CHAPTER XI.
WHAT TO DO WITH A SOUP-BONE.

“I don’t think there is any more painful fact connected with a small income than one’s inability to do anything for the distress one hears of,” said Harry as he chipped an egg at breakfast on Sunday morning.

“I feel that too, very keenly; but are you thinking of any special instance?”

“Yes, a poor fellow was killed a few weeks ago on the track here, and he left a delicate wife and three little children. They were taking up a collection in the cars for her yesterday. I contributed my mite, of course; but what are a few dollars in a case like that? They say he had been out of work for weeks before he got the employment that led to his death, and that if some more permanent help does not reach them, they will be near starvation this winter.”

“Oh, surely not, certainly not, if people only know of the distress; each one will do a little, and so very little will keep hunger from them,” said Molly confidently.

“Well, I hope so, but unfortunately times are very hard, and these people are strangers, while all Greenfield charity is needed for the well-known poor.”

“Well, I believe in each one doing the duty that lies before him without waiting to see if others do theirs. We are strangers here, too; so perhaps we have the best right to help those like ourselves.”

“But, my dear Molly,” expostulated Harry, “we can but just meet our own expenses.”

“I know, but if there is any real need we must do our part; not as I should like to do it, for to a needy family I would like to give beefsteak and comforts as well as necessities, but that we can’t do. What we can we will. Can we spare a dollar a month, do you think, from our twenty dollars margin?”

“Why, of course, if you say so.”

“I do, if necessary. I will see the woman and judge if the need is very pressing, and then, perhaps, some of our neighbors will do something.”

“You’re a brick, Molly, my dear, but what you may be thinking of I don’t know.”

“If the necessity is great I can do something; if it is not, the woman may despise what I can do.”

No more was said, but next morning, on her way back from the depot, after seeing Harry off, she went to a row of tiny tenements, built on the street through which the railroad passed, evidently the homes of the very poor, and in one of which she was told Mrs. Gibbs was to be found.

In the very poorest of the very poor little group, she found the widow and her fatherless children, the oldest only five, the youngest not six weeks old. The mother looked so frail and white that Molly’s heart ached to think that what she could do was hardly the sort of help this poor soul needed. Surely beef tea, and milk and eggs, and every nourishing thing was required to build up that fragile frame. And all she would be sure of giving was bread and occasionally, perhaps, a savory meal. How she wished she knew more people whom she might influence for the right kind of help!

She talked to Mrs. Gibbs, and learned that her poor husband had been in work only a fortnight, after being months idle from sickness, when the accident happened, and that the baby was only three days old when its father died.

“At first every one was good; they came and helped me and did a great deal; but there are so many needing help. I could not expect it all to be given to me, and I did think I might get a little sewing when I was out of bed, but I have no machine, and so I can only earn a few cents a week. What I should have done I don’t know, if a kind gentleman hadn’t made a collection in his car for me, and brought me on Saturday $12, which is owing for two months’ rent.”

“And you will have it all to pay away?” cried Molly.

“Yes, ma’am, I must, but oh, I’m so thankful to have it. The dread of losing the roof over us is worse than hunger or anything.”

“But surely you have not needed food?”

The tears came to the woman’s eyes.

“I’m never hungry, but the children are, and yet I think if I could get good food for a week or two, I should get strong and could do work.”

“That food she must have,” thought Molly. “At all events, for a few days she shall have half a pound of steak or a chop. I believe her. That delicate look is semi-starvation.”

Molly bought at the butcher’s that morning one pound of the tender side of the round steak. It cost sixteen cents, and she intended Mrs. Gibbs to have one third for three days.

“Then when she has one nourishing solid meal a day she can make up on other things, and the dollar we have squeezed out for her must be made to go as far as possible.”

When Molly had made her clear soup on Saturday she had looked regretfully at the couple of pounds of meat and vegetables that were strained from it, wishing she knew to whom to give it, as her own family was not large enough to need it, and hoping some one might ask for food at the door. She had kept it, also about a cup of the soup that was thick at the bottom (the richest part, although for appearance’ sake it must not be used with clear soup).

She had a use for it now: it would make a savory hash, not nourishing enough for an invalid like Mrs. Gibbs to depend on, but good for her children and herself, in addition to the steak.

Marta was busy washing; so, soon after eleven, Molly chopped the meat and vegetables quite fine, added about a third the quantity of cold mashed potato to it, a tea-spoonful of Worcestershire sauce, and a table-spoonful of flour. This she moistened with a half cup of the soup and seasoned it with pepper and salt. Then she greased a deep yellow pie-plate, put the hash in it and set it in the oven.

Having some kind of hot bread every morning, Molly used but very little bread. She had made a loaf on Saturday which was more than half left. She must give that, and make a few quick rolls for their own dinner.

While the hash was getting brown she put a pint of flour to dry and warm, and the third of a cake of compressed yeast to dissolve in a cup of warm milk, into which, when well mixed, she stirred a table-spoonful of butter till it got soft, and then the beaten yolk of an egg, two tea-spoonfuls of sugar and one half of salt.

She made a hole in the flour, poured in the milk, etc., and stirred them together, adding a little more warm milk till it was a thick paste, too stiff for batter, yet not stiff enough for dough,—just as stiff as it would be stirred with a spoon. She beat it for five minutes, and then set it, covered with a cloth, in a warm place.

The hash was now quite brown; and, as Molly had no one to send to-day, she put on her bonnet and took it and the bread and piece of steak to Mrs. Gibbs, begging her to cook and eat the latter for herself.

“I will for baby’s sake. Thank you! Oh, thank you!”

At two o’clock the rolls Molly had set had risen to the top of the bowl, which had been half full. She beat them down with a spoon thoroughly, covered them again and put them to rise, and in an hour they were again light. The dough was beaten down, a dozen gem-pans were greased, and a scant table-spoonful of the paste put into each; the paste was so thick and ropy that it was difficult to take up with a spoon, and a floured knife helped the performance. There was a small cupful left, and to this Molly put a tea-spoonful more sugar, and put it into a small round tin pan, that had once evidently been a dipper; this was for breakfast. They were all now put to rise, and in half an hour they looked like little balloons rising out of the pans. They were brushed lightly over with warm milk and put in the oven; the rolls took fifteen minutes, the breakfast-cake twenty-five, to bake.

The chicken pie Molly had made for Sunday had only been half eaten, as there had been three quarters of a pound of veal in it as well as the chicken,—the drumsticks of which, by the way, she had reserved for Monday morning’s breakfast, prepared in the following way:

The sinews were taken out, when the feet were cut off, in this way: the yellow skin only was cut, the sinews were drawn out, the bones removed and their places filled with a forcemeat made of veal chopped very fine, with an equal proportion of salt pork. Molly had bought enough veal on Saturday for dinner and the pie, and she took a very small piece of that cooked in the latter, for her forcemeat, of which there was needed only two scant table-spoonfuls altogether, and just enough of the jelly to moisten it. She seasoned the forcemeat rather highly, then filled the place of the removed bones with it, taking care not to pack it too tight, sewed up the opening (having left a good piece of the skin of the thigh on the legs when removing them), wrapped each in a very thin slice of pork, tied them round, floured them, and baked them in a sharp oven twenty-five minutes, and they were brown and crisp when taken up.

To make the pie presentable for dinner at small expense she had ordered a dozen large oysters; the oyster liquor was strained, a table-spoonful of butter and half one of flour put in a saucepan, stirred till they bubbled, then the cold pie, all but the pastry, added to it, with part of the oyster liquor and the oysters. The pastry was cut into neat pieces, and put into the oven to get hot, while Molly chopped a table-spoonful of parsley very fine.

When the fricassee came to the boiling-point, it was carefully stirred round and the parsley sprinkled in, and then the oysters were left five minutes to plump. While doing this she directed Marta to prepare a fondue, telling her to put a table-spoonful of butter and one of flour in a small saucepan, stir them till they bubbled, and then to add a gill of milk to them.

“That is really thick white sauce, you see, Marta; you will soon know of how many things a good white sauce is the foundation. Stir to prevent burning. Now add to it the two ounces of cheese I told you to grate, and a level salt-spoonful of salt, and as much pepper as will go on the end of the salt-spoon. Now you can take it off the fire, and turn it into a bowl; beat the yolks of two eggs light, and stir them to it. While you dish and dress the cabbage, and take up the potatoes and fricassee, I will beat the whites of three eggs solid.”

Molly wanted to see if Marta remembered how the cabbage was dressed the last time, and left her to it.

When the vegetables were ready the fricassee was taken up, the chicken and veal laid in the centre of the dish, the oysters round it, and the strips of pastry at the four corners.

Now the whites of eggs were stirred into the fondue gently; it was poured into a small buttered dish, which it only half filled, and was put to bake while the first part of the dinner was eaten.

“This will be done as soon as it is golden brown, and you must bring it to table at once, as it will fall if left standing.”

Molly meant to have dinners that were as little trouble as possible on Monday, feeling that as it was washing day Marta should have less to do; therefore the bill of fare was only

Chicken and Oyster Fricassee.
Cabbage.                           Potatoes.
Fondue.      Peaches and Cream.

She had also bought again a forequarter of lamb, so that she might see how far Marta had profited by her instructions. She would vary the cooking somewhat, but the cutting and arrangement of the joint would be the same. She noted in her account-book that evening:

She had learnt that the last week she had ordered too little butter and needed three pounds instead of two.

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