Ah! there is Mrs. Quip's head, poked out of the north chamber window. A sure sign that it is five o'clock to the minute. Now she scuds across the yard, making a prodigious flutter with her flying calico long-short, among the hens and chickens, who take refuge in an upturned old barrel. Snatching some sticks from the wood-pile, she scuds back again to the kitchen, twitches a match from the mantel, lights the fire, hangs on the tea-kettle, jerks out the table, rattles on the cups and saucers, plates, knives, forks, etc., and throws open every blind, door, and window. This done, she flies up stairs, pokes Susan in the ribs, drags Mary out on the floor, throws a mug of water in "that lazy John's face," and intimates that "breakfast will be on the table in less than fifteen minutes."
John rubs the water out of his eyes, muttering a few unmentionable words. Susan and Mary make a transient visit to the looking-glass, and descend the stair's just as the coffee smokes upon the table. Mrs. Quip frightens the chickens into the barrel again with her calico long-short and the great bell that she ring at the barn-door to "call the men folks to breakfast," and takes her accustomed seat at the table.
"Brown bread or white? baked beans or salt meat? doughnuts, cheese, or apple-pie? which'll you have?" said Mrs. Quip to little Fanny.
"Ma'am?" said Fanny, with a bewildered look.
"Oh, dear; Susan Quip, for gracious' sake find out what that peddler's child wants; hurry, all of you. Baking to be done to-day; yesterday's ironing to finish; them new handkerchers to hem; John's trowsers to mend; buttery shelves to scour; brown bread sponge to set; yeast to make; pickles to scald; head-cheese to fix: hurry, all of you. Susan Quip, there's the cat in the buttery, smack, and--scissors--right into that buttermilk, arter a mouse. Scat--scat; Susan Quip, that's your doings--leaving the buttery door open. John Quip, do you drownd that cat to-day. Don't talk to me of kittens; kittens is as plenty as peddlers' children. Hand me that coffee, Susan Quip. Lord-a-mercy, there's the fishman: run, John--two mackerel, not more than sixpence a-piece; pinch 'em in the stomach, to see if they are fresh. If they are flabby, don't take 'em; if they ain't, do. Yes, every thing to do, to-day, and a little more beside. Soft soap to----Heavens and earth, John Quip, that mackerel man hasn't given you the right change by two cents. Here, stop him! John Quip--Susan--get out of the way, all of you; I'll go myself," and the calico long-short started in full pursuit of the mackerel defaulter.