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THE TOY KITCHEN; AND ITS MAKER.

HICH mine, said the Kitchen, will take you, I am afraid, ladies and gentlemen, into a

society than you are used to.

lower class of

I am not much

and can't find

of a hand at telling stories, words to say what I would, but I'll do my best. My first start in life is very easily described, for I am the handiwork of an old man who lived in a dark underground kitchen in one of the back streets of Westminster. Old Joe's neighbours were not, I am afraid, at all of a respectable kind, setting apart their poverty; but the old man held himself aloof and earned his scanty living, troubling no one, and interfering with none. From all I have heard him mutter to himself in his odd way while he was busy, and from what I heard his only visitor say, I think he must have been a paper-hanger or carpenter.

But he had been disabled from active work by a fall from a window which he was cleaning, and after that, had been sorely put to it, in order to earn a living. I am sure he must have had two little children at some time or other, and no doubt lost them from some of the countless illnesses which lie ready in waiting, like great flocks of wolves, for the poor children in great cities. Perhaps the wolf in their case was called "Fever, or perhaps "Cholera "; or, more likely still, "Hunger," or "Want of fresh air"; but all I can tell is that they were both dead since their mother, who must have died and left them all early, and poor old Joe then cared no more to exert himself in seeking the work that was so hard to get, and so difficult to keep.

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The business the old man now took up, his trade, as he called it, was the making of little toy kitchens, which he hawked about once a week, and sold for the modest sum of twopence each. They were most ingeniously made out of pieces of very thin board, something of the same kind they make hat boxes of. These pieces he bought in large quantities cheap, and

cut to suit his purpose. The floors were made of more solid wood, and the walls were papered with odd scraps of wall paper, sample patterns and such like, which some of his old employers gave him. The old man, with a few bits of wood, and the help of a little rough paint, constructed the rude likeness of a kitchen range, and a dresser, and very tidy little affairs we were for the price.

"I should like to put a kitchen table," said old Joe, surveying me with a critical eye, half screwed up; "it would make it more comferble like, and make both ends match. But I can't do it for the money no how. I'm bound to make a penny at least on each one to pay for my time, so the table must wait till better days."

I was a larger and better specimen of Joe's work, for I had been made at a time when the stock had been rather large, and prices low, and so I was generally kept as a sort of show article of what Joe could do when he liked. I had more room than Joe generally measured out to his usual kitchens, and having been originally papered with an especially neat and

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becoming" hanging, as Joe said, I had become quite a ruling favourite with the old man. I was now promoted to the place of honour on his tray, not for selling purposes, but for exhibition.

"That there chap will cost fourpence," replied Joe to all his little customers when they picked me out; "leastways one like him. This here, you see, is my adver-tise-ment. I couldn't afford to sell one like it for less than fourpence. The walls are so well papered, you see, and the bars of the range is shown, with the flames a rushin through 'em!"

"I should like a nice ittle kishin," said a fat, roley-poley little butcher's daughter to her burly father, as he was leisurely wandering outside his shop, admiring and looking over his nice joints of prime meat.

“Like a what, my duck?" said the jolly butcher, lifting up the rosy little petitioner, and giving her an airy ride on his shoulder; "what is it my pussy cat wants to-day of her dad?”

"A kishin," said the child, "a kishin-old man got such lots of kishins!"

The butcher gazed about him with a calm,

placid, satisfied air, like one of his own slain bullocks, when grazing peacefully in their meadows, and then catching sight of Joe in the distance, ran heavily after him with the delighted child. They soon reached the old man, and turned over his wares.

"There's a booful one, dad," said the fat child, "a booful one with a fire lighted! Oh, I like that so much!"

"I'll bring ye one next week, Miss," replied old Joe, seeing they were good customers; "this here ain't for sale, but I'll bring the fellow to he next week."

"I want it now," pouted the child, peevishly. "What's the price of him, master?" asked the butcher. "Don't be cross, Phoebe, you shall have it.'

"but

"I can't sell he," replied the old man, I'll bring you another just like it to-night, and it will be fourpence; I can't sell 'em no lower because of the time and trouble they takes."

"I want it now, I want a kishin now," whined Phoebe, hiding her red, cross face on her father's shoulder.

"I'll give ye sixpence for that one, old chap,"

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