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“Indeed, and you may well say that. No one knows what it is but she who has the trial. The greatest trouble is with your domestics. As a class, they are, with few exceptions, dirty, careless, and impudent. I sometimes think it gives them pleasure to interfere with your household arrangements and throw all into disorder. This seems especially to be the spirit of my present cook. My husband is particular about having his meals at the hour, and is never pleased when irregularities occur, although he does not often say any thing; this I told Hannah, when she first came, and have scolded her about being behindhand a dozen times since; and yet we do not have a meal at the hour oftener than two or three times a week.

“This morning, Mr. Martinet asked me if I wouldn’t be particular in seeing that dinner was on the table exactly at two o’clock. As soon as he was gone, I went down into the kitchen and said, ‘Do, for mercy’s sake, Hannah, have dinner ready at the hour to-day. Mr. Martinet particularly desires it.’ Hannah made no answer. It is one of her disagreeable habits, when you speak to her. ‘Did you hear me?’ I asked, quite out of patience with her. The creature looked up at me with an impudent face and said, pertly, ‘I’m not deaf.’ ‘Then, why didn’t you answer me when I spoke? It’s a very ugly habit that you have of not replying when any one addresses you. How is it to be known that you hear what is said?’ The spirit in which Hannah met my request to have dinner ready in time, satisfied me that she would so manage as to throw it off beyond the regular hour. I left the kitchen feeling, as you may well suppose, exceedingly worried.”

Just then the door of the room in which we were sitting was thrown open with a bang, and in bounded Harry, Mrs. Martinet’s eldest boy–a wild young scape-grace of a fellow–and whooping out some complaint against his sister. His mother, startled and annoyed by the rude interruption, ordered him to leave the room instantly. But Harry stood his ground without moving an eyelash.

“Do you hear?” And Mrs. Martinet stamped with her foot, to give stronger emphasis to her words.

“Lizzy snatched my top-cord out of my hands, and won’t give it to me!”

“Go out of this room!”

“Shan’t Lizzy give me my top-cord?”

“Go out, I tell you!”

“I want my top-cord.”

“Go out!”

My poor friend’s face was red, and her voice trembling with passion. With each renewed order for the child to leave the room, she stamped with her foot upon the floor. Harry, instead of going out as he was directed to do, kept advancing nearer and nearer, as he repeated his complaint, until he came close up to where we were sitting.

“Didn’t I tell you to go out!” exclaimed his mother, losing all patience.

As she spoke, she arose hastily, and seizing him by the arm, dragged, rather than led him from the room.

“I never saw such a child!” she said, returning after closing the door upon Harry. “Nothing does but force. You might talk to him all day without moving him an inch, when he gets in one of these moods.”

Bang went the door open, and, “I (sic) wan’t my top-cord!” followed in louder and more passionate tones than before.

“Isn’t it beyond all endurance!” cried my friend, springing up and rushing across the room.

The passionate child, who had been spoiled by injudicious management, got a sound whipping and was shut up in a room by himself. After performing this rather unpleasant task, Mrs. Martinet returned to the parlour, flushed, excited, and trembling in every nerve.

“I expect that boy will kill me yet,” she said, as she sank, panting, into a chair. “It is surprising how stubborn and self-willed he grows. I don’t know how to account for it. He never has his own way–I never yield an inch to him when he gets in these terrible humours. Oh, dear! I feel sometimes like giving up in despair.”