huge volumes of the _Della
Crusca_ Italian dictionary from the dining-room shelves to the kitchen.
We piled them on the oak chest for reference, and ran backwards and
forwards to them from the table where we sat and beat our brains over
the "Divina Commedia," while the wind growled in the tall old box-trees
without, and the dogs growled in dreams upon the hearth.

It is by this well-scrubbed table, in this kitchen, that our biographies
are to be written. They cannot be penned under the noses of the boys.

Eleanor finds rocking a help to composition, and she is swinging
backwards and forwards in the glossy old rocking-chair, with a pen
between her lips, and a vacant gaze in her eyes, that becomes almost a
look of inspiration when the swing of the chair turns her face towards
the ceiling. For my own part I find that I can meet the crisis of a
train of ideas best upon my feet, so I pace up and