BETTY has a real stove, just as real as the one in the kitchen, if it
is not quite so big. It has pots and kettles and a frying-pan, and a
soup-pot, and the oven bakes beautifully, and it is just lovely! I
went to spend the afternoon with her yesterday, and we cooked all the
time, except when we were eating. First, we made soup in the soup-pot,
with some pieces of cold goose, and we took some to Auntie (she is
Betty’s mother), and she said it was de-licious, and took two cups of
it. (They were doll’s cups; Betty says I ought to put that in, but I
don’t see any need.) Then we made scrambled egg and porridge, and baked
some custard in the oven, and it was just exactly like a big custard
in the big cups at home. The cake was queer, so I won’t stop to tell
about that, though Rover ate most of it, and the rest we crumbled up
for the pigeons, so it wasn’t wasted; but the best of all was the
griddle-cakes. Oh, they were splendid! The griddle is just the right
size for one, so they were as round as pennies, and about the same
size; and we had maple syrup on them, and Maggie the cook said she
was so jealous (she called it “jellies”) that she should go straight
back to Ireland; but I don’t believe she will. I don’t feel very well
to-day, and Betty wasn’t at school, either. But I don’t think it had
anything to do with the griddle-cakes, and I am going to play with
Betty again to-morrow,—if Mamma will let me.