To me life's battles began at the age of 10 years. I was known all about as Baker Miller's "wee maid." The family all attended the Congregational Church, and I had to go also. The minister's name was Dr. Jeffrey. The "Manse" was close by, and I was often sent there with messages. Dr. Jeffrey was a bachelor. I would find him sometimes digging in the garden, dressed up very queerly. He liked to tease me about having my photograph, which was taken with him that morning at the gate. What attracted my attention to him was his hair. It was in long ringlets, hanging down on his shoulders, and parted in the middle. When he was working in the garden or preaching his hair would hang down beautifully, like that of a lady. I went to his Sunday-school, and some words from him helped me, too, to face the future.

I can truthfully say that I only knew the alphabet, and how to read from a little spelling book, some words to my mother who died a few days after I was six years old. My greatest misfortune has been the want of schooling. There was a school in Slamannan, but it was a mile from where we lived, and there was no one to care whether we went or not. People were not compelled to send their children to school in those days. I could read some easy words in the Bible and Testament. What I could not make out I would ask someone to tell me. There were family prayers every Sunday morning and evening, and all had to attend, or at least all who lived in the house. We had to read a verse each as it came to our turn all through the chapter, either in the Bible or the Testament, as the master gave it out. I did try to be able to read my verse, for fear that the apprentice boys would laugh at me—how I used to hope that my verse would be an easy one. I was fond of reading, and they gave me nice books, while there were so many old places about in connection with the "History of Scotland" that it was pleasant to read about the deeds that were done, and then to go and look at the ruins.

As the time went on I grew strong and hardy, and there was plenty of good food. All had porridge and milk in the morning, with plenty of hot scones and butter, and relishes of some sort. There was no waste, and the mistress was a good cook. I was told that when she and her husband began business that she did all the fancy cooking. Even in my time she did a lot of things for the bakehouse. I used to help with the raisins and currants and lemon-peel, and the meat for the raised Scotch mutton pies and so on. Those Scotch pies produced more profit than any other item in their trade. When I come to think of it, even now, I remember that Saturday was the only day they made them. The large boards, on which the bakers used to carry the bread into the shop, would hold about eight or ten dozen raised mutton pies which were sold for two-pence each. Ever so many of the great boards were filled with pies and sent to meet orders all around. There was a fair in Denny every six months. Talk about pies! There were no clothing factories or shirt factories in Denny. There were, however, some cotton mills, to which I used to see so many poor-looking people going every morning when I was attending to the front of the shop and the private entrance. I often thought to myself that I was better off than them. The girls had no hats, and some of them had no boots, and they looked wistfully into the shop window. I know they were hungry.

There were no sewing machines in those days. If a man wanted a suit made he would employ a tailor. The tailor would bring an apprentice boy and a large iron, called a "goose," and they would be there ever so long. Sometimes they worked on the kitchen table. Everything was made by hand; there was no machinery. I saw two dress suits made for the young gentlemen of the house. While I recollect how they made the outside clothing, it was evident to me that the tailors did not make the men's shirts and under-garments. These were made by women, and if a man's wife could not make his shirts, as well as wash and iron them, she would be the talk of the place. Quite wee "lassies" could knit their own and their father's or brothers' stockings. The wool was not dear. At a date more remote they used to spin their own wool. There was often to be seen in some lumber place the old discarded "spinning-wheel." Alloway was famed for its fingering wool. The women of to-day should be thankful to see how nicely they can dress their children and themselves.

I often recall the apparel of the dim past. You could see well-to-do farmers' wives come to church, wearing a lilac or print gown in the summer, and in the winter it was replaced by a "linzewince," with a plaid or kind of woollen cloth or shawl. This was two yards long and two yards wide, and was folded to hang three-cornerwise down the back from the shoulders. And then the boys and the girls. I remember well seeing quite big boys with petticoats and pinafores when 6 or 7 years old. I do not mean the "kilt." It was just the same as that the girls wore. Of course the mother could make things like that when she could not do the needlework of tweed. There never was a time previously when dress was so becoming for all as it is at present. Think of the old grandfathers with knee-breeches and long stockings. I only saw my grandfather once, and that is how he was dressed.

To say that I was always happy and had an easy life would not be true. I was often in tears and in disgrace. I would break some thing, or put things where they could not be found. I felt as if I belonged to nobody, and would have a cry to myself. Still, I must confess that I received kindly appreciation from all. The only daughter was about to be married, and I knew that neither myself nor my sister would be old enough to do the work when that time came. A healthy body makes a healthy mind whether happy or not, so I began to think of going home after Miss Isabel was married. What I had seen of my father did not comfort me. My heart cried out for someone to show me how to write. Miss Isabel was giving me lessons on a slate. From all I remember of our home life in looking back into the past, after all these years, I know that I did my best to gain instruction. I tried my hardest to find out for myself the way to do things.

The months passed by, bringing the New Year. Christmas time was not much spoken of then. My master noticed how earnest I was, and must have thought that I should learn the baking. I could see that Miss Isabel could work in the bakehouse like the men. I got to like going there, too. What a time we had getting cakes ready for the new year. I remember that one bedroom had the carpet taken up and all the furniture removed and the floor cleaned, while the cakes were put in, and built on some framework nearly to the ceiling.

It was the custom to give to the customers at New Year's time a fruit cake. They called it a currant bun, but sometimes it weighed from 2 to 4 lb. There were all sorts of fruit in them, with boxes and boxes full of raisins, candied peel, currants, and all sorts of spices. All of these were prepared in the kitchen, and I used to help often till late at night. I know that they were not iced like the Christmas cakes we see here. But those bakers could do some lovely work with sugar. What I saw then has been valuable and important to me all through my life to this date, which proves that a special interest in the usefulness of cooking may become a part of a young girl's training, as much as reading or writing. I have been teacher of cookery for many years now, and I teach without a textbook. Instead of giving pupils recipes, I teach that which I have tried and proved by experience.

But I must keep to the bygone days. It was customary when there was a funeral in the neighborhood, and the people were not too poor, for them to send an order for a special kind of sponge biscuits, which had to be made at once. Sometimes such a large quantity was wanted that all hands had to help. If there were frost and snow about it was hard to whip up the eggs, so they used to get a good-sized cask, half fill it with hot water, and stand the mixing basin on that. The steam from the water helped in the whisking of the eggs. If there were no heat the eggs would be frozen while whisking. It was always my duty to whip the eggs. Then some skilled hand would come and put in some of the sugar, and keep on putting in more sugar time after time till the specific weight was used. Then the flour was added. At last I got so experienced that I could add the sugar myself by the appearance of the eggs, and, eventually, I could add the flour and take the basin of mixture to the bakehouse all ready to drop into the desired shape. I make sponge cakes in the same way yet, only here we require no hot water.