IN WINTER LAND. 151

by the violent exercise he was obliged to take to bring the pots and
pans back to that condition of newness and polish which Mrs.
Discipline considered necessary.

He was in the room with the old lady now, and he much preferred
working in the scullery, where the little boy who lived in the cupboard
. could look out and wink at him.

He worked with a will, however, and by-and-by Mrs. Discipline
told him that he might leave off and have his supper.

‘Where is it?” he asked eagerly. “Oh, I do hope—I do hope
—that it’s very, very nice.”

“You do, do you?” replied the old lady, mimicking his tone;
“and you ask where it is. Do you expect me to cook it for you?
You have to prepare it. You'll eat nothing while you’re in my house
that you don’t first earn and then cook for yourself. No drones are
permitted to go inside my hive. We are all busy bees here. Those
who don’t choose to work must not eat; those who are not good, and
cheerful, and obedient have to pay my father a visit. The water boils
in that pot; you will find meal in that jar; pour it in and make your
porridge.”

“But I never made porridge in my life.”

“T daresay not. Make it for the first time to-night.”

“T don’t know how. TI shall be sure to make it wrong.”

“Very likely; but when you have made it wrong several times,
you will find it so disagreeable that you will set your wits-to work
and try to make it right. I’m not going to tell you how to do it, so
you needn’t think it. There’s the water boiling in the pot, and
there’s the meal in the jar. When the porridge is done you will find
a basin on this dresser into which you can pour it; you can eat as
much as you please.”

“ But is porridge the only thing I am to have for supper ?”

“T don’t know of anything else, but if you are capable of cooking
something nicer, do so.”

Mrs. Discipline went out of the room as she spoke, leaving Butter-
cup in full possession of the kitchen; he felt very angry. He said: to
himself that no little boy in all the wide world had ever been treated