BEST SELECTIONS FOR READINGS AND RECITATIONS NUMBER 23 RUTH PINCH'S HOUSEKEEPING-AND WHAT CAME OF IT. Adapted from Martin Chuzzlewit. Tom Pinch was a manly, honest, young fellow, whose good qualities called forth the admiration of all who knew him. By an unfortunate circumstance, he was discharged from the architect's office in which he was employed, and similarly his sister Ruth lost her position as governess. With singularly happy hearts, they resolutely determine to overcome their difficulties together. They rent a small home, in which Ruth, with very little household knowledge, reigns mistress. The economical arrangements thus forced upon them prove to be both pathetic and amusing. PLEASANT little Ruth! Cheerful, tidy, bustling, quiet, little Ruth! To be Tom's housekeeper. What dignity! It was such a grand novelty. Well might she take the keys out of the little chiffonier, which held the tea and sugar, and jingle them before Tom's eyes when he came down to breakfast in the morning! Well might she put them up in that blessed little pocket of hers with merry pride! "I don't know, Tom," said his sister, blushing, "I am not quite confident, but I think I could make a beefsteak-pudding, if I tried, Tom." "In the whole catalogue of cookery there is nothing I should like so much!" cried Tom. "But if it should happen not to come right the first time," his sister faltered, "but should turn out to be a stew, or a soup or something." The serious way in which she looked at Tom, and the way in which he looked at her, and the way in which she gradually broke into a laugh at her own expense, would have enchanted you. Why, it gives us a new interest in the dinner," laughed Tom; "we put into a lottery for a beefsteakpudding, and we may make some wonderful discovery, and produce such a dish as never was known before." “I shall not be surprised if we do," returned his sister, laughing merrily. "We can't cook it into nothing, that's a great comfort; so if you like to venture, I will.” Well, she washed up the breakfast cups, chatting away the whole time, put everything in its place, made the room as neat as herself you must not suppose its shape was half as neat as hers though, or anything like it-and brushed Tom's old hat round and round, and round again. Then she discovered, all in a moment, that Tom's shirtcollar was frayed out at the edge, and flying up-stairs for needle and thread, came flying down again, and set it right with wonderful expertness, never once sticking the needle in his face, although she was humming his pet tune from first to last. Off she was again-tying that compact little chin of hers into a equally compact little bonnet, and inviting Tom to come and see the steak cut with his own eyes. So off they trotted, arm in arm, nimbly as you please. To see the butcher slap that steak, to see him cut it off, so smooth and juicy, was agreeable-it really was. Then back to the lodgings again, after they had bought some eggs, flour, and such small matters. Ruth prepared to make the pudding. Ay, ay! That she did. First she tripped down-stairs for the flour, then for the pie-board, then for the eggs, then for the butter, then for a jug of water, then for the rolling-pin, then for a pudding-basin, then for the pepper, then for the salt. Horrified to find she had no apron on, up-stairs, by way of variety. She didn't put it on up-stairs, but came dancing down with it in her hand; it took an immense time to be arranged, having to be tapped, rebuked, and wheedled at the pockets before it would set right, and when it did-but never mind; this is a sober chronicle. Then there were her cuffs to be tucked up, and a little ring to pull off, and during all these preparations she looked demurely at Tom from under her dark lashes. It was a perfect treat to see her-her brows knit and her rosy lips pursed up, kneading away at the crust, rolling it out, cutting it into strips, lining the basin with it, shaving it fine off around the rim, chopping the steak into pieces, raining down pepper and salt, packing them into the basin, pouring in cold water for gravy; until at last she clapped her |