It was of no use, however--in less than a week she was drunk again, and I had to let her go.
After that, for some months, we had burnt steaks, waxy potatoes, and dried roast beef to our hearts' content; while such luxuries as muffins, hot cakes, and the like were not to be seen on our uninviting table.
My next good cook had such a violent temper, that I was actually afraid to show my face in the kitchen.

I bore with her until patience was no longer a virtue, and then she went.
Biddy, who took charge of my "kitchen cabinet," a year or so afterwards, proved herself a culinary artist of no ordinary merit.
But, alas! Biddy "kept a room;" and so many strange disappearances of bars of soap, bowls of sugar, prints of butter, etc., took place, that I was forced to the unwilling conclusion that her room was simply a store room for the surplussage of mine.

Some pretty strong evidence on this point coming to my mind, I dismissed Biddy, who was particularly forward in declaring her honesty, although I had never accused her of being wanting in that inestimable virtue.
Some of my experiences in cooks have been musing enough.

Or, I should rather say, are musing enough to _think_ about: they were rather annoying at the time of their occurrence.

One of these experiences I will relate.