“I am always afraid of manual-labor schools.  I am not afraid that these girls could not read, for every American girl reads, and to read is much more important than to cook; but I am afraid that not all can write—­some of them were not more than twelve years old.

“And what of the boys?  Must a common cook always be a girl? and must a boy not cook unless on the top of the ladder, with the pay of the president of Harvard College?

“I am jealous for the schools; I have heard a gentleman who stands high in science declare that the cooking schools would eventually kill out every literary college in the land—­for women.  But why not for men?  If the food for the body is more important than the food for the mind, let us destroy the latter and accept the former, but let us not continue to do what has been tried for fifteen hundred years,—­to keep one half of the world to the starvation of the mind, in order to feed better the physical condition of the other half.

“Let us have cooks; but let us leave it a matter of choice, as we leave the dressmaking and the shoe-making, the millinery and the carpentry,—­free to be chosen!

“There are cultivated and educated women who enjoy cooking; so there are cultivated men who enjoy Kensington embroidery.  Who objects?  But take care that some rousing of the intellect comes first,—­that it may be an enlightened choice,—­and do not so fill the day with bread and butter and stitches that no time is left for the appreciation of Whittier, letting at least the simple songs of daily life and the influence of rhythm beautify the dreary round of the three meals a day.”

Miss Mitchell had a stock of conundrums on hand, and was a good guesser.  She told her stories at all times when they happened to come into her mind.  She would arrive at her sister’s house, just from Poughkeepsie on a vacation, and after the threshold was crossed and she had said “Good morning,” in a clear voice to be heard by all within her sight, she would, perhaps, say, “Well, I have a capital story which I must tell before I take my bonnet off, or I shall forget it!” And there went with her telling an action, voice, and manner which added greater point to the story, but which cannot be described.  One of her associates at Vassar, in recalling some of her anecdotes, writes:  “Professor Mitchell was quite likely to stand and deliver herself of a bright little speech before taking her seat at breakfast.  It was as though the short walk from the observatory had been an inspiration to thought.”

She was quick at repartee.  On one occasion Charlotte Cushman and her friend Miss Stebbins were visiting Miss Mitchell at Vassar.  Miss Mitchell took them out for a drive, and pointed out the different objects of interest as they drove along the banks of the Hudson.  “What is that fine building on the hill?” asked Miss Cushman.—­“That,” said Miss Mitchell, “was a boys’ school, originally, but it is now used as a hotel, where they charge five dollars a day!”—­“Five dollars a day?” exclaimed Miss Cushman; “Jupiter Ammon!”—­“No,” said Miss Stebbins, “Jupiter Mammon!”—­“Not at all,” said Miss Mitchell, “Jupiter gammon!”