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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't do to
think the matter over, I plunge in.

My spouse is now pacing up and down the room in a rampant manner,
complaining of his dinner, the world in general, and _me_ in particular.

What am I to do?

Charles Reade has written a recipe that applies very well just here. It
is briefly expressed:

"Put yourself in his place."

I could not have done this a few years ago, but now I can. Never, until
I undertook the management of my business affairs--never until I had some
knowledge of business cares and anxieties, the weight of notes falling
due; the charge of business honor to keep; the excited hope of fortunate
prospects; and the depression following hard upon failure and
disappointment--never until I learned all this, did I realize what home
should mean to a man, and how far wide of the mark many women shoot,
when they aim to establish a restful retreat for their husbands.

I have returned to my domicile, after a fatiguing day up town, with a
feeling of exhaustion that lies far deeper than the mere physical
structure--a spent feeling as if I have given my all, and must be
replenished before I can make another move. I once had a housekeeper
whose very face I dreaded at such times. She always took advantage of my
silence and my limp condition, to relate the day's disasters. She had no
knowledge of what a good dinner meant, and no tact in falling in with my
tastes or needs. On the contrary; if there was a dish I disliked, it was
sure to appear on those most weary evenings. In brief, from the very
moment I reached home, she did nothing but brush my fur up, instead of
down, and I did nothing but spit at her.

Now, many women are like this housekeeper. I wonder their husbands don't
slay them. If you would look out in my back yard, I fear you would see
the bones of several of these tactless, exasperating housekeepers,
bleaching in the wind and rain.

I marvel that other back yards are not filled with the bones of stupid,
tactless, irritating wives. The fact that no such horror has as yet been
unearthed, bears eloquent testimony to the noble self-control and
patience of many of the sterner sex.

"Oh, that sounds well," said my neighbor, over the way, "but then you
forget we women have our trials too."

"Is it going to diminish those trials to make a raging lion out of your
husband?"

"No, but he ought to understand that we are tired, and that our work is
hard."

"Certainly," I said, "by all means; and by the time he thoroughly
understands, you generally have occasion to be still more tired."

"Well, what would you do?"

"I'll tell you what I'd do; follow the advice of a sensible little
friend of mine, who has four children all of an age, and has
incompetent service to rely on, when she has any at all."

"And what is that, pray?"

"She says that come rain, hail, or fiery vapor, she takes a nap every
day."

"I don't know how she manages it; I can't, and I have one less child
than she, and a fairly good maid."

"Her children are trained, as children should be; the three younger ones
take long naps after luncheon, and while they are sleeping, she gives
the oldest child some picture book to look at, and simple stories to
read, and she herself goes to sleep in the same room with him. The
little fellow keeps as still as a mouse."

"I think that is a cruel shame."

"So do I. It would be far kinder if she let him have his liberty, and
stayed up to take care of him, and then became so tired out that, by the
time her husband came home she would be unable to keep her mouth (closed
for it is only a well rested woman who can maintain a cheerful
silence), and avoid a family quarrel."

"No, I think it's better not to quarrel, but I can't take a nap, and
often I'm so tired when Fred comes home, that, if he happens to be tired
too, it's just like putting fire to gunpowder."

I knew that, for I had heard the explosions from across the street. You
know in our climate, in the summer, people practically live in the
street, with every window and door open; your neighbor has full
possession of all remarks above E. And most of Mr. and Mrs. Purblind's
notes on the tired nights, are above E.

I have no patience with that woman, anyhow. She hasn't the first idea of
comfort and good cheer. Her rooms are always in disorder, and there is
no suggestion of harmony in the furniture (on the contrary every article
seems, as the French say, to be swearing at every other article); all
her lights are high--why, I've run in there of an evening and found that
man wandering around like an uneasy ghost, trying to find some easy
spot in which he could sit down, and read his paper comfortably. He
didn't know what was the matter--the poor wretches don't, but he was like
a cat on an unswept hearth.

In contrast to this woman's stupidity, I have the natural loveliness of
the little brown thrush, on my one side, and the hoary-headed wisdom of
Mrs. Owl, on my other side.

Look at the latter a moment. Not worth looking at, you say; angular,
without beauty of form or feature. Nothing but the humorous curve to her
lips, and the twinkle in her eye, to attract one; nothing, unless it
were a general air of neatness, intelligence, and good humor.

But I assure you that woman's worth living with if she is not worth
looking at!

Now her spouse is one of those lowering fellows, the kind that seems to
be at outs with mankind. Just the material to become sulky in any but
the most skillful hands, the sort to degenerate into a positive brute,
in such blundering hands as Mrs. Purblind's over the way.

I had a chance to watch this man one evening last summer. Having no
domestic affairs of my own, as a matter of course I feel myself entitled
to share my neighbors'. And this particular evening I was lonely. It was
a nasty night, the fog blown in from the lake slapped one rudely in the
face every time one looked out, and the air was as raw as a new wound--it
went clear to the bone.

Now on such a night as this I have known Mrs. Purblind to serve her lord
cold veal and lettuce, simple because it was July, and a suitable time
for heat. And I assure you that sufficient heat was generated before
this cold supper was consumed. But to return to Mrs. Owl, on that
particular night. I saw her watching at door and window, for her partner
was late. I peeped into the parlor, and it was as cosy and inviting as a
glowing fire, a shaded lamp, and a comfortable sofa wheeled near the
table, could make it.

By and by, he came glowering along. What will she say, I asked myself.
Will it be:

"Oh, how late you are! What's the matter? What kept you? Well, come in,
you must be cold. Lie down on the sofa while I get supper, but don't put
your feet up till I get a paper for them to rest on."

All this would have answered well enough with a decent sort of a man,
but this <DW25> required peculiar treatment.

It was what she didn't say that was most remarkable.

After a cheerful "How-de-do" she didn't speak a word for some time, but
walked into the house humming a lively air, and busied herself with his
supper. She didn't set this in the dining room, but right before that
open fire. Without any fuss or commotion she broiled a piece of steak
over those glowing coals, while over her big lamp she made a cup of
coffee, and in her chafing dish prepared some creamed potatoes. She had
bread and butter ready, and some little dessert, and so with a wave of a
fairy wand, as it seemed, there was the cosiest, most tempting little
supper you ever saw on the table at his side.

Meanwhile he had found the sofa, the fire, and the lamp, and was reading
his paper. He threw the latter down when supper was announced, and she
joined him at the table; poured his coffee, ate a bit now and then for
company, and talked--why, how that woman did talk! I couldn't hear a word
that she said, but I knew by the expression of her face it was humorous;
and laugh, how she laughed! and erelong he joined in--why, once he leaned
back, and actually ha-haed.

When supper was over, she left him to his paper again, while she cleared
everything away. Later on she joined him, and the next I knew they were
playing chess, and still later, talking and reading aloud.

This is but a sample of her life with him--in everything she consults
his mood, his comfort, his tastes. She never jars him--never rubs him the
wrong way, and meanwhile she has all she wants, for she can do anything
with him, and he thinks the sun rises and sets with her.

It is a good cook that makes an appetizing dish out of poor material,
and when a woman makes a delicious husband out of little or nothing she
may rank as a _chef_.




                                  II


You may say all I have been describing belongs more properly to little
Mrs. Thrush, on my right. Bless you! that woman doesn't have to think
and plan to make things comfortable. Were she set down in the desert of
Sahara, she would sweep it up, spread a rug; hang a few draperies, and
lo! it would be cosy and home-like. She can't help being and doing just
right, wherever she is put, and her husband is just like her, as good as
gold. Why, that man would bore a woman of ingenuity--a woman who had a
genius for contriving and managing. He doesn't need any cooking; he's
ready to serve just as he is, couldn't be improved. There's absolutely
nothing to be done. Mrs. Owl would get a divorce from him inside of a
month, on the ground of insipidity. Her fine capabilities for making
much out of nothing, would turn saffron for lack of use. Mr. Owl is the
mate for her. To every man according to his taste; to every woman
according to her need.

I am lying in the hammock, under the soft maple tree in my side yard,
speculating on all these matters. Summer is now upon us, for we are in
the midst of June. Yesterday was one of Lowell's rare days, but this
morning the thermometer took offense, and rose in fury. I can see the
quivering air as it radiates from the dusty, sun-beaten road, and a
certain drowsy hum in the atmosphere, palpable only to the trained ear,
tells of the great heat. Some of my neighbors are sitting on their
galleries, reading or sewing; some, like myself, are lolling in
hammocks; even the voices of the children have a certain monotonous
tone, in harmony with the stupid heaviness of the day. Only the birds
and squirrels show any life or spirit; the former are twittering above
my head, courting, it may be, or possibly discussing some detail of
household economy. They hop from bough to bough, touch up their plumage,
and chirp in a cheerful, happy sort of fashion, as if this was their
especial weather, as indeed it is. Up yonder tree, a squirrel is racing
about, in the exuberance of his glee. He has done up his work, no doubt,
and now is off for a frolic. I lie here, not a stone's throw from him,
watching his merry antics, and rejoicing to think how free from fear he
is, when all at once the leaves of his tree are cut by a flying missile,
and the next second I see my gay fellow tumble headlong from the bough,
and fall in a helpless little heap on the grass. I start up in affright,
and hear a passing boy call out to another, over the way,

"I brought him down, Jim."

Involuntarily I clinch my hands.

"You little coward!" I exclaim, "it is _you_ who should be brought down!
You are too mean to live."

He laughs brutally, and goes on, whistling indifferently, while I pick
up the dead squirrel lying at my feet.

I find myself crying, before I know it. Not alone with pity for the
squirrel; something else is hurting me.

"Is this the masculine nature?" I ask some one--I don't know whom.

Perhaps it is one of those questions which are flung upward, in a blind
kind of way, and which God sometimes catches and answers.

"Are they made this way? Was it meant that they should be brutal?"

I am still holding the squirrel and thinking, when I hear my name, and
turning see my neighbor over the way, Mrs. Purblind's brother, standing
near me.

"Good morning, Mr. Chance," I say, rather coldly.

All men are hateful to me at that moment; to my mind they all have that
boy's nature, though they keep it under cover until they know you well,
or have you in their power.

"The little fellow is dead, I suppose," he said.

"Yes," I answer with a sob which I turn away to conceal. I don't wish to
excite his mirth. Of course he would only see something laughable in my
grief, and he couldn't dream what I am thinking about.

"You mustn't be too hard on the boy, Miss Leigh," he says quietly; "it
was a brutal act, but that same aggressiveness will one day give him
power to battle in life against difficulties and temptations as well. It
will make him able to protect those whom a kind Providence may put in
his charge. Just now he doesn't know what to do with the force, and
evidently has not had good teaching. I'm sorry he did this; it hurts me
to see an innocent creature harmed, and still more I am sorry because
it has hurt you."

He is standing near me now, and as I raise my eyes, I find him looking
at me with a sweet earnestness, that wins me not only to forgive him for
being a man, but to feel that perhaps men are noble, after all.

His look and tone linger with me long after he has gone, as a cadence of
music may vibrate through the soul when both musician and instrument are
mute.

The day after this of which I have been telling, I went to a picnic
gotten up by Mrs. Purblind, for the entertainment and delectation of Mr.
Purblind's cousin, now visiting her, a frivolous young thing, between
whom and myself there was not even the weather in common, for she would
label "simply horrid" a lovely gray day, containing all sorts of
possibilities for the imagination behind its mists and clouds.

I didn't care for this picnic, and didn't see why I was invited as most
of the guests were younger than myself. But it was one of those cases
where a refusal might be misconstrued, and so I went. We sat around the
white tablecloth _en masse_, for dinner; and in the course of the
passing of viands, Miss Sprig was asked to help herself to olives that
happened to be near her.

"Yes, do, while you have opportunity," said Mrs. Purblind.

"I always embrace opportunity," replied Miss Sprig with a simper.
Whereat Mr. Chance, sitting next her, suggested that, as a synonym of
opportunity, possibly he might stand in its stead.

I detest such speeches, they are properly termed soft, for they
certainly are mushy--lacking in stamina--fiber of any sort. But I could
have endured it, as I had endured much else of the same sort that day,
had it not come from Mr. Chance. It may be foolish of me, but his tone
and his words of the day before were still with me. They were so
dignified, so sensible, so manly, that I respected and admired him. Up
to that time I had not felt that I knew him, but after he spoke in that
way, it seemed as if we were acquainted. Now I saw how utterly mistaken
I had been, and I was mortified and disgusted.

The silly little speech I have quoted was not all, by any means; there
were more of the same kind, and actions that corresponded. Evidently he
was one of those instruments which are played upon at will by the
passing zephyr. With a self-respecting woman, he was manly; with a
vapid, bold girl, he was silly and familiar. I decided that I liked
something more stable, something that could be depended upon.

I was placed in a difficult position just then. Had I acted upon my
impulse, I should have risen and walked off--such conduct is an affront
to womanhood, I think; but I was held in my place by a fear--foolish, yet
grounded, that my action would be regarded as an expression of
jealousy, the jealousy of an old maid, of a woman much younger and
prettier than herself. This is but one of the many instances of the
injustice of the world. I don't think that I am addicted to jealousy,
but I may not know myself. Possibly I might have felt jealous had I been
eclipsed by a beautiful or gifted woman, but it would be impossible for
me to experience any such emotion on seeing a man with whom I have but a
slight acquaintance, devote himself to a girl whom I should regard as
not only my mental inferior, but also as beneath me morally and socially
as well. The only sensation of which I was cognizant was a disgust
toward the man, and mortification over the mistaken estimate of his
character, that had led me, the day before, to suppose him on a footing
with myself.

As soon as possible after dinner I slipped away for a stroll. The place
was very lovely, and I felt that if I could creep off with Mother
Nature, she would smooth some cross-grained, fretful wrinkles that were
gathering in my mind, and were saddening my soul. So when the folly and
jesting were at their height I dipped into the thicket near at hand, and
dodging here and there, jumping fallen logs, and untangling my way among
the vines which embraced the stern old woods like seductive sirens, I at
last struck a shaded path, which erelong led me down through a ravine to
the waters of the big old lake. It too had dined, but instead of
yielding itself to folly, was taking its siesta. Across its tranquil
bosom the zephyrs played, stirring ripples and tiny eddies, as dreams
may stir lights and shadows on the sleeping face.

I had not walked along the beach, with the waves sighing at my feet, and
whispering all sorts of soothing nothings, for a great distance, before
I began to experience that uncomfortable reaction which sometimes arises
from splitting in two, as it were, standing off at a distance and
looking oneself in the face. I realized that I had been something of a
prig and considerable of a Pharisee. My late discomfort was not caused
by the fact that a young girl had cheapened herself, but by the fact
that a man had demeaned himself and in a manner involved me, inasmuch as
I had been led the day before by a false estimate of his character to
regard him as my social equal. After all it was this last that hurt
most; it was my little self and not my brother about whom I was chiefly
concerned.

I am not naturally sentimental or morbid, so I merely decided that
internally I had made a goose of myself and not shown any surplus of
nobility; and with a little sigh of satisfaction that I had given the
small world about me no sign of my folly, I dismissed the subject and
betook myself to an eager enjoyment of the day.

The soft June breeze played with my hair and gently and affectionately
touched my face; the lake quivering and rippling with passing emotions
stretched away from me toward that other shore which it kept secreted
somewhere on its farther side. The very sight of it, with its shimmering
greens, turquoise blue, and tawny yellow, cooled and soothed me, and ere
I knew it, I had slipped into a pleasant, active speculation on matters
of larger interest than the petty subjects which had lined my brow a
moment before. I was walking directly toward one of my families, and it
occurred to me that I might run in and make a call, while I was near at
hand. I had first become interested in them at church. I was impressed
by their cleanliness and regularity of attendance, and by a certain
judicious arrangement of their children--the parents always sitting so as
to separate the latter by their authority and order.

Another point that claimed my attention was that the children were
changed each Sunday--a fresh three succeeding the first bunch, and on
the third Sunday, one of the first three being added to a fresh two, to
make up the proper complement. Both parents had a self-respecting,
self-sacrificing look, as of people who had learned to help themselves
cautiously from the family dish, and to "put their knives to their
throats" before time; but kept all this to themselves, asking nothing
from anyone, and making their little answer without murmur or complaint.
I had, for some time, realized that the child who was now getting more
than his share of sermons, by reappearing on the third Sunday, would
soon be reduced to the level of his brethren, and a new relative would
take the place which he had been filling as a matter of accommodation. I
sought occasion to make the acquaintance of the mother of this fine
brood, on the pretext of some church work, and after that became a
regular visitor at their little home. The perfect equality of the
parents; the deference with which they treated one another; and their
quiet happiness, in spite of all labor and privation, made me realize
that they might well extend a pitying thought to some of the apparently
wealthy members of the church. We may yet live to see the day when a new
scale shall come in vogue, and some Croesus who now stands in an enviable
light, shall then pass into his true position, and become an object of
pity. Mere dollars and cents are a misleading criterion of poverty and
wealth.

I had seen my friends, and found that the mother and her new nestling
were in comparative comfort, and I was on the homeward stretch along the
beach, when I saw Mr. Chance walking toward me.

"I was commissioned to look you up," he said.

"Thank you," I replied, "I have been of age for some years."

Of course he noticed the coolness in my voice, and in some way I divined
that he knew the cause.

We went aboard our homeward-bound train about 5 o'clock.

Mr. Chance helped me on, and evidently expected to sit with me, but I
thwarted him by dropping down beside an elderly lady, an acquaintance
who happened to be in that coach. I felt no grudge against him, but I
didn't care to have him pass from such a girl as Miss Sprig to me; his
conduct with her impaired his value somewhat in my eyes. My elderly
friend saw and recognized the situation, I am sure, and governed her
later remarks accordingly.

Mr. Chance passed on, and took a seat with one of the superfluous men,
for contrary to the rule on most such occasions, the male gender was in
excess of the female. I had not expected him to return to Miss Sprig;
men always become satiated with such girls, soon or late.

My elderly acquaintance entered upon an animated conversation, that
became more and more personal, and finally reached a climax when she
leaned over, and said in a semi-whisper:

"My dear Miss Leigh, you ought to marry."

I had been told this a number of times; any one would suppose, to listen
to some of these women, that I had but to put out my hand, and pluck a
man from the nearest bush.

"I don't doubt you will marry some day, but I'm afraid you may not
choose wisely"--here she lowered her voice again--"after a man reaches
thirty-five he becomes very fixed in his ways, and I don't think it's
safe for a maiden lady to