It seemed as though that kitchen was just calculated to make a boy feel
cross. The table stood against the wall on its three legs, the
tablecloth was daubed with molasses and stained with gravy; a plate,
with something in it which looked like melted lard, but which Tip's
mother called butter, and a half loaf of bread, were the only eatable
articles as yet on the table; and around these the flies had gathered in
such numbers, that it almost seemed as though they might carry the loaf
away entirely, if too many of them didn't drown themselves in the
butter. Over all the July sun poured in its rays from the eastern
window, the only one in the room.
Tip stumbled over his father's boots, and made his way to the stove,
where his mother was bending over a spider of sizzling pork.
"Well," she said, as he came near, "did you get up for all day? I'd be
ashamed--great boy like you--to lie in bed till this time of day, and let
your mother split wood and bring water to cook your breakfast with."
"You cooked, a little for you, too, didn't you?" asked Tip, in a saucy,
good-natured tone.
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