Ruth brought home a lovely little spice-box as the first donation to
the art-kitchen. Father bought a copper tea-kettle, and the sheet-iron
man made the tin boiler. There was a wide, high, open fireplace in the
dining-room; we had wondered what we should do with it in the winter.
It had a soapstone mantel, with fluted pilasters, and a brown-stone
hearth and jambs. Back a little, between these sloping jambs, we had a
nice iron fire-board set, with an ornamental collar around the
funnel-hole. The stove stood modestly sheltered, as it were, in its
new position, its features softened to almost a sitting-room
congruity; it did not thrust itself obtrusively forward, and force its
homely association upon you; it was low, too, and its broad top looked
smooth and enticing.

There was a large, light closet at the back of the room, where was set
a broad, deep iron sink, and a pump came up from the cistern. This
closet had double sliding doors; it could be thrown all open for busy
use, or closed quite away and done with.

There were shelves here, and cupboards. Here we ranged our tins and
our saucepans,--the best and newest; Rosamond would have nothing
to do with the old battered ones; over them we hung our spoons
and our little strainers, our egg-beaters, spatulas, and quart
measures,--these last polished to the brightness of silver tankards;
in one corner stood the flour-barrel, and over it was the sieve; in
the cupboards were our porcelain kettles,--we bought two new ones, a
little and a big,--the frying-pans, delicately smooth and nice now,
outside and in, the roasting-pans, and the one iron pot, which we
never meant to use when we could help it. The worst things we could
have to wash were the frying and roasting pans, and these, we soon
found, were not bad when you did it all over and at once every time.