First, low murmur of distant
thunder in the kitchen; then a day or two of sulky silence, in which the
atmosphere seems heavy with an approaching storm. At last comes the
climax. The parlor-door flies open during breakfast. Enter seamstress,
in tears, followed by Mrs. Cook with a face swollen and red with wrath,
who tersely introduces the subject-matter of the drama in a voice
trembling with rage.
"Would you be plased, Ma'am, to suit yersilf with another cook? Me week
will be up next Tuesday, and I want to be going."
"Why, Bridget, what's the matter?"
"Matter enough, Ma'am! I niver could live with them Cork girls in a
house, nor I won't; them as likes the Cork girls is welcome for all me;
but it's not for the likes of me to live with them, and she been in the
kitchen a-upsettin' of me gravies with her flat-irons and things."
Here bursts in the seamstress with a whirlwind of denial, and the
altercation wages fast and furious, and poor, little, delicate Mrs.
Simmons stands like a kitten in a thunder-storm in the midst of a
regular Irish row.
Cook, of course, is sure of her victory. She knows that a great dinner
is to come off Wednesday, and that her mistress has not the smallest
idea how to manage it, and that, therefore, whatever happens, she must
be conciliated.
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