voices and clattering spoons attracted him to the kitchen. There he
found Polly giving Maud lessons in cookery; for the “new help”
not being a high-priced article, could not be depended on for
desserts, and Mrs. Shaw would have felt as if the wolf was at the
door if there was not “a sweet dish” at dinner. Maud had a genius
for cooking, and Fanny hated it, so that little person was in her
glory, studying receipt books, and taking lessons whenever Polly
could give them.
“Gracious me, Tom, don’t come now; we are awful busy! Men
don’t belong in kitchens,” cried Maud, as her brother appeared in
the doorway.
“Could n’t think what you were about. Mum is asleep, and Fan out,
so I loafed down to see if there was any fun afoot,” said Tom,
lingering, as if the prospect was agreeable. He was a social fellow,
and very grateful just then to any one who helped him to forget his
worries for a time. Polly knew this, felt that his society would not
be a great affliction to herself at least, and whispering to Maud,
“He won’t know,” she added, aloud, “Come in if you like, and stir
this cake for me; it needs a strong hand, and mine are tired. There,
put on that apron to keep you tidy, sit here, and take it easy.”
“I used to help grandma bat up cake, and rather liked it, if I
remember right,” said Tom, letting Polly tie a checked apron on
him, put a big bowl into his hands, and settle him near the table,
where Maud was picking raisins, and she herself stirring busily
about among spice-boxes, rolling-pins, and butter-pots.
“You do it beautifully, Tom. I ‘ll give you a conundrum to lighten
your labor: Why are bad boys like cake?” asked Polly, anxious to
cheer him up.
“Because a good beating makes them better. I doubt that myself,
though,” answered Tom, nearly knocking the bottom of the bowl
out with his energetic demonstrations, for it really was a relief to
do something.
“Bright boy! here ‘s a plum for you,” and Polly threw a plump
raisin into his mouth.
“Put in lots, won’t you? I ‘m rather fond of plum-cake,” observed
Tom, likening himself to Hercules with the distaff, and finding his
employment pleasant, if not classical.
“I always do, if I can; there ‘s nothing I like better than to shovel in
sugar and spice, and make nice, plummy cake for people. It ‘s one
of the few things I have a gift for.”
“You ‘ve hit it this time, Polly; you certainly have a gift for putting
a good deal of both articles into your own and other people’s lives,
which is lucky, as, we all have to eat that sort of cake, whether we
like it or not,” observed Tom, so soberly that Polly opened her
eyes, and Maud exclaimed, “I do believe he ‘s preaching.”
“Feel as if I could sometimes,” continued Tom; then his eye fell
upon the dimples in Polly’s elbows, and he added, with a laugh,
“That ‘s more in your line, ma’am; can’t you give us a sermon?”
“A short one. Life, my brethren, is like plum-cake,” began Polly,
impressively folding her floury hands. “In some the plums are all
on the top, and we eat them gayly, till we suddenly find they are
gone. In others the plums sink to the bottom, and we look for them
in vain as we go on, and often come to them when it is too late to
enjoy them. But in the well-made cake, the plums are wisely
scattered all through, and every mouthful is a pleasure. We make
our own cakes, in a great measure, therefore let us look to it, my
brethren, that they are mixed according to the best receipt, baked
in a well regulated oven, and gratefully eaten with a temperate
appetite.”
“Good! good!” cried Tom, applauding with the wooden spoon.
“That ‘s a model sermon, Polly, short, sweet, sensible, and not a bit
sleepy. I ‘m one of your parish, and will see that you get your
‘celery punctooal,’ as old Deacon Morse used to say.”