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                      _"They are really delicious
                       --when properly treated."_


                              How To Cook
                               Husbands


                    By ELIZABETH STRONG WORTHINGTON

                            Author of "The
                           Little Brown Dog"
                           "The Biddy Club"


               Published at 220 East 23rd St., New York
                    by the Dodge Publishing Company



                         COPYRIGHT IN THE YEAR
                         EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND
                         NINETY-EIGHT BY DODGE
                          STATIONERY COMPANY




                              Dedication

                  To a dear little girl who will some
                day, I hope, be skilled in all branches
                        of matrimonial cookery.




                                   I


A while ago I came across a newspaper clipping--a recipe written by a
Baltimore lady--that had long lain dormant in my desk. It ran as follows:

"A great many husbands are spoiled by mismanagement. Some women go about
it as if their husbands were bladders, and blow them up; others keep
them constantly in hot water; others let them freeze, by their
carelessness and indifference. Some keep them in a stew, by irritating
ways and words; others roast them; some keep them in pickle all their
lives. Now it is not to be supposed that any husband will be good,
managed in this way--turnips wouldn't; onions wouldn't; cabbage-heads
wouldn't, and husbands won't; but they are really delicious when
properly treated.

"In selecting your husband you should not be guided by the silvery
appearance, as in buying mackerel, or by the golden tint, as if you
wanted salmon. Be sure to select him yourself, as taste differs. And by
the way, don't go to market for him, as the best are always brought to
your door.

"It is far better to have none, unless you patiently learn to cook him.
A preserving kettle of the finest porcelain is the best, but if you have
nothing but an earthenware pipkin, it will do, with care.

"See that the linen, in which you wrap him, is nicely washed and mended,
with the required amount of buttons and strings, nicely sewed on. Tie
him in the kettle with a strong cord called Comfort, as the one called
Duty is apt to be weak. They sometimes fly out of the kettle, and become
burned and crusty on the edges, since, like crabs and oysters, you have
to cook them alive.

"Make a clear, strong, steady fire out of Love, Neatness, and
Cheerfulness. Set him as near this as seems to agree with him. If he
sputters and fizzles, don't be anxious; some husbands do this till they
are quite done. Add a little sugar, in the form of what confectioners
call Kisses, but no vinegar or pepper on any account. A little spice
improves them, but it must be used with judgment.

"Don't stick any sharp instrument into him, to see if he is becoming
tender. Stir him gently; watching the while lest he should lie too close
to the kettle, and so become inert and useless.

"You cannot fail to know when he is done. If thus treated, you will find
him very digestible, agreeing nicely with you and the children."

"So they are better cooked," I said to myself, "that is why we hear of
such numbers of cases of marital indigestion--the husbands are served
raw--fresh--unprepared."

"They are really delicious when properly treated,"--I wonder if that is
so.

But I must pause here to tell you a bit about myself. I am not an old
maid, but, at the time this occurs, I am unmarried, and I am thirty-four
years old--not quite beyond the pale of hope. Men and women never do pass
beyond that--not those of sanguine temperament at any rate. I am neither
rich nor poor, but repose in a comfortable stratum betwixt and between.
I keep house, or rather it keeps me, and a respectable woman who, with
her husband, manages my domestic affairs, lends the odor of sanctity and
propriety to my single existence. I am of medium height, between blond
and brunette, and am said to have a modicum of both brains and good
looks.

The recipe I read set me a-thinking. I was in my library, before a big
log fire. The room was comfortable; glowing with rich, warm firelight
at that moment, but it was lonesome, and I was lonely.

Supposing, I said to myself, I really had a husband; how should I cook
him?

The words of an old lady came into my mind. She had listened to this
particular recipe, and after a moment's silence had leaned over, and
whispered in my ear:

"First catch your fish."

But supposing he were now caught, and seated in that rocker across from
me, before this blazing fire.

I walked to the window--to one side of me lives a little thrush, at least
she is trim and comely, and always dresses in brown. Just now she is
without her door, stooping over her baby, who is sitting like a tiny
queen in her chariot, just returned from an airing.

It isn't the question of husband alone--he might be managed--roasted,
stewed, or parboiled, but it's the whole family--a household. Take the
children, for instance; if they could be set up on shelves in glass
cases, as fast as they came, all might be well, but they _will_ run
around, and Heaven only knows what they will run into. Why, had I
children, I should plug both ears with cotton, for fear I should hear
the door-bell. I know it would ring constantly, and such messages as
these would be hurled in:

"Several of them have been arrested for blowing up the neighbors with
dynamite firecrackers."

"Half a dozen of them have tumbled from off the roof of the house. They
escaped injury, but have thrown a nervous lady, over the way, into
spasms."

"One or two of them have just been dragged from beneath the electric
cars. They seem to be as well as ever, but three of the passengers died
of fright."

Just think of that! What should I do?

Keep an extra maid to answer the bell, I suppose, and two or three
thousand dollars by me continually, to pay damages.

What a time poor Job had of it answering his door bell, and how very
unpleasant it must have been to receive so many pieces of news of that
sort, in one morning!

Clearly I am better off in my childless condition, and yet----

Little Mrs. Thrush is just kissing her soft, round-faced cherub. I wish
she would do that out of sight.

Now as to husbands again, if I had one, what should I do with him?

I might say, Sit down.

Supposing he wouldn't. What then?

Cudgels are out of date. Were he an alderman, I might take a Woman's
Club to him, but a husband has been known to laugh this instrument to
scorn.

But supposing he sat down. What then? He might be a gentleman of
irascible, nasty temper, and in walking about my room, I might step on
his feet. These irritable folk have such large feet, at least they are
always in the way, and always being stepped on no matter how careful one
tries to be.

What then?

I decline to contemplate the scene.

Plainly I am better off single.

I walk to my front window, and stretch my arms above my head. There is a
light fall of snow upon the ground. This late snow is trying: in its
season, it is beautiful; but out of season, it breeds a cheerlessness
that emphasises one's loneliness. I look out through the leafless trees
toward the lake, but it is hidden by the whirling, eddying snowflakes. I
see Mr. Thrush hurrying home to his little nest.

"Yes," I say to myself, repeating my last thought with a certain
obstinacy, "yes, I am better off without a husband, and yet I wish I had
one--one would answer, on a pinch--one at a time, at least. A husband is
like a world in that respect; one at a time, is the proper proportion."

"It's far better to have none, unless you learn to cook him." These
words recurred to me, just as I was on the point of taking a life
partner, in a figurative sense.

The woman that deliberates is lost; consequently, as it won