Marion Harland's Complete Cook Book: A Practical and Exhaustive Manual of Cookery and Housekeeping

a clean, soft cloth, opened the windows, shut the door, and let no one enter the room for twelve hours. Not a trace of grease remained at the end of that time. The volatile oil had effaced itself. The alkaline absorbent was not needed. “We are all fond of cauliflower; my husband and sons like young onions in the season,” said the mistress of a big house. “We can not have either of these vegetables cooked on account of the odor. It fills the house from cellar to attic.” A housewife who lives in a tiny city flat has both of these dishes whenever she likes. The vegetables are put over the fire in cold water; a little salt is thrown in, and the pot is left uncovered. If these rules be strictly obeyed, the rising odor during cooking will be scarcely perceptible. A physician, driving with his wife through a lonely country neighborhood, heard screams issuing from the open door of a cottage and went in to see if he could be of use. A child had upset a kettle of boiling water upon its legs and feet and was in agony from the scald. “Have you linseed oil and lime water in the house?” asked the doctor. Before the distracted mother could say that there was neither, the doctor’s wife said, “Do you burn wood in any room?” There was a wood-stove in the parlor. There is always lard in the country pantry. In three minutes an ointment of lard and soot from the stovepipe was beaten up and spread upon old linen; in five minutes the scalds were covered with it. The relief was speedy; the cure complete in a day or two. The wise housewife gleans a great store of precious driblets against the hour and minute of need. Such study of details is like sweeping up gold filings. The separate particles are nominally valueless, compared with the mastery of great principles. When massed and assorted, they go far toward making life easy. A suggestive German fable is of a trooper who saw a loose horseshoe