“
[95]
next week.
It is really out of the question, you see.”
“ I see no such thing.
I do not know what genius is given for, if it is not to help a woman out of a scrape.
Come, set your wits to work, let me have my way, and you shall have all the work done and finish the story too.”
“ Well, but kitchen affairs?”
“ We can manage them too. You know you can write anywhere and anyhow.
Just take your seat at the kitchen table with your writing weapons, and while you superintend Mina fill up the odd snatches of time with the labors of your pen.”
I carried my point.
In ten minutes she was seated; a table with flour, rolling-pin, ginger, and lard on one side, a dresser with eggs, pork, and beans and various cooking utensils on the other, near her an oven heating, and beside her a dark-skinned nymph, waiting orders.
“ Here, Harriet,” said I, “you can write on this atlas in your lap; no matter how the writing looks, I will copy it.”
“ Well, well,” said she, with a resigned sort of amused look.
“ Mina, you may do what I told you, while I write a few minutes, till it is time to mould up the bread.
Where is the inkstand?”
“ Here it is, close by, on the top of the tea-kettle,” said I.
At this Mina giggled, and we both laughed to see her merriment at our literary proceedings.
I began to overhaul the portfolio to find the right sheet.
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Houghton, Mifflin and Company, The Riverside Press, Cambridge, 1889.
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