HOPE LEDYARD.

Six eager faces, all crowding around to “see the picture!” Four of the faces belong to girls—Edith and Mamie, Birdie and Jeanie, while Al and Dick, who are pretty big boys, “over ten,” lean over the back of the chair.

“He’s had a good catch,” says Al.

“He’s not caught those,” says Dick, while the girls look first at the picture and then at the boys. “I guess that fellow standing up in the boat is his father. The men have caught the fish and the boy takes them to sell. Why, a fish as big as one of those fellows could pull a boy right into the water, easy!”

“My brother Dick knows,” whispers Jeanie, proudly. “He took me fishing once and I caught two fish.”

The little girls look as if they could hardly believe this, so Jeanie pulls mamma’s arm and asks, “Didn’t I catch two fish last summer?”

“Indeed she did,” says Dick, before mamma has time to answer. “She caught two sun-fish. I never saw any one do it better. Mother fried ’em for her dinner, too.”

“My sister goes to a cooking school and learns to bake fish,” says Edith, “and she is teaching me at home. I know the verse about cooking fish.”

We all begged Edith to say the verse, so, after a little coaxing, she repeated:

Edith is a little orphan girl who lives with her grandmother and sister Minnie. We are all so interested about the cooking class, that she tells us about how they learn to bake bread.

“I mixed the bread last Friday night and made some biscuit in the morning, and if I hadn’t forgotten the salt they would have been splendid. I don’t remember all the verses about bread, but one verse is:

“Well, it’s girls’ work to cook and boys’ work to catch,” said Al, who was getting tired of hearing verses.

“Jeanie did some catching before she was five years old, and you forget how nicely papa cooked the breakfast when you were camping out last summer.”

“I suppose his cooking, like Jeanie’s fishing, was just an accident.”

“No, indeed! Good cooking has to be learned,” I said, “and this picture makes me think of the first fish I had to cook, and what a foolish girl I had.”

“Oh, mamma’s going to tell us a story about when she was a girl,” Jeanie exclaims. So all take seats—Jeanie on my lap, the boys on the two arms of my chair, and the three little sisters on chairs or footstools.

Not about when I was a girl, but about when I was a very young wife.

You boys know that I had always lived in a big house in the city, where the servants did all the cooking and such work, while I practiced music or studied or visited my Sunday-school scholars. I was just as fond of them in those days as I am now. Well! Your papa took me to a dear little house, far, far away, near Lake George. I had a very young girl to help me about the house, who did not know any thing about cooking. I thought I knew a good deal, for I had learned to bake bread, and roast meat and make a cup of tea or coffee. I had just as much fun keeping house in that little cottage as Jeanie has playing house up stairs. But one day papa went off in a hurry and forgot to ask me what I wanted for dinner. He was to bring a gentleman home that day and I hoped he would send me a good dinner.

About ten o’clock Annie, my little servant, came to me and said, “Oh, ma’am, the butcher’s here with a beautiful fish the master has sent for the meat.”

“A fish! Annie, do you know how to cook fish?” I said.

“No, ma’am. Only it’s fried they mostly has ’em.”

I went into the kitchen and there lay a beautiful trout—too pretty to eat, it seemed to me. Certainly too pretty to be spoiled by careless cooking. So I took my receipt book and after reading carefully, I stuffed the pretty fish and laid him in a pan all ready for the oven, and told Annie to put it in at eleven o’clock.

I was pretty tired, so I lay down for a little nap, and had just dropped asleep when Annie came into the room, wringing her hands and saying, “Oh, ma’am! Oh, ma’am! What’ll I do in the world?”

It seems that she had taken the fish out of the safe and put it, pan and all, on the table, and then, remembering I had told her to sprinkle a little pepper on it, she went to the closet for her pepper-box, and when she came back, the pan was empty!

“The cat stole it, Annie,” I said.

“Indade and she didn’t. The innocent cratur was lyin’ on my bed and the door shut.”

I tried to quiet the girl; but I told her at last she could go home that night, only she must dry her eyes and run to the butcher’s for a steak, for the master would be home with a strange gentleman in half an hour. We managed to get the steak cooked, and papa tried to laugh Annie out of the notion of a ghost stealing our beautiful fish, but the girl would not smile and was afraid to be left alone in the kitchen. So after tea she packed up her things and was to take the stage to the depot; for Annie lived a long way off.

Just before the stage came as I was standing at the gate, my eyes full of tears at losing my nice little servant all on account of a fish, I saw the lady who lived across the way open her gate and come toward our house. I saw the stage stop a few doors off as she came to our gate and bowing to me said:

“Excuse me, we are strangers, but did you lose a fine trout to-day?”

She must have thought me mad, for I rushed into the house, and called: “Annie, Annie, I’ve found the fish! Now put your things back in the bureau, you silly girl.”

Then I went back and invited my neighbor in, telling her about Annie’s fright.

“Why, it was our Nero—our great dog! I was away at my mother’s or I would have brought it back, for I was sure it belonged to you. Nero must have slipped in, nabbed the fish, and brought it to our house. He laid it on the kitchen floor, as if he had done a very good deed, my girl tells me, and she, foolish thing, thought he had brought it from my mother’s, and cooked it.”

We had a hearty laugh at our stupid servants, and were great friends from that day, and I never see a picture of fish for sale, but I think of my first trout, which I prepared for dinner with such care, but never tasted. Annie never dared say “ghosts” after that, and lived with us till Dick was three years old. But there is papa, and these little girls must have a piece of cake and run home.