Lute Baker And His Wife Em
by
The Plainfield boys always had the name of being smart, and I guess Lute Baker was just about the smartest boy the old town ever turned out. Well, he came by it naturally; Judge Baker was known all over western Massachusetts as the sage of Plainfield, and Lute’s mother–she was a Kellogg before the judge married her–she had more faculty than a dozen of your girls nowadays, and her cooking was talked about everywhere–never was another woman, as folks said, could cook like Miss Baker. The boys–Lute’s friends–used to hang around the back porch of noonings just to get some of her doughnuts; she was always considerate and liberal to growing boys. May be Lute would n’t have been so popular if it had n’t been for those doughnuts, and may be he would n’t have been so smart if it had n’t been for all the good things his mother fed into him. Always did believe there was piety and wisdom in New England victuals.
Lute went to Amherst College and did well; was valedictorian; then he taught school a winter, for Judge Baker said that nobody could amount to much in the world unless he taught school a spell. Lute was set on being a lawyer, and so presently he went down to Springfield and read and studied in Judge Morris’ office, and Judge Morris wrote a letter home to the Bakers once testifying to Lute’s “probity” and “acumen”–things that are never heard tell of except high up in the legal profession.
How Lute came to get the western fever I can’t say, but get it he did, and one winter he up and piked off to Chicago, and there he hung out his shingle and joined a literary social and proceeded to get rich and famous. The next spring Judge Baker fell off the woodshed while he was shingling it, and it jarred him so he kind of drooped and pined round a spell and then one day up and died. Lute had to come back home and settle up the estate.
When he went west again he took a wife with him–Emma Cowles that was (everybody called her Em for short), pretty as a picture and as likely a girl as there was in the township. Lute had always had a hankering for Em, and Em thought there never was another such a young fellow as Lute; she understood him perfectly, having sung in the choir with him two years. The young couple went west well provided.
Lute and Em went to housekeeping in Chicago. Em wanted to do her own work, but Lute would n’t hear to it; so they hired a German girl that was just over from the vineyards of the Rhine country.
“Lute,” says Em, “Hulda does n’t know much about cooking.”
“So I see,” says Lute, feelingly. “She’s green as grass; you’ll have to teach her.”
Hulda could swing a hoe and wield a spade deftly, but of the cuisine she knew somewhat less than nothing. Em had lots of patience and pluck, but she found teaching Hulda how to cook a precious hard job. Lute was amiable enough at first; used to laugh it off with a cordial bet that by and by Em would make a famous cook of the obtuse but willing immigrant. This moral backing buoyed Em up considerable, until one evening in an unguarded moment Lute expressed a pining for some doughnuts “like those mother makes,” and that casual remark made Em unhappy. But next evening when Lute came home there were doughnuts on the table–beautiful, big, plethoric doughnuts that fairly reeked with the homely, delicious sentiment of New England. Lute ate one. Em felt hurt.
“I guess it’s because I ‘ve eaten so much else,” explained Lute, “but somehow or other they don’t taste like mother’s.”