Two of our house servants were more or less permanent; that is, they had been with us since we opened the house, and were as content as restless spirits can be.  These were the housekeeper and the cook,—­the hub of the house.  The former is a Norwegian, tall, angular, and capable, with a knot of yellow hair at the back of her head,—­ostensibly for sticking lead pencils into,—­and a disposition to keep things snug and clean.  Her duties include the general supervision of both houses and the special charge of store-rooms, food cellars, and table supplies of all sorts.  She is efficient, she whistles while she works, and I see but little of her.  I suspect that Polly knows her well.

The cook, Mary, is small, Irish, gray, with the temper of a pepper-pod and the voice of a guinea-hen suffering from bronchitis, but she can cook like an angel.  She is an artist, and I feel as if the seven-dollar-a-week stipend were but a “tip” to her, and that sometime she will present me with a bill for her services.  My safeguard, and one that I cherish, is an angry word from her to the housekeeper.  She jeeringly asserted that she, the cook, got $2 a week more than she, the housekeeper, did.  As every one knows that the housekeeper has $5 a week, I am holding this evidence against the time when Mary asks for a lump sum adequate to her deserts.  The number of things which Mary can make out of everything and out of nothing is wonderful; and I am fully persuaded that all the moneys paid to a really good cook are moneys put into the bank.  I often make trips to the kitchen to tell Mary that “the dinner was great,” or that “Mrs. Kyrle wants the receipt for that pudding,” or that “my friend Kyrle asks if he may see you make a salad dressing;” but “don’t do it, Mary; let the secret die with you.”  The cook cackles, like the guinea-hen that she is, but the dishes are none the worse for the commendation.

The laundress is just a washerwoman, so far as I know.  She undoubtedly changes with the seasons, but I do not see her, though the clothes are always bleaching on the grass at the back of the house.

The maids are as changeable as old-fashioned silk.  There are always two of them; but which two, is beyond me.  I tell Polly that Four Oaks is a sprocket-wheel for maids, with two links of an endless chain always on top.  It makes but little difference which links are up, so the work goes smoothly.  Polly thinks the maids come to Four Oaks just as less independent folk go to the mountains or the shore, for a vacation, or to be able to say to the policeman, “I’ve been to the country.”  Their system is past finding out; but no matter what it is, we get our dishes washed and our beds made without serious inconvenience.  The wage account in the house amounts to just $25 a week.  My pet system of an increasing wage for protracted service doesn’t appeal to these birds of passage, who alight long enough to fill their crops with our wild rice and celery, and then take wing for other feeding-grounds.  This kind of life seems fitted for mallards and maids, and I have no quarrel with either.  From my view, there are happier instincts than those which impel migration; but remembering that personal views are best applied to personal use, I wish both maids and mallards bon voyage.