I engaged Katy last May from a highly responsible intelligence office.  For and in consideration of a fee of three dollars, a lady-like agent, with a smooth voice and demeanor, passed over “the girl” to me as she might a brown paper parcel of moist sugar.  She supplied, gratis, a personal voucher for the woman I had engaged, having known her well for five years.  Katy had, moreover, a model “recommend,” which she unwrapped from a bit of newspaper that had kept it clean.  The chirography was the fashionable “long English;” the diction was good, and the orthography faultless.  Envelope and paper had evidently come from a lady’s davenport.

“This is to certify that Katherine Brady has lived in my family for eleven months as cook.  I have found her industrious, sober, neat, honest and obliging.  She also understands her business thoroughly.  She leaves me in consequence of my removal from the city.  (Mrs.) ...  No ...  West 57th St., New York City.”

If the certificate had a fault, it was that the fit was too nearly perfect.  I had heard of references written to order by venal scribes, and I consulted the city directory.  Mr. ...’s office was in Wall street, his residence No ...  West 57th street.  I called to see him, found him in, and found him a gentleman.  He had no doubt that all was right.  He believed the name of their latest cook was Katherine.  They called her “Katy.”  He knew that his wife was sorry to part with her, and inferred that she was a worthy woman.

We, too, were leaving town, but only for the summer.  Katy “liked the country in hot weather.  All the best fam’lies now-a-days had their country-places.”

It is not an easy matter to “change help” during a summer sojourn in a cottage distant an hour and a half from town.  The act involves one or more railway journeys, much running about in hot streets, and much hopeless ringing at dumb and dusty doors.  This is the explanation of Katy’s six months’ stay in my kitchen.  In town, she would have been dismissed at the end of the first week.  She was a wretched cook, and a worse laundress.  Within an hour after she entered my door, the decent black gown was exchanged for a dingy calico which she wore, without a collar, and minus a majority of the buttons, all day long and every day.  She was “a settled girl”—­owning to twenty-eight summers, and having weathered forty winters.  Her hair, streaked with gray, tumbled down as persistently as Patience Riderhood’s, and was uncomfortably easy of identification in ragout and muffins.  Her slippers were down at heel; her kitchen was never in order; her tins were black; her pots were greasy; her range was dull; her floors unclean.  Like all her compeers, she “found the place harder nor she had been give to onderstand, but was willin’ to do her best, seein’ she had come.”

Her best was sometimes sour bread, sometimes burned biscuits, generally weak, muddy coffee, always under-seasoned vegetables and over-seasoned soup.  By July 1, she developed a genius for quarreling with the other servants that got up a domestic hurricane, and I told her she must leave.  She promptly burst into tears, and reminded me that I “had engaged her for the sayson, an’ what would a pore girl be doin’ in the empty city in the middle of the summer?