The trouble began early one morning. I was vigorously beating the ingredients for muffins when the bowl separated and a thin stream of batter enriched the front of my im- maculate white apron. I had known that the bowl was cracked, but had taken a chance. Later I tried to froth eggs with a beater which balked at every third turn of its handle. Be- cause I had left my spectacles upstairs I read a recipe wrong, with the result that at the end of four hours, when I wanted to serve it, I had a gently flowing rivulet in place of the firm jelly I expected. My crowning culinary mishap came in the baking of a cake. There was a refractory damper in the range, but I had put off having it repaired. In consequence the cake presented an appearance of deep-seated dejection when 85 86 COMFORT OF THE FAMILY I removed it from the oven. Craving appre- ciation, I called the Judge, our black and white hound, and crumpled a few fragments of the alleged cake into his dish. The dog gave one disdainful sniff at the offering, one reproach- ful glance at me, then turned and stalked haughtily from the room. He was so funny in his repudiation that I laughed until I cried. This relieved the tension of my feelings, and I abandoned the kitchen and its disappoint- ments for the sewing-room. It was quite evident that my sins of omis- sion had me at the end of their leash that day, for when I attempted to sew on a few buttons I found that mmaber 90 was the only thread my basket afforded. Then I tried cutting chif- fon with shears as dull as an abstract on Cur- rency, and later turned my piece box upside down, hunting for a scrap of lawn with which to mend. As though to test my domestic equipment as well as my temper, the mail brought a re- quest for an article to be sent by parcel post. I hunted for twine, only to find short pieces in endless variety, no two alike. The wrapping THE TOOLS OF YOUR TRADE 87 paper could be accredited to the same class, and when I came to the point where I must ad- dress my very untidy, disreputable-looking package, the ink-well was empty and my favor- ite pen was apparently taking an afternoon off. It was just here that I reached that emo- tional stage so ahnost universal with the femi- nine portion of hmnanity, a desire to scold some one or cry. Having indulged myself in the latter pastime with royal prodigality and in consequence feeling horribly ashamed of my- self, I picked up the morning paper. The first words on the page which greeted my eyes were : "You can do no efficient work without the tools of your trade." "The tools of your trade !" my mind echoed dully. Why, at the very root of all the trouble of my tire- some day lay the lack of proper tools I Would the Head of the House attempt to carry on his business without proper equipment? Would any workman who stood for efficiency? AU that evening, paper and pencil in hand, I chewed the cud of reflection. The next morn- ing I started for the city. That was two weeks ago. Now a fireless 88 COMFORT OF THE FAMILY cooker, a bread-sKcer — ^we as a family are ad- dicted to sandwiches — and a bread-mixer sim- plify my work and save my time and energy. The white enameled shelves of my pantry, where I cook, hold no unnecessary or imperfect utensil.

AI-modernized reading of the original text

The trouble began early one morning. I was vigorously beating the ingredients for muffins when the bowl separated and a thin stream of batter enriched the front of my immaculate white apron. I had known that the bowl was cracked, but had taken a chance. Later I tried to froth eggs with a beater which balked at every third turn of its handle. Because I had left my spectacles upstairs I read a recipe wrong, with the result that at the end of four hours, when I wanted to serve it, I had a gently flowing rivulet in place of the firm jelly I expected. My crowning culinary mishap came in the baking of a cake. There was a refractory damper in the range, but I had put off having it repaired. In consequence the cake presented an appearance of deep-seated dejection when I removed it from the oven. Craving appreciation, I called the Judge, our black and white hound, and crumpled a few fragments of the alleged cake into his dish. The dog gave one disdainful sniff at the offering, one reproachful glance at me, then turned and stalked haughtily from the room. He was so funny in his repudiation that I laughed until I cried. This relieved the tension of my feelings, and I abandoned the kitchen and its disappointments for the sewing-room. It was quite evident that my sins of omission had me at the end of their leash that day, for when I attempted to sew on a few buttons I found that number 90 was the only thread my basket afforded. Then I tried cutting chiffon with shears as dull as an abstract on Currency, and later turned my piece box upside down, hunting for a scrap of lawn with which to mend. As though to test my domestic equipment as well as my temper, the mail brought a request for an article to be sent by parcel post. I hunted for twine, only to find short pieces in endless variety, no two alike. The wrapping paper could be accredited to the same class, and when I came to the point where I must address my very untidy, disreputable-looking package, the ink-well was empty and my favorite pen was apparently taking an afternoon off. It was just here that I reached that emotional stage so almost universal with the feminine portion of humanity, a desire to scold some one or cry. Having indulged myself in the latter pastime with royal prodigality and in consequence feeling horribly ashamed of myself, I picked up the morning paper. The first words on the page which greeted my eyes were : "You can do no efficient work without the tools of your trade." "The tools of your trade !" my mind echoed dully. Why, at the very root of all the trouble of my tiresome day lay the lack of proper tools I Would the Head of the House attempt to carry on his business without proper equipment? Would any workman who stood for efficiency? AU that evening, paper and pencil in hand, I chewed the cud of reflection. The next morning I started for the city. That was two weeks ago. Now a fireless cooker, a bread-slicer — ^we as a family are addicted to sandwiches — and a bread-mixer simplify my work and save my time and energy. The white enameled shelves of my pantry, where I cook, hold no unnecessary or imperfect utensil.

For the comfort of the family