“MY DEAR CITY SISTER,—­Mother said to-night, as we were promenading the dining-room for the sake of exercise, and also to clear off the table (Maggie had the toothache and was off duty):  ’Sadie, my dear child, haven’t you written to Ester yet?  Do you think it is quite right to neglect her so, when she must be very anxious to hear from home?’ Now, you know, when mother says, ‘Sadie, my dear child,’ and looks at me from out those reproachful eyes of hers, there is nothing short of mixing a mess of bread that I would not do for her.  So here I am—­place, third story front; time, 11:30 P.M.; position, foot of the bed (Julia being soundly sleeping at the head), one gaiter off and one gaiter on, somewhat after the manner of ‘my son John’ so renowned in history.  Speaking of bread, how abominably that article can act.  I had a solemn conflict with a batch of it this morning.  Firstly, you must know, I forgot it.  Mother assured me it was ready to be mixed before I awakened, so it must have been before that event took place that the forgetfulness occurred; however, be that as it may, after I was thoroughly awake, and up, and down, I still forgot it.  The fried potatoes were frying themselves fast to that abominable black dish in which they are put to sizzle, and which, by the way, is the most nefarious article in the entire kitchen list to get clean (save and excepting the dish-cloth).  Well, as I was saying, they burned themselves, and I ran to the rescue.  Then Minie wanted me to go to the yard with her, to see a ’dear cunning little brown and gray thing, with some greenish spots, that walked and spoke to her.’  The interesting stranger proved to be a fair-sized frog!  While examining into, and explaining minutely the nature and character and occupations of the entire frog family, the mixture in the tin pail, behind the kitchen stove, took that opportunity to sour.  My! what a bubble it was in, and what an interesting odor it emitted, when at last I returned from frogdom to the ordinary walks of life, and gave it my attention.  Maggie was above her elbows in the wash-tub, so I seized the pail, and in dire haste and dismay ran up two flights of stairs in search of mother.  I suppose you know what followed.  I assure you, I think mothers and soda are splendid!  What a remarkable institution that ingredient is.  While I made sour into sweet with the aid of its soothing proclivities, I moralized; the result of which was that after I had squeezed and mushed and rolled over, and thumped and patted my dough the requisite number of times, I tucked it away under blankets in a corner, and went out to the piazza to ask Dr. Douglass if he knew of an article in the entire round of Materia Medica which could be given to human beings when they were sour and disagreeable, and which, after the manner of soda in dough, would immediately work a reform.  On his acknowledging his utter ignorance of any such principle, I advanced the idea that cooking was a much more developed science than medicine; thence followed an animated discussion.