oup! With all our ceiled houses, let us not forget our grandmothers'
kitchens!

But we must pull up, however, and back to our subject-matter, which is
in the kitchen of Mrs. Katy Scudder, who has just put into the oven, by
the fireplace, some wondrous tea-rusks, for whose composition she is
renowned. She has examined and pronounced perfect a loaf of cake, which
has been prepared for the occasion, and which, as usual, is done exactly
right. The best room, too, has been opened and aired,--the white
window-curtains saluted with a friendly little shake, as when one says,
"How d'ye do?" to a friend;--for you must know, clean as our kitchen is,
we are genteel, and have something better for company. Our best room in
here has a polished little mahogany tea-table, and six mahogany chairs,
with claw talons grasping balls; the white sanded floor is crinkled in
curious little waves, like those on the sea-beach; and right across the
corner stands the "buffet," as it is called, with its transparent glass
doors, wherein are displayed the solemn appurtenances of company
tea-table. There you may see a set of real China teacups, which George
bought in Canton, and had marked with his and his wife's joint
initials,--a small silver cream-pitcher, which has come down as an
heirloom from unknown generations,--silver spoons and delicate China
cake-plates, which have been all carefully reviewed and wiped on napkins
of Mrs. Scudder's own weaving.

Her cares now over, she stands drying her hands on a roller-towel in the
kitchen, while her only daughter, the gentle Mary, stands in the doorway
with the afternoon sun streaming in spots of flickering golden light on
her smooth pale-brown hair,--a _petite_ figure in a full stuff petticoat
and white short gown, she stands reaching up one hand and cooing to
something among the apple-blossoms,--and now a Java dove comes whirring
down and settles on her finger,--and we, that have seen pictures, think,
as we look on her girlish face, with its lines of statuesque beauty, on
the tremulous, half-infantine expression of her lovely mouth, and the
general air of simplicity and purity, of some old pictures of the
girlhood of the Virgin. But Mrs. Scudder was thinking of no such Popish
matter, I can assure you,--not she! I don't think you could have done
her a greater indignity than to mention her daughter in any such
connection. She had never seen a painting in her life, and therefore was
not to be reminded of th