Live coals had been raked out upon the hearth.  Over these was placed a gridiron, and on this not very comfortable bed Kitty was endeavoring to force Mr. Lobster to lie still and be cooked.  But this he was by no means inclined to do; and no sooner did she place him on the heated bars, than he made his way off in the quickest possible time.  Then she caught hold of him with the tongs, restored him to his proper position on the gridiron, and with poker and tongs strove to hold him there.

As the lobster, a second and a third time, struggled free of Kitty’s tongs and poker, I could no longer restrain myself, but burst forth into a loud fit of laughter.  By the time this subsided, his lobstership was in the middle of the kitchen floor.  Picking him up, I threw him into a pot of boiling water, and then retreated from the kitchen, so convulsed with laughter that I could not utter a word.

Kitty did not soon hear the last of her attempt to broil a lobster.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE STRAWBERRY-WOMAN.

THE observance of economy in matters of family expenditure, is the duty of every housekeeper.  But, there is an economy that involves wrong to others, which, as being unjust and really dishonest, should be carefully avoided.  In a previous chapter, I introduced the, story of a poor fish-woman, as affording a lesson for the humane.  Let me here give another, which forcibly illustrates the subject of oppressive and unjust economy.  It is the story of a “Strawberry-Woman,” and appeared in one of the magazines some years ago.

“Strawb’rees! Strawb’rees! cried a poorly clad, tired-looking woman, about eleven o clock one sultry June morning.  She was passing a handsome house in Walnut street, into the windows of which she looked earnestly, in the hope of seeing the face of a customer.  She did not look in vain, for the shrill sound of her voice brought forward a lady, dressed in a silk morning-wrapper, who beckoned her to stop.  The woman lifted the heavy, tray from her bead, and placing it upon the door-step, sat wearily down.

“What’s the price of your strawberries?” asked the lady, as she came to the door.

“Ten cents a box, madam.  They are right fresh.”

“Ten cents!” replied the lady, in a tone of surprise, drawing herself up, and looking grave.  Then shaking her head and compressing her lips firmly, she added: 

“I can’t give ten cents for strawberries.  It’s too much.”

“You can’t get such strawberries as these for less, madam,” said the woman.  “I got a levy a box for them yesterday.”

“Then you got too much, that’s all I have to say.  I never pay such prices.  I bought strawberries in the market yesterday, just as good as yours, for eight cents a box.”

“Don’t know how they do to sell them at that price,” returned the woman.  “Mine cost nearly eight cents, and ought to bring me at least twelve.  But I am willing to take ten, so that I can, sell out quickly.  It’s a very hot day.”  And the woman wiped, with her apron, the perspiration from her glowing face.