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Dear Sir:—Most recent job of employment I was impeached from was home of Mrs. and Mr. J. W. Humburg, Pondside, N.J. Perhapsly you can tell me why, because I am disabled to understand the customary habits of some households.

Just a few days of yore I apply there in extreme coldness of snow. This Hon. Mrs. Humburg, dark hairs lady of muscular expression, approach to kitchen and observe me.

“You are a cook?” she ask it.

“Yes are!” I say it.

“Then you will be expected to feed the furnace while doing so,” she negotiate harshly.

“Must I be an engineer because I am a hired girl?” I requesh.

“I guess supposedly,” renig Hon. Mrs., while leading me to inferno of down-cellar where I was introduced to Hon. Furnace. This iron animal, Mr. Editor, lives like a very homely hermit in middle of low darkness. He set there in nest of ashes, with tin snakes growing from his forehead like zinc octopus. His teeth was full of blazes and he would of made a nice idol for Japanese to worship when feeling old-fashioned. I could not love his face which seem too hungry when open and too satisfied when closed.