 CHAPTER X. SHIRT BUTTONS CHAPTER X. SHIRT BUTTONS In a previous chapter I gave the reader one of the experiences of my sister's husband, Mr. John Jones. I now give another. There was a time in my married life, thus Mr. Jones writes, in one of his confessions, when I was less annoyed if my bosom or wristband happened to be minus a button than I am at present. But continual dropping will wear away a stone, and the ever-recurring buttonless collar or wristband will wear out a man's patience, be he naturally as enduring as the man of us. I don't mean by this that Mrs. Jones is a neglectful woman. Oh no, don't let that be imagined for a moment. Mrs. Jones is a woman who has an eye for shirt buttons, and when that is said, a volume is told in a few words. But I don't care how carefully wife is, nor how good an eye she may have for shirt buttons. There will come a time when, from some cause or other, she will momentarily abate her vigilance, and that will be the very time when Betty's washing board or Nancy's sad iron has been at work upon the buttons. For a year or two after our marriage I used to express impatience whenever in putting on a clean shirt I found a button gone. Mrs. Jones bore this for a while without exhibiting much feeling, but it fretted her more than she permitted anyone to see. At length the constant recurrence of the evil I didn't know as much then as I do now, annoyed me so that I passed from ejaculatory expressions of impatience into more decided and emphatic disapprobation, and to pasha, and there it is again, and the like were added. I declare Mrs. Jones this is too bad, or I've given up hoping for a shirt with a full complement of buttons, or if you can't sew the buttons on my shirt Mrs. Jones I will hire someone to do it. This last expression of displeasure I never ventured upon but once I have always felt ashamed of it since whenever a recollection of my unreasonableness and impatience in the early times of the shirt button trouble has crossed my mind. My wife took it so much to heart and so earnestly avowed her constant solicitude in regard to the shirt buttons that I resolved from that time to bear the evil like a man and instead of grumbling or complaining make known the fact of a deficiency whenever it occurred as a good joke, and so for a year or so it used to be when the buttons were missing. Buttons again Mrs. Jones. Or, do you see that? Or, here's the old story. Always sit laughingly and varied as to the mood or fertility of fancy, but on so grave a subject as shirt buttons Mrs. Jones had no heart for a joke. The fact that her vigilance had proved all in vain and that, in spite of constant care, a shirt had found its way into my drawer lacking its full complement of buttons was something too serious for a smile or a jest, and my words, no matter how lightly spoken, would be felt as I reproof. Any allusion therefore to shirt buttons was sure to produce a cloud upon the otherwise calm brow of Mrs. Jones. It was a sore subject and could not be touched even by the light end of a feather without producing pain. What was I to do? Put off with a lack of a shirt button, uncomplainingly? Pin my collar if the little circular piece of bone or ivory were gone and not hint at the emission. Yes, I resolved not to say a word more about shirt buttons, but to bear the evil whenever it occurred with the patience of a martyr. Many days had not passed before this resolution was taken before, on changing my linen one morning I found that there was a button less than the usual number on the bosom of my shirt. Mrs. Jones had been up on the evening before, half an hour after I was in bed, looking over my shirts to see if everything was in order, but even her sharp eyes had failed to discover the place left vacant by a deserting member of the shirt button fraternity. I knew she had done her best, and I pity it, rather than blamed her for I was sensible that a knowledge of the fact which had just come to light would trouble her a thousand times more than it did me. The breakfast hour passed without a discovery by Mrs. Jones of the fact that there was a button off of the bosom of my shirt, but when I came in at dinner time her first words looking at me were, Why, Mr. Jones, there's a button off your bosom. I know, said I, indifferently. It was off when I put the shirt on this morning, but it makes no difference. You can sew it on when the shirt next comes from the wash. I was really sincere in what I said and took some merit to myself for being as composed as I was on so agitating subject. Judge of my surprise, then, to hear Mrs. Jones exclaim with a flushed face. Indeed, Mr. Jones, this is too much. No difference indeed. A nice opinion people must have had of your wife to see you going about with your bosom all gaping open in that style. Nobody noticed it, said I in reply. Don't you see that the edges lie perfectly smooth together as much so as if held by a button? But it was no use to say anything. Mrs. Jones was hurt at my not speaking of the button. I am sure, she said, that I am always ready to do anything for you. I never complain about sewing on your buttons. Nonsense, Mrs. Jones, don't take it so much too hard. I replied, Here, get your needle and thread and you can have it all right in a minute. It's but a trifle. I am sure I haven't thought about it since I put on the shirt this morning. But all would not do. Mrs. Jones's grief was too real, and when I, losing to some extent my patience, said fretfully, I wish somebody would invent a shirt without buttons. She sighed deeply, and in a little while I saw her handkerchief go quietly to her eyes. Again and again I tried to say nothing plan, but it worked worse, if anything than the other, for Mrs. Jones was sure to find out the truth, and then she would be dreadfully hurt about my omission to speak. And so the years have passed. Sometimes I fret a little when I find a shirt button off. Sometimes I ask mildly to have the omission supplied when I discover its existence. Sometimes I jest about it, and sometimes I bear the evil in silence. But the effects produced upon Mrs. Jones are about the same. Her equanimity of mind is disturbed and she will look unhappy for hours. Never but once have I complained without a cause, but that one instance gave Mrs. Jones a triumph which has done much to sustain her in all her subsequent trials. We had some friends staying with us, and among the various matters of discussion that came up during the social evenings we spent together, shirt buttons were, on one occasion, conspicuous. To record all that was said about them would fill pages, and I will not, therefore, attempt even a brief record of all the allegations brought against a useful little shirt button. The final decision was that it must be the apple of discord in disguise. A button-off is usual. I muttered to myself the next morning as I put on a clean shirt. Mrs. Jones had risen half an hour before me, and was downstairs giving some directions about breakfast, so that I could not ask to have it so dawn. And after leaving my room I thought it as well not to say anything about it. In due time we gathered with our friends around the breakfast table. A sight of them reminded me of the conversation the previous evening and I felt an irresistible desire to allude to the missing shirt button as quite an apropos and amusing incident. So speaking from the impulse of the moment I said glancing first at Mrs. Jones then around the table and then pointing down at my bosom. The old story of shirt buttons again. Instantly the collar mounted to the cheeks and brow of Mrs. Jones then the collar as quickly melted away, and a look of triumph passed over her face. She pushed back her chair quickly and rising up came round to where I sat. Took hold of the button I had failed to see, and holding it between her fingers said, Oh yes, this is the old story, Mr. Jones. I drew down my chin so as to get a low angle of vision and sure enough the button was there. A burst of laughter went around the table in which Mrs. Jones most hardly joined, and I laughed too, as glad as she was, that the joke was all on her side. I have never, you may be sure, heard the last of this, but it was a lucky incident, for it has given Mrs. Jones something to fall back upon, and have her jest occasionally, whenever I happen to discover that a button is among the missing, and that she can, even at times, find it in her heart to jest on such a subject is I can assure you a great gain. So much for shirt buttons. I could say a great deal more for the subject is inexhaustible. But I will forbear. Chapter 11 Pavement washing in winter of the trials and confessions of a housekeeper. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper by T. S. Arthur. Chapter 11 Pavement washing in winter Two weeks of spring-like weather in midwinter, and then the thermometer went hurrying down towards zero with alarming rapidity. Evening closed in with a temperature so mild that fires were permitted to expire in the ashes, and morning broke with a cold norwester whistling through every crack and cranny in a tone that made you shrink and shiver. Winter at last, said I, creeping forth from my warm bed with a very natural feeling of reluctance. Time was the half-asleep and half-awake response of Mr. Smith as he drew the clothes about his shoulders and turned himself over for the enjoyment of his usual half-hour morning nap. It was Saturday, that busiest day in the seven, at least for housekeepers, and as late as half-past seven o'clock, yet the house felt as cold as a barn. I stepped to the register to ascertain if the fire had been made in the heater. Against my hand came a pressure of air—cold air. Too bad! I murmured fretfully. That girl has never touched the fire. So I gave the bell a pretty vigorous jerk. In a few minutes up came Nancy, the cook, in answer to my summons. Why hasn't Biddy made the fire in the heater? I asked. She has made it, Mum. There isn't a particle of heat coming up. I heard her at work down there. I guess she's made it up, but it hasn't begun to burn good yet. Tell her that I want her. She's washing the pavement, Mum. Washing the pavement? Yes, Mum. What possessed her to wash the pavement on a day like this? It's the right day, Mum. It's Saturday. Saturday? Don't you know that the water will freeze almost as soon as it touches the ground? Go and tell her to come in this minute, and not throw another drop on the pavement. Nancy withdrew, and I kept on speaking to myself. I never saw such creatures—no consideration in them. Washing the pavement on a morning like this. Little do they care who falls on the ice, or who has a broken arm or a broken leg. Just as I said this, I heard a crash and an exclamation without and hurrying to the window looked forth. Biddy's work was done and well done, for the pavement was one sheet of ice, as hard and smooth as glass and as slippery as oil. Prostrate thereon was a grocer's boy, and just beyond the curb-stone, in the gutter, lay the fragments of a jug of molasses. Stepping back quickly to where the bell-rope hung against the wall, I gave it a most determined jerk. Scarcely had I done this ere the door of the adjoining room, which was used as a nursery, opened, and Biddy appeared therein. Why, Biddy? I exclaimed. What possessed you to throw water on the pavement this morning? Afex, and how's I to get it clean, ma'am, without water? Cooley returned to Biddy. Clean? Yes, ma'am, clean. There was no crying necessity to have it clean today, didn't you see? It's Saturday, ma'am, interrupted Biddy in a voice that showed the argument in her mind to be unanswerable. We always wash the pavement on Saturday. But it doesn't do to wash the pavement. I returned, now trying to put a little reason into her head. When it is so cold that water will freeze as soon as it touches the ground, the bricks become as slippery as glass, and people can't walk on them without falling. Oh, and what have we to do with the people? A lot of them look till their steps. But Biddy, that won't do. People don't expect to find pavements like glass, and they slip off and while unaware of danger. Just at this moment a poor lad fell and broke his jug all to pieces. Did he? And less the pity for him. Why didn't he walk along like an orderly decent body? Why didn't he look till his steps? Biddy, said I, seeing that it was useless to hold an argument with her. Do you go this minute and throw ashes all over the pavement? Ashes on the clean pavement? Mrs. Smith. Yes, Biddy, and do it at once. There somebody else has fallen. I sprung to the window in time to see a woman on the pavement, and the contents of her basket of marketing scattered all around her. Go this minute and throw ashes over the pavement. I called to Biddy in a voice of command. The girl left the room with effident reluctance. The idea of scattering ashes over her clean pavement was, to her, no very pleasant one. It seemed to me, as I sat looking down from my windows upon the slippery flags, and noted the difficulty which pedestrians had to cross them safely, that Biddy would never appear with her pan of ashes. Why don't the girl do as I directed? I just passed in an impatient tone for my lips when two well-dressed men came in view, one at each extremity of the sheet of ice. They were approaching and stepped with evident unconsciousness of danger upon the treacherous surface. I had a kind of presentiment that one or both would fall, and my instinct was not at fault. Suddenly the heels of one flew up, and he struck the pavement with a concussion that sprung his hat from his head and sent it some feet in the air. In his efforts to recover himself, his legs became entangled in those of the other, and over he went backwards, his head striking the ground with a terrible shock. I started from the window, feeling for an instant, faint and sick. In a few moments I returned and looked out again. Both the fallen ones had regained their feet and passed out of sight. And Biddy, who had witnessed the last scene in this half-comic, half-tragic performance, was giving the pavement a plentiful coating of ashes and cinders. I may be permitted to remark that I trust other housekeepers whose pavements are washed on cold mornings and their name, I had almost said, is legion, are as innocent as I was in the above case, and that the wrong to pedestrians lies at the door of thoughtless servants. But is it not our duty to see the wrong has no further repetition? It has been remarked that the residence of a truly humane man may be known by the ashes before his door on a slippery morning. If this be so, what are we to think of those who coolly supply a sheet of ice to the sidewalk? CHAPTER XII REGARD FOR THE POOR OF TRIALS AND CONFESSIONS OF A HOUSEKEEPER This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. TRIALS AND CONFESSIONS OF A HOUSEKEEPER by T. S. Arthur CHAPTER XII REGARD FOR THE POOR We sometimes get, by chance as it were, glimpses of life altogether new, yet full of instruction. I once had such a glimpse, and, at the time, put it upon record, as a lesson for myself, as well as others. Its introduction into this series of confessions will be quite in place. How many children have you? I asked of a poor woman one day, who with her tray of fish on her head, stopped at my door with the hope of finding a customer. FOUR. she replied. All young? Yes, ma'am, the oldest is but seven years of age. Have you a husband? I inquired. The woman replied in a changed voice. Yes, ma'am, but he isn't much help to me. Like a great many other men he drinks too much. If it wasn't for that, you wouldn't find me crying fish about the streets in the spring and berries through the summer to get bread for my children. He could support us all comfortably if he was only sober, for he has a good trade, and he's a good workman. He used to earn ten and sometimes twelve dollars a week. How much do you make towards supporting your family? I asked. Nearly all they get to live on and that isn't much. She said bitterly. My husband sometimes pays the rent and sometimes he doesn't even do that. I have made as high as four dollars in a week, but often her two or three is the most I get. How in the world can you support yourself, husband, and four children on three dollars a week? I have to do it. Was her simple reply. There are women who would be glad to get three dollars a week and think themselves well off. But how do you live on so small a sum? We have to deny ourselves almost every little comfort and confine ourselves down to the mere necessaries of life. After those who can afford to pay good prices for their marketing have been supplied, we come in for a part of what remains. I often get meat enough for a few cents to last me for several days, and it's the same way with vegetables. After the markets are over, the butchers and country people, whom we know, let us have lots of things for almost nothing sooner than take them home. In this way we make our slender means go a great deal farther than they would if we had to pay the highest market price for everything. But it often happens that what we gain here is lost in the eagerness we feel to sell whatever we have, especially when, from having walked and cried for a long time, we become much fatigued. Almost everyone complains that we ask too much for our things if we happen to be one or two cents above what somebody has paid in market, where there are almost as many different prices as there are persons to sell, and in consequence almost everyone tries to beat us down. It often happens that after I have walked for hours and sold but very little, I have parted with my whole stock at cost to some two or three ladies who would not have bought from me at all if they hadn't known that they were making good bargains out of me, and this because I could not bear up any longer. I think it very hard, sometimes, when ladies who have everything in plenty take off nearly all my profits after I have toiled through the hot sun for hours or shivered in the cold of winter. It is no doubt right enough for everyone to be prudent and buy things as low as possible, but it has never seemed to me as quite just for a rich lady to beat down a poor fish woman or strawberry woman, a cent or two on a bunch or basket, when that very cent made, perhaps, one third or one half of her profits. It was only yesterday that I stopped at a house to sell a bunch of fish. The lady took a fancy to a bunch of small rock for which I asked her twenty cents. They had cost me just sixteen cents. Won't you make three fibs? she asked. That leaves me too small a profit, madame. I replied. You want too much profit? she returned. I saw just such a bunch of fish in market yesterday for three fibs. Yes, but remember, I replied, that here are the fish at your door. You neither have to send for them nor to bring them home yourself. Oh, as to that, she answered, I have a waiter whose business it is to carry the marketing. It is all the same to me. So if you expect to sell me your things you must do it at the market prices. I will give you three fibs for that bunch of fish and no more. I had walked a great deal and sold but little. I was tired and half sick with a dreadful headache. It was time for me to think about getting home. So I said, well, ma'am, I suppose you must take them, but it leaves me only a mere trifle for my profit. A servant standing by took the fish and the lady handed me a quarter and held out her hand for the change. I first put into it a five cent piece. She continued holding it out until I searched about in my pocket for a penny. This I next placed in her hand. So you've cheated me out of a cent at last, she said, half laughing and half in earnest. You are a sad rogue. A little boy was standing by. Here, Charlie, she said to him, is a penny I have just saved. You can buy a candy with it. As I turned away from the door of the large, beautiful house in which that lady lived, I felt something rising in my throat and choking me. I had bitter thoughts of all my kind. Happily where I next stopped I met with one more considerate. She bought two bunches of my fish at my own price, spoke very kindly to me, and even went so far seeing that I looked jaded out to tell me to go down into her kitchen and rest myself for a little while. Leaving my tap of fish in her yard I accepted the kind offer. It so happened that the cook was making tea for someone in the house who was sick. The lady asked me if I would not like to have a cup. I said, yes, for my head was aching badly and I felt faint, and besides I had not tasted a cup of tea for several days. She poured it out with her own hands and with her own hands brought it to me. I think I never tasted such a cup of tea in my life. It was like cordial. God bless her. When I again went out upon the street my headache was gone and I felt as fresh as I ever did in my life. Before I stopped at this kind lady's house I was so worn down and cut out of heart that I determined to go home even though not more than half my fish were sold. But now I went on cheerful and with confidence. In an hour my tray was empty and my fish sold at fair prices. You do not know, madame. Continue the woman. How much good a few kindly spoken words that cost nothing or a little generous regard for us does our often discouraged hearts. But these were too rarely meet. Much oftener we are talked to harshly about our exorbitant prices, called a cheating set or some such name that does not sound very pleasant to our ears. That there are many among us who have no honesty nor indeed any care about what is right is too true. But all are not so. To judge us all then by the worst of our class is not right. It would not be well for the world if all were thus judged. End of Chapter 12, Regard for the Poor Read by Kehinde of Bahatrek.com Chapter 13 Something more about cooks of trials and confessions of a housekeeper. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper by T. S. Arthur. Chapter 13 Something more about cooks. For some time I had a treasure of a cook, a fine Bucks County girl whose strongest recommendation in my eyes when I engaged her was that she had never been out of sight of land. But she left my house for a better place, as she said. I might have bribed her to remain by an offer of higher wages, but experience had demonstrated to my satisfaction that this kind of bribery never turns out well. Your servant in most instances soon becomes your mistress or at least makes bold efforts to assume that position. So I let my Bucks County girl go to her better place. As to how or why it was to be a better place I did not make inquiry. That was her business. She was a free agent and I did not attempt to influence her. In fact, being of rather an independent turn of mind myself, I sympathize with others in their independence and rarely seek to interfere with a declared course of action. My new cook unfortunately had been out of sight of land and that four weeks together. She was fresh from the Emerald Island. When she presented herself I saw in her but small promise. Having learned on inquiry that her name was Alice Mahoney, I said, How long have you been in this country, Alice? There was a moment or two of hesitation, then she answered, Six months, ma'am. I learned afterwards that she had arrived only three days before. Can you cook? I inquired. Yes, only think from a rib of beef down till a parody. You're sure of that, Alice? Sure, ma'am. Can you give me a reference? I've got a character from Mrs. Jordan while I lived in New York. I've only been here a few days. Biddy Jones knows me. And she produced a written testification of ability, signed Mary Jones number William Street, New York. There was a suspicious look about this character, but of course I had no means of deciding whether it were a true or false document. After some debate with myself I finally decided to give Alice a trial. It so happened that on the very day she came, an old lady friend of my mother's, accompanied by her two daughters, both married and housekeepers, called to spend the afternoon and take tea. As they lived at some distance I had tea quite early, not waiting for Mr. Smith, whose business kept him away pretty late. During the afternoon my butterman came. Occasionally he brings some very nice country sausages and I always make it a point to secure a few pounds when he does so. He had some on this occasion. Alice, said I as I entered the kitchen about four o'clock. I want you to hurry and get tea ready as quickly as you can. Yes, ma'am, was the ready reply. And Alice, I added, will have some of these sausages with the tea. They are very fine ones, better than we usually get. Be sure to cook them very nice. Yes, ma'am. Promptly answered the girl looking quite intelligent. A few more directions as to what we were to have were given, and then I went up to sit with my company. It was not my intention to leave all to the doubtful skill of my new cook, but either the time passed very rapidly or she was more prompt and active than is usual among cooks for the tea-bell rung before I was in expectation of hearing it. Ah, said I, there is our tea-bell, and I arose adding, will you walk into the dining-room, ladies? The words were no sooner uttered than a doubt as to all being as I could wish crossed my mind, and I regretted that I had not first repaired to the dining-room alone. But, as it was too late now, or rather I did not happen to have sufficient presence of mine to recall my invitation to the ladies to walk into tea until I had preceded them a few minutes. Well, we were presently seated at the tea-table. My practised eye instantly saw that the cloth was laid crookedly, and that the dishes were placed in a slovenly manner. I couldn't help a passing apology on the ground of a new domestic, and then proceeded to the business of pouring out the tea. The cups were handed around, and I soon noticed that my guests were sipping from their spoons in a very unsatisfactory manner. I wasn't the act of filling my own cup from the tea-earn when I missed the plate of sausages about which I had boasted to my lady friends as something a little better than were usually to be obtained, so I rung the table bell. Alice presently made her appearance. Alice, said I, where are the sausages I told you to cook? You surely haven't forgotten them. Ock, no indeed, ma'am, they're there. Where I don't see them. And my eyes ran around the table. They're with the tea, ma'am, sure. With the tea? Sure, ma'am, they're with the tea. You told me you wanted the sausages with the tea, and sure they're there. I bowled them well. A light now flashed over my mind. Throwing up the lid of the tea-earn, I thrust in a fork, which immediately came in contact with a hard substance. I drew it forth and exhibited a single link of a well-boiled sausage. Let me draw a veil over what followed. Something more about cooks. Chapter 14 Not a Rag on their Backs Of Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper By T. S. Arthur Chapter 14 Not a Rag on their Backs There are, among the many things which Mr. Smith, like other men, will not understand, frequent difficulties about the children's clothing. He seems to think that frocks and trousers grow spontaneously, or that the dry goods, once bought and brought into the house, will resolve into the shapes desired, and fit themselves to the children's backs, like Cinderella's suit in the nursery tale. Now I never did claim to be a sprite, and I am not sure that the experience of all housekeepers will bear me out in the opinion that, the longer a woman is married, the less she becomes like a fairy. Stitch, stitch, stitch. Hoot's song of the shirt which everybody has heard and admired is certainly most eloquent and pathetic upon the sufferings and difficulties of sewing girls. Much yet remains unsung, particularly in regard to the ceaseless labours of women, who are as rich as Cornelia in muslin-rending, habit-cloth-destroying, children's, plaid, rubbing, jewels. I am sure that the Roman matron never went shopping. I am sure that she did not undertake to keep her own children's clothing in repair, for if she had, she could not have been ready, at a moment's warning, to put forward her troublesome charge as specimen jewels. Do all I can, my little comforts never are fit to be seen. Many is the weary evening that I have been occupied past the noon of night, in repairing the wear and tear of habiliments, abridging the volume of the elder children's clothes into narrow dimensions for the next, or compiling a suit for one out of the fringed arraignment of two or three. Honest was the pride with which I have surveyed these industrious efforts and sincere the thought that I had really accomplished something. Depositing the various articles where the wearers-elect would find them, I have retired to rest, almost angry with Mr. Smith, who was asleep hours before me, asleep as unconcernedly as if an indestructible substance fabric had been invented for children's clothing. Well, after and such a night's work, imagine me waking with a complacent and happy sensation that my work having been done on the day before the morning is open for new employment. Downstairs I come full of the thoughts of the confusion I shall heap on Mr. Smith's head. He, observe, told me as he left me to retire that I had much better go to bed, for all my work would amount to nothing but loss of necessary rest. I am ready to show him triumphant evidence to the contrary in the clothes as good as new in which his children are inhabited. Before I can speak I discern a lurking smile in his face. My boy Will stands in a sheepish posture, with his bag as close to the gem as if he were a polypist growing there and his life depended upon the adhesion. My eldest girl, another of the laboriously fitted out of the night before, has a marvelous affectation for the little stool and the skirt of her frock, seems drawn about her feet in a most unbecoming manner. But the third, an inveterate little romp, unconscious of shame, is pervading about in the most abandoned manner, utterly indifferent to the fact she has not indeed a rag to her back, for she is all rags. One hour's play before my descent has utterly abolished all traces of my industry so far as she is concerned. I expostulate at first more in sorrow than in anger, but as Mr. Smith's face expands into a broad laugh it becomes more anger than sorrow. The child in the stool looks as if she would laugh if she dared. Lifting her up suddenly I discover that the whole front bread of her frock is burned. Past redemption. I say nothing. What can I say? I have not words equal to the emergency. And the boy. Boys are such copies of their fathers. He actually forgets all embarrassment and breaks out into a hardy laugh. I jerk him forward. Horror on horrors. The unveiling of the Bavarian statue of which I read an account in the newspapers the other day is nothing to it. The gem, it appears, has supported something besides the mantel shelf, for when I draw the young Smith forward, deprived of the friendly aid of the wall, his teguments drop to the floor and he stands unveiled. One fell swoop at rude play has destroyed all my little innumerable stitches, and I am just where I was before I threaded a needle the night before. Now I appeal to anybody, any woman with the least experience, if this is not all too bad. And yet my husband insists that I have no need to be continually worrying myself with a needle. It is true that each of the children has four or five changes of clothes, which they might wear, but what is the use of their having things to put right on and tear right out? I'd like to be prudent and saving. It was only the other day that Mr. Smith came in early and found me busy and commenced a regular oration. He said that every child in the house has a better wardrobe than he, and so he went on and counted all off to me. He says, and men think they know so much, that if children have clothes they should wear them and when they are worn out provide more, and not try to keep as many half worn suits in repair as there are new suits in a queen's wardrobe. But he likes as well as any man to see his children look neat whatever he may say, and yet he pretends that children should have clothes so made that they can convert themselves into horses and treat each other to rides without rending to pieces. And he protests that it is all nonsense to undertake to keep children dressed in the fashion. Truly I am tempted to say to the men as Job did to his friends, no doubt but ye are the people and wisdom shall die with you. Such plagues as they are sometimes, but I could not help laughing after all when, as I said before he was lecturing me. The table was covered with work, done and in progress. He went on till out of breath. I answered, Now you know the children have not ragged their backs. I should think not. He said dryly as he looked about him. The other morning finished up the rags on hand, but you are doing your best, with flimsy finery to get up a new assortment. Now that is unkind in you, Mr. Smith. Said I, feeling hurt and looking and speaking as I felt. Really unkind in you. I am sure it's no pleasure for me to work, work, work from morning till night, until I am worn down and good for nothing. I wish my children to look decent at least, and to do this add a small cost to you as possible. You can't charge me with wasting your property at least. There, there, dear, that will do. Say no more about it. Returned Mr. Smith in a soothing voice. I didn't mean to be unkind. Still, I do think that you are a little overparticular about the children's clothes. As I have said before, overparticular in the matter of having things just so. Better a great deal I think, spare a few hours from extra work given to the clothing designed for their bodies, to that which is to array and beautify their minds. Now, Mr. Smith, I exclaimed, and then bending my face into my hands, gave way to involuntary tears. That he should have said this. End of Chapter Fourteen. Not a rag on their backs. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper by T. S. Arthur. Chapter Fifteen. Curiosity. The curiosity of our sex is proverbial. Proverbs are generally based upon experience, and this one I am ready to admit is not without a good foundation to rest upon. Our sex are curious, at least I am, and we are very apt to judge others by ourselves. I believe that I have never broken the seal, nor peeped into a letter bearing the name of some other lady. But then I will own to having, on more occasions than one, felt an exceedingly strong desire to know the contents of certain epistles in the hands of certain of my friends. The same feeling I have over and over again observed in my domestics and, for this reason, have always been careful how I let my letters lie temptingly about. One chambermaid in my service seemed to have a passion for reading other people's letters. More than once had I caught her, rummaging in my drawers, or with some of my old letters in her hands, and I could not help remarking that most of the letters left at the door by the penny-post had, if they passed to me through her, a crumpled appearance. I suspected the cause of this, but did not detect my lady until she had been some months in my family. One morning, after breakfast was over and the children off to school, I drew on a cab and went down to sweep out in dust at the parlours. I had not been at work long when I heard the bell ring. Presently Mary came tripping downstairs. As she opened at the street door I heard her say, Ah! another letter! who is it for? me? No, it is for Mrs. Smith, was answered in the rougher voice of the dispatch postman. Oh! there was a perceptible disappointment in Mary's tone. What's the postage? she asked. Paid, said the man. The door closed and I heard the feet of Mary slowly moving along the passage. Then the murmur of her voice reached my ears. Presently I heard her say, I wonder who it is from? Mrs. Smith gets a great many letters. No envelope, thank goodness, but a plain good old fashioned letter. I must see who it is from. By this time Mary had stepped within the back parlor. I stood hid from her view by one of the folding doors which was closed, but within a few feet of her. From Mrs. Jackson. Hmm! I wonder what she's got to say, something about me I'll bet a dollar. There was a very apparent change in the thermometer of Mary's feelings at this last thought, as was evident from the tone of her voice. Lace collar, stockings, pocket hand. I can't make out that word, but it is handkerchiefs of course. Thus Mary read and talked herself. Breastpin! This is too mean. It's not true neither. I'm a great mind to burn the letter. Mrs. Smith would never be the wiser. I won't give it to her now at any rate. I'll put it in my pocket and just think about it. The next sound that came to my ears was the pattering of Mary's feet as she went herring up the stairs. In a few minutes I followed. In one of my chambers I found Mary and said to her, didn't the carrier leave me a letter just now? The girl hesitated a moment and then answered, oh yes ma'am, I have it here in my pocket. And she drew forth the letter crumbled as was usually the case with all that passed through her hands. I took it with some gravity of manner for I felt, naturally enough, indignant. Mary flushed a little under the steady eye that I fixed upon her. The letter or note was from my friend Mrs. Jackman and Reddus follows. My dear Mrs. Smith, do call in and see me some time today. I have bought some of the cheapest laces, stockings, and cambrick pocket handkerchiefs that ever were seen. There are more left and at a great bargain. You must have some. And, by the way, bring with you that sweet breast-bin I saw you wear at Mrs. May's last Thursday evening. I want to examine it closely. I must have one just like it. Do come round today. I have lots of things to say to you, yours, etc. Nothing so dreadful in all that, I said to myself, as I refolded the letter, my curious lady's conscience must be a little active. Let's see what is to come of this. It is hardly in the nature of a woman to look very lovingly upon the servant, whom she has discovered peeping into her letters. At least it was not in my nature. I, therefore, treated Mary with becoming gravity, whenever we happened to meet. She, under the circumstances, was ill at ease, and rather shunned contact with me. The morning passed away and the afternoon waned until, towards five o'clock, when the accumulating pressure on Mary's feelings became so great that she was compelled to seek relief. I was alone sewing when my chambermaid entered my room, the corners of her lips inclined considerably downward. Can I speak a word with you, Mrs. Smith? said she. Certainly, Mary, I replied, what do you wish to say? Mary cleared her throat once or twice, looked very much embarrassed, and at length stammered out. You received a letter from Mrs. Jackson this morning? No. I shook my head as I uttered this little mono-syllable. A flush of surprise went over the girl's face. Wasn't the letter I gave you from Mrs. Jackson? she asked. No, it was from Mrs. Jackman. Mary caught her breath and stammered out in her confusion. Oh, my! I thought it was from Mrs. Jackson. I was sure of it. What right had you to think anything about it? I asked, with marked severity. Mary's face was, by this time, crimson. I looked at her for some moments, and then taking from my drawer Mrs. Jackman's note, handed it to her and said, There's a letter you were so curious about this morning. Read it. Mary's eyes soon took in the contents. The moment she was satisfied, she uttered a short O, strongly expressive of mental relief and handed me back the letter. I thought it was from Mrs. Jackson, said the still embarrassed girl, looking confused and distressed. You can now retire, said I, and when another letter is left at my door, be kind enough to consider it my property, not yours. I shall make it my business to see Mrs. Jackson and ascertain from her why you are so much afraid that she will communicate with me. There's something wrong. Poor Mary still lingered. Indeed, Mrs. Smith. She sobbed. I didn't do nothing wrong at Mrs. Jackson's, but wear her clothes sometimes. Once I just borrowed a breast-pin of hers out of her drawer, to wear to a party, and she saw me with it on and said I had stolen it. But I had put my hand in the fire before I had steeled, Mrs. Smith. Indeed, indeed I would. I was only going to wear it to the party, and I didn't think there was any great harm in it. Of course there was harm in using other people's things without their consent. I replied severely, and I don't wonder that Mrs. Jackson accused you of stealing, but what cause had you for thinking this letter was for Mrs. Jackson? The two names are so near alike, and then Mrs. Jackson speaks about— Here Mary caught herself in crimson still deeper. That is, said I, you took the liberty of peeping into my letter before you gave it to me, and this is not your first offence of the kind. Mary was too much confounded to speak or make any effort to excuse herself, and so thought it best to retire. I called to see Mrs. Jackson that day. She gave Mary a good character as far as honesty was concerned, but stated plainly her faults, especially her bad habit of wearing her clothes and trinkets, for which offence in a moment of indignation she had dismissed her from her service. I saw no reason to send Mary away, but I gave her a good talking. I think she is pretty well cured of her propensity of reading other people's letters. End of Chapter 15 Curiosity Read by Kehinde of Bahatrack.com Chapter 16 House Cleaning of the Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper This is LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper by T. S. Arthur Chapter 16 House Cleaning I like a clean house. So does Mr. Smith and so do all men if they would acknowledge it. At any rate, when their dwellings seem a little dingy or dusty, a very thin coat of dinginess or dust over the whole, producing a decidedly bad effect, I say when their dwellings appear to them out of order, though ever so little, we are sure to find it out. The dull look of the house appears to be communicated to the countenance of the master thereof. I confess that I have often been half inclined to wax and cork my husband's visage, or at least to whisk over it with a duster, and see if that experiment would not restore its sunny look. But though men like clean houses, they do not like house cleaning. They have certain absurd notions which they would wish to carry out, such for instance as that constant quiet, preventive care, or frequent topical applications carefully applied would gradually renovate the whole interior. But who wishes to be cleaning all the time? Who wishes to be always dusting? Indeed, at the best, we are constantly with broom, brush, or besam in hand, but the men will not perceive it, and we receive no credit for our tidiness. What is to be done then? Evidently there is nothing better than a demonstration, as the politicians say, a demonstration that may be felt, a mass meeting of brooms, buckets, brushes, paintpots, whitewash pails, chairs overturned, tubs, coal scuttles, dust pans, char women, and all other possible disagreeables, all at once summoned, and each as much as possible in others' way. In this there is some satisfaction. It looks like business. It seems as if you were doing something. It raises the value of the operation and demonstrates its usefulness and necessity, for if there is little difference apparent between the house before cleaning and after, there is a world of odds between a house cleaning and a house cleaned. There is a perfect delight in seeing what order can be brought out of chaos even though you are obliged to make the chaos first to produce the effect. I had inflicted several of these impressive lessons upon Mr. Smith. He had become so much horrified at their confusion that I do believe he had fully reconciled himself to dust and dirt as the better alternative. They were to be sure at some little cost of comfort to myself, and reflectively produced discomfort for him, for he traced, with a correctness which I could easier frown on than deny, many a weeks in disposition to my house cleaning frenzy. And when a man's wife is sick, if he is a man of feeling he is unhappy, and if he is a man of selfishness he is wretched too, for what becomes of husband's little comforts when wife is not able to procure or direct them. So Mr. Smith, for the better reason, I believe, pure compassion, declared long ago against whole-sale house cleaning, and he has so often interfered in my proceedings with his provoking prophecy. Now you know, my dear, it will make you sick, that I have striven many a time to hide pain under a forced smile when it seemed as if my head was like to rend. Now a woman can carry her point in the house by stubborn daring, but the better part of valor is discretion, and I have learned quietly to take my way and steal a march upon him, open the flood-gate, set the chimney smoking, up with the carpets, throw the beds out of the windows, pack the best china in the middle of the floor, distributing pokers and fire shovels among it, unhang the pitchers, set all the doors ajar, roll the children in dust, cover my head with a soiled nightcap, put on slip-shot shoes, and streak my ankles with dust and dirty water. Then if he pops in, opportunely, I can say with Shakespeare amended, I am in slops, stepped in so far that should I wait no more, returning were as tedious as go-or. And then husband has no choice but to retreat to a chop-house and leave me to finish. But for the chance for a grand Saturnalia is best when Mr. Smith goes from home for a day or two. Then I can deny myself to visitors, take full license, set the hydrant running and puzzle the water-commissioners with an extra consumption of shuil kill. My last exploit in this way was rather disastrous, and I am patiently waiting for its memory to pass away, before I venture even to think of repeating it. Mr. Smith had business in New York, imperative business, he said, but I do believe it might have waited, had not Jenny Lin's first appearance taken place just then. This, by the way. He went, and I was rejoiced to improve the opportunity, for it occurred precisely as I was devising some method to get myself so fairly committed to soap and brushes that objection or interdict would be too late. Never did I pack his carpet bag with more secret satisfaction than on that morning. He was entirely unsuspicious of my intention, though he might have divined it but for having a secret of his own, for Kitty's water-heating operation spoiled the breakfast. There was more than a taste of overdone to the steak and the whole affair, even to me was intolerable, me who had the pleasures of house-cleaning in perspective to console me. The door was scarce shut behind him, when I entered into the business con amour. It was resolved to begin at the very attic, and sweep, scrub and wash down. Old boxes and trucks were dragged out of their places and piles of forgotten dust swept out. The passengers in the street had a narrow chance for their beavers and fall bonnets for every front window had an extra splashing. Mr. Smith had several times urged me to permit him to introduce some Yankee fashion which he highly recommends for having professional window cleaners with their whiting-in brushes who could go through the house with half the trouble and none of the litter. There is nothing like water. The first day's work sufficed to put the house into thorough confusion, and I retired to bed but not to rest, for my fatigue was too great to sleep in comfort. My neglected child rested as ill as myself and when I rose the next morning it was with oppressive weight of a weary day before me. I had the consciousness that the work must be completed before my husband's return, and he had engaged to be with me at dinner. I felt it an imperative duty to welcome him with a cheerful house, and a pleasant repast after his journey, but as the time of his arrival drew near, I was more and more convinced of the impossibility. Like a drove of wild beasts forced into a corner by a hunting party, we forced our unmanageable matters to a crisis. The area for old brooms and brushes, tubs, litter and slops, was at last narrowed down to the kitchen, and all that remained of our house cleaning was to put that place into something like the semblance of an apartment devoted to culinary purposes. Dinner as yet was unthought of but the house was clean. Weiried rather than refreshed by my night of unrest, my arms sore and my limbs heavy, I labored with double zeal to get up in excitement which should carry me through the remainder of the day. My head began to feel sensations of giddiness, for I had hardly eaten since my husband left. Of the pleasures of house cleaning I had at length a surfeit, when a ring which I knew among all others surprised me. I looked at the clock, it was past four, and the kitchen still in confusion on the hearth cold. I sank in a chair in a swoon from sheer exhaustion, when I awoke to consciousness, an overturned pail of water was being absorbed by my clothing. My nose was rejecting, with violent aversion, the pungency of a bottle of prime-derm mustard, to which Kitty had applied as the best substitute for salts which the kitchen afforded, and my husband, carpet-bag and cane-hand, was pushing his way toward me with more haste than good speed, as the obstacles witnessed which he encountered and overturned. I was confined to my room a week which I could not conceal from Mr. Smith. But he does not even yet know the whole amount of the breakage and, thank fortune, he is too much of a man to ask. I am only afraid that he will succeed in forcing me to admit that what he calls his classical proposition is true, that to clean a house does not require the feet of a Hercules to wit turning a river through it. This is my story of house cleaning, and it is in no very high degree flattering to my housekeeping vanity. Perhaps the thing might be managed differently, but I don't know. Out of chaos order comes. While on this subject it will be all in place to introduce another house cleaning story which I find floating about in the newspapers. It presents the matter from another point of view and was written it will be seen by a man. Talk of a washing-day. What is that to a whole week of washing-days? No, even this gives no true idea of that worst of domestic afflictions a poor man can suffer. House cleaning. The washing is confined to the kitchen or wash house and the effect visible in the dining room is in cold or badly cooked meals, with a few other matters not necessary to mention here. But in the house cleaning, oh dear, like the dove from the ark a man finds no place where he can rest the soul of his foot. Twice a year regularly have I to pass through this trying ordeal willy-nilly as it is said in some strange language. To rebel is useless, to grumble of no avail. Up come the carpets, tops the turvy goes the furniture and swash, goes the water from garret to cellar. I don't know how other men act on these occasions, but I find discretion the better part of valor and submission the wisest, expedient. Usually it happens that my good wife works herself half to death, loses the even balance of her mind and in consequence makes herself and all around her unhappy. To indulge in an unamable temper is by no means a common thing for Mrs. Sunderland, and this makes its occurrence on these occasions so much the harder to bear. Our last house cleaning took place in the fall. I have been going to write a faithful history of what was said, done and suffered on the occasion ever since, and now put my design into execution, even at the risk of having my head combed with a three-legged stool by my excellent wife, who, when she sees this in print, will be taken, in nautical phrase, all aback. But when a history of our own shortcomings, mishaps, mistakes, and misadventures will do others good, I am forgiving the history and pocketing the odium if there be such a thing as odium attached to revelations of human weakness and error. We must clean house this week, said my good wife one morning as we sat at the breakfast table. Everything is in a dreadful condition. I can't look at nor touch anything without feeling my flesh creep. I turned my eyes involuntarily round the room. I was not before aware of the filthy state in which we were living, but not having so good an eye for dirt as Mrs. Sunderland, I was not able, even after having my attention called to the fact to see the dreadful condition of things. I said nothing, however, for I never like to interfere in my wife's department. I assume it as a fact that she knows her own business better than I do. Our domestic establishment consisted at this time of a cook, chambermaid, and a waiter. This was an ample force my wife considered for all purposes of house cleaning, and had so announced to the individuals concerned some days before she mentioned the matter incidentally to me. We had experienced in common with others our own troubles with servants, but were now excellently well off in this respect. Things had gone on for months with scarcely a jar. This was a pleasant feature in affairs and one upon which we often congratulated ourselves. When I came home at dinner time on the day the anticipated house cleaning had been mentioned to me, I found my wife with a long face. Are you not well? I asked. I am well enough, Mrs. Sunderland answered, but I am out of all patience with Anne and Hannah. What is the matter with them? I asked in surprise. They are both going at the end of this week. Indeed, how comes that? I thought they were very well satisfied. So they were all along until the time for house cleaning approached. It is too bad. That's it, is it? Yes, and I feel out of all patience about it. It shows such a want of principle. Is John going too? I asked. Dear knows, I expect so. He's been as sulky as he could be all the morning, in fact, ever since I told him that he must begin taking up the carpets tomorrow and shake them. Do you think Anne and Hannah will really go? I asked. Of course they will. I have received formal notice to supply their places by the end of this week, which I must do somehow or other. The next day was Thursday and notwithstanding both cook and chambermaid had given notice that they were going on Saturday, my wife had the whole house knocked into pie, as the printers say, determined to get all she could out of them. When I made my appearance at dinner time, I found all in precious confusion, and my wife heated and worried excessively. Nothing was going on right. She had undertaken to get the dinner in order that Anne and Hannah might proceed uninterruptedly in the work of house cleaning. But as Anne and Hannah had given notice to quit in order to escape this very house cleaning, they were in no humor to put things ahead. In consequence they had poked about and done nothing, to use Mrs. Sunderland's own language, at which she was no little incensed. When evening came I found things worse. My wife had set her whole force to work upon our chamber early in the day, in order to have it finished as quickly as possible, that it might be in a sleeping condition by night, dry and well-aird. But instead of this, Anne and Hannah had dilly-dallyed the whole day over cleaning the paint, and now the floor was not even washed up. My poor wife was a sad way about it, and I am sure that I felt uncomfortable enough. Afraid to sleep in a damp chamber, we put two sofas together in the parlor and passed the night there. The morning rose cloudily enough. I understood matters clearly. If Mrs. Sunderland had hired a couple of women for two or three days to do the cleaning, and got a man to shake the carpets, nothing would have been heard about the sulkeness of John, or the notice to quit of cook and chambermaid. Putting upon them the task of house cleaning was considered an imposition, and they were not disposed to stand it. I shall not be home to dinner today. I said as I rose from the breakfast table, as you are all in so much confusion and you have to do the cooking, I prefer getting something to eat downtown. Very well, said Mrs. Sunderland, so much the better. I left the house a few minutes afterwards, glad to get away. Everything was confusion and every face under a cloud. How are you getting along? I asked, on coming home at night. Not getting along at all, replied Mrs. Sunderland in a fretful town. In two days the girls might have thoroughly cleaned the house from top to bottom, and what do you think they have done? Nothing at all. Nothing at all. They must have done something. Well, next to nothing then. They haven't finished the front and back chambers and what is worse, Anne has gone away sick and Hannah is in bed with a real or pretended sick headache. Oh dear! I ejaculated involuntarily. Now ain't things in a pretty way. I think they are. I replied and then asked. What are you going to do? I have sent John for Old Jane who helped us to clean house last spring, but as likely as not she's at work somewhere. Such was in fact the case for John came in a moment after with that consoling report. Go and see Nancy then. My wife said sharply to John as if he were to blame for Jane's being at work. John turned away slowly and went on his errand evidently in not the most amiable mood in the world. It was soon ascertained that Nancy couldn't come. Why can't she come? inquired my wife. She says she's doing some sewing for herself and can't go out this week, replied John. Go and tell her that she must come, that my house is upside down and both the girls are sick. But Nancy was in no mood to comply. John brought back another negative. Go and say to her, John, that I will not take no for an answer that she must come. I will give her a dollar a day. This liberal offer of a dollar a day was effective. Nancy came and went to work on the next morning, of course, and did not come back, and as it was Hannah's last day she felt privileged to have more headache than was consistent with cleaning paint or scrubbing floors. The work went on, therefore, very slowly. Saturday night found us without cook or chambermaid and with only two rooms in order in the whole house. Vis our chambers on the second story. By great persuasion Nancy was induced to stay during Sunday and cook for us. An advertisement in the newspaper on Monday morning brought us a couple of raw Irish girls who were taken as better than nobody at all. With these new recruits Mrs. Sunderland said about getting things to write. Nancy plotted on, so well pleased with her wages that she continued to get the work of one day lengthened out into two and so managed to get a week's job. For the whole of another precious week we were in confusion. How do your new girls get along? I asked of my wife upon whose face I had not seen a smile for ten days. Don't name them, Mr. Sunderland. They're not worth the powder it would take to shoot them. Lazy, ignorant, dirty, good-for-nothing creatures, I wouldn't give them house room. I'm sorry to learn that. What will you do? I said. Dare knows! I was so well suited in Anne and Hannah and to think that they should have served me so. I wouldn't have believed it of them. But they are all as destitute of feeling and principle as they can be. And John continues as sulky as a bear. He pretended to shake the carpets, but you might get a will-bear of load of dirt out of them. I told him so, and the impudent fellow replied that he didn't know anything about shaking carpets, and that it wasn't the waiter's place anyhow. He did. Yes, he did. I was on the eve of ordering him to leave the house. I'll save you that trouble. I said a little warmly. Don't say anything to him if you please, Mr. Sunderland, returned to my wife. There couldn't be a better man about the house than he is for all ordinary purposes. If we should lose him, we shall never get another half so good. I wish I had hired a man to shake the carpets at once. They would have been much better done, and I should have had John's cheerful assistance about the house, which would have been a great deal. That evening I overheard accidentally a conversation between John and the new girls, which threw some light upon the whole matter. John said one of them, What made Mrs. Sunderland's cook and chambermaid go off and leave her right in the middle of house cleaning? Because, Mrs. Sunderland, instead of hiring a woman, as every lady does, tried to put it all off upon them. Indeed, and was that it? Yes, it was. They never thought of leaving until they found they were to be imposed upon, and to save fifty cents or a dollar she made me shake the carpets. I never did such a thing in my life before. I think I managed to leave about as much dirty as I shook out, but I'll leave the house before I do it again. So would I, John. It was downright mean imposition, so it was. Set a waiter to shake in carpets. I don't think much has been saved, remarked the waiter. For Nancy has had a dollar a day ever since she has been here. Indeed. Yes, and besides that, Mrs. Sunderland has had to work like a dog herself. All this might have been saved if she had hired a couple of women at sixty-two and a half cents a day for two or three days and paid for having the carpets shaken. That's the way other people do. The house would have been set to rights in three or four days and everything going on like clockwork. I heard no more. I wanted to hear no more. It was all as clear as day to me. When I related to Mrs. Sunderland what John had said she was at first quite indignant. But the reasonableness of the thing soon became so apparent that she could not but acknowledge that she had acted very unwisely. This is another specimen of your saving at the spigot, I said playfully. There, Mr. Sunderland, not in word more if you please of that. She returned, her cheek more flushed than usual. It is my duty as your wife to dispense with prudence in your household and if in seeking to do so I have run a little into extremes I think it ill becomes you to ridicule or censure me. Dear knows I have not sought my own ease or comfort in the matter. My dear good wife, I quickly said in a soothing voice, I have neither meant to ridicule nor censure you. Nothing was farther from my thoughts. You shall certainly have no cause to complain of me on this score again. Still a little warmly. When next we clean house I will take care that it shall be done by extra help altogether. Do so by all means, Mrs. Sunderland, let there be if possible two paint cleaners and scrubbers in every room that the work may all be done in a day instead of a week. Take my word for it, the cost will be less or if double I will cheerfully pay it for the sake of seeing order from chaos rise more quickly than is want under the ordinary system of doing things. My wife did not just like this speech I could see but she bit her lips and kept silent. In a week we were without a cook again and months passed before we were in anything like domestic comfort. At last my wife was fortunate enough to get Anne and Hannah back again and then the old pleasant order of things was restored. I rather think that we shall have a different state of things at next house cleaning time. I certainly hope so. Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper by T. S. Arthur Chapter 17 Broiling a Lobster Mr. Smith's appetite sometimes takes an Epicurean turn and then we indulge in a lobster, calf's head soup, terrapins or something of that sort. Once upon a time he sent home a lobster. I did not feel very well that day and concluded to leave the cooking of the animal to a new girl that I had taken a week or two before on a strong recommendation. She claimed to be a finished cook and her testimonials were distinct on that head. Kitty, said I, Mr. Smith has sent home a lobster, I believe. I had summoned the girl to my room. Yes, ma'am, she replied, is it for dinner? Of course it is and you must see that it is well cooked. Kitty lingered a few moments as if not entirely satisfied about something and then retired to the kitchen. I wonder if she knows how to boil a lobster, said I to myself. But then the remembrance that she had come to me as a finished cook crossed my mind and I answered, mentally, my own question by saying, of course she does. Not long afterwards I went to the dining-room which was over the kitchen. I had been there only a little while when I heard an unusual noise below followed by an exclamation from Kitty. Oh, murderation! I can't cook the straddling thing. I wonder what Mr. Smith brought it home alive for. I was, of course, all attention now and going to the top of the stairs stood listening to what was going on below. There now, lie still! I heard Kitty say. This was followed by a rattling of tongs or some other iron implements and a rapid shuffling of feet. Curious to know what was going on I stepped lightly down the stairs and through the open door had a full view of both Kitty and the lobster. Live coals had been raked out upon the earth. Over these was placed a grid iron and on these not very comfortable bed Kitty was endeavouring to force Mr. Lobster to lie still and be cooked. But this he was by no means inclined to do and no sooner did she place him on the heated bars, then he made his way off in the quickest possible time. Then she caught hold of him with the tongs, restored him to his proper position on the grid iron and with poker and tongs strove to hold him there. As the lobster, a second and a third time struggled free of Kitty's tongs and poker, I could no longer restrain myself but burst forth into a loud fit of laughter. By the time this subsided his lobster ship was in the middle of the kitchen floor. Picking him up I threw him into a pot of boiling water and then retreated from the kitchen so convulsed with laughter that I could not utter a word. Kitty did not soon hear the last of her attempt to broil a lobster. End of Chapter 17, Broiling a Lobster. Chapter 18 The Strawberry Woman of Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper This is a livervox recording. All livervox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit livervox.org. Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper by T. S. Arthur. Chapter 18 The Strawberry Woman The observance of economy in matters of family expenditure is the duty of every housekeeper. But there is an economy that involves wrong to others, which as being unjust and really dishonest, should be carefully avoided. In a previous chapter I introduced the story of a poor fishwoman as affording a lesson for the humane. Let me hear a given other which forcibly illustrates the subject of oppressive and unjust economy. It is the story of a strawberry woman and appeared in one of the magazines some years ago. Strawberries! Strawberries! cried a poorly clad, tired-looking woman about eleven o'clock one sultry June morning. She was passing a handsome house in Walnut Street into the windows of which she looked earnestly in the hope of seeing the face of a customer. She did not look in vain for the shrill sound of her voice brought forward a lady dressed in a silk morning wrapper who beckoned her to stop. The woman lifted the heavy tray from her head and placing it upon the doorstep sat wearily down. What's the price of your strawberries? asked the lady as she came to the door. Ten cents a box, madame, there are right fresh. Ten cents, replied the lady, in a tone of surprise, drawing herself up and looking grave, then shaking her head and compressing her lips firmly, she added, I can't give ten cents for strawberries. It's too much. You can't get such strawberries as these for less, madame, said the woman. I got a levier box for them yesterday. Then you got too much, that's all I have to say. I never pay such prices. I bought strawberries in the market yesterday, just as good as yours for eight cents a box. I don't know how they do to sell them at that price. Returns a woman. Mine cost nearly eight cents and ought to bring me at least twelve, but I'm willing to take ten so that I can sell out quickly. It's a very hot day. And the woman wiped, with her apron, the perspiration from her glowing face. No, I won't pay ten cents, said the lady, coldly. I'll give you forty cents for five boxes and nothing more. But, madame, they cost me within a trifle of eight cents a box. I can't help that. You paid too much for them and this must be your loss, not mine, if I buy your strawberries. I never pay for other people's mistakes. I understand the use of money much better than that. The poor woman did not feel very well. The day was unusually hot and sultry and her tray felt heavier, and tired her more than usual. Five boxes would lighten it, and if she sold her berries at eight cents, she would clear two cents and a half, and that would be better than nothing. I'll tell you what I will do. She said, after thinking a few moments, I don't feel as well as usual today, and my tray is heavy. Five boxes sold will be something. You shall have them at nine cents. They cost me seven and a half, and I'm sure it's worth a cent and a half a box to cry them about the streets such hot weather as this. I have told you, my good woman, exactly what I will do, said the customer, with dignity. If you are willing to take what I offer you, say so. If not, we needn't stand here any longer. Well, I suppose you will have to take them, replied the strawberry woman, seeing that there was no hope of doing better. But it's too little. It's enough, said the lady, as she turned to call a servant. Five boxes of fine large strawberries were received, and forty cents paid for them. The lady re-entered the parlor, pleased at her good bargain, while the poor woman turned from the door, sad and disheartened. She walked nearly the distance of a square before she could trust her voice to utter her monotonous cry of, Strawberries! Strawberries! An hour afterward a friend called upon Mrs. Meyer, the lady who had bought the strawberries. After talking about various matters and things interesting to Lady Housekeepers, Mrs. Meyer said, How much did you pay for strawberries this morning? Ten cents. You paid too much. I bought them for eight. For eight? Were they good ones? Step into the dining room, and I will show them to you. The ladies stepped into the dining room when Mrs. Meyer displayed her large red berries, which were really much finer than she had at first supposed them to be. You didn't get them for eight cents, remarked the visitor incredulously. Yes, I did. I paid forty cents for five boxes. While I paid fifty for some not near so good, I suppose you paid just what you were asked. Yes, I always do that. I buy from one woman during the season who agrees to furnish me at the regular market price, which you will always find to be two or three cents above what you can get them for in the market. You always buy in market? I bought these from a woman at the door. Did she only ask eight cents for them? Oh, no. She asked ten cents and pretended that she got twelve and a half for the same quality of berries yesterday, but I never give these people what they ask. While I never can find it in my heart to ask a poor tired-looking woman at my door to take a cent less for her fruit than she asks me, a cent or two, while it is of little account to me, must be of great importance to her. You are a very poor economist, I see, said Mrs. Meyer. If that is the way you deal with everyone, your husband no doubt finds his expense account a very serious item. I don't know about that. He never complains. He allows me a certain sum every week to keep the house and find my own and the children's clothes, and so far from ever calling on him for more, I always have fifty or a hundred dollars lying by me. You must have a precious large allowance, then, considering your want of economy and paying everybody just what they ask for their things. Oh, no, I don't do that exactly, Mrs. Meyer. If I consider the price of a thing too high, I don't buy it. You paid too high for your strawberries today? Perhaps I did, although I am by no means certain. You can judge for yourself. Mine cost but eight cents, and you own that they are superior to yours at ten cents. Still, yours may have been too cheap instead of mine, too dear. Too cheap? That is funny. I never saw anything too cheap in my life. The great trouble is that everything is too dear. What do you mean by too cheap? The person who sold them to you may not have made profit enough upon them to pay for her time and labor. If this were the case, she sold them to you too cheap. Suppose she paid too high for them. Is the purchaser to pay for her error? Whether she did so, it would be hard to tell, and even if she had made such a mistake, I think it would be more just and humane to pay her a price that would give her a fair profit instead of taking from her the means of buying bread for her children. At least, this is my way of reasoning. And a precious lot of money it must take to support such a system of reasoning, but how much prey do you have a week to keep the family I am curious to know? Thirty-five dollars. Thirty-five dollars? You are jesting. Oh, no! That is exactly what I receive, and as I have said, I find the sum ample. While I receive fifty dollars a week, said Mrs. Meyer, and I am forever calling on my husband to settle some bill or other for me, and yet I never pay the exorbitant prices asked by everybody for everything. I am strictly economical in my family. While other people pay their domestics a dollar and a half and two dollars a week, I give but a dollar and a quarter each to my cook and chambermaid, and require the chambermaid to help the washer woman on Mondays. Nothing is wasted in my kitchen for I take care in marketing not to allow room for waste. I don't know how it is that you save money on thirty-five dollars with your system, while I find fifty dollars inadequate with my system. The exact difference in the two systems will be clearly understood by the reader, when he is informed that although Mrs. Meyer never paid anybody as much as was at first asked for an article, and was always talking about economy, and trying to practice it by withholding from others what was justly their do, as in the case of the strawberry woman, yet she was a very extravagant person, and spared no money in gratifying her own pride. Mrs. Gilman, her visitor, was, on the contrary, really economical because she was moderate in all her desires, and was usually as well satisfied with an article of dress or furniture that cost ten or twenty dollars as Mrs. Meyer was with one that cost forty or fifty dollars. In little things the former was not so particular as to infringe the rights of others, while in larger matters she was careful not to run into extravagance in order to gratify her own or children's pride and vanity, while the latter pursued a course directly opposite. Mrs. Gilman was not as much dissatisfied on reflection about the price she had paid for her strawberries as she had felt at first. I would rather pay these poor creatures two cents a box too much than too little, she said to herself, dear knows they earn their money hard enough and get but a scanty portion after all. Although the tray of the poor strawberry woman when she passed from the presence of Mrs. Meyer was lighter by five boxes, her heart was heavier and that made her steps more weary than before. The next place at which she stopped she found the same disposition to beat her down in her price. I'll give you nine cents and take four boxes, said the lady. Indeed, madame, that is too little, replied the woman. Ten cents is the lowest at which I can sell them and make even a reasonable profit. Well, say, thirty-seven and a half or four boxes and I will take them, it is only two cents and a half less than you ask for them. Give me a flip, ma, there comes the Candyman! exclaimed a little fellow, pressing up to the side of the lady. Quick, ma, here, Candyman! calling after an old man with a tin cylinder under his arm that looked something like an ice-cream freezer. The lady drew out her purse and searched among its contents for the small coin her child wanted. I haven't anything less than a levy, she at length said. Oh, well, he can change it. Candyman, you can change a levy. By this time the Candyman stood smiling beside the strawberry woman, as he was counting out the flip's worth of candy the child spoke up in an earnest voice and said, Get a levy's worth, mother, do, won't you? Cousin Lou is coming to see us tomorrow. Let him have a levy's worth, Candyman, he's such a rogue I can't resist him. Responded the mother. The candy was counted out and the levy paid when the man retired in his usual good humor. Shall I take these strawberries for thirty-seven and a half cents? said the lady, the smile fading from her face. It is all I am willing to give. If you won't pay any more I mustn't stand for two cents and a half, replied the woman, although they would nearly buy a loaf of bread for the children, she mentally added. The four boxes were sold for the some offered and the woman lifted the tray upon her head and moved on again. The sun shone out still hotter and hotter so day advanced. Large beads of perspiration rolled from the throbbing temples of the strawberry woman as she passed, wearily up one street and down another, crying her fruit at the top of her voice. At length all were sold but five boxes and now it was passed one o'clock. Long before this she ought have been at home. Faint from overexertion she lifted her tray from her head and placing it upon a doorstep sat down to rest. As she sat thus a lady came up and paused the door of the house as if about to enter. You look tired, my good woman, she said kindly. This is a very hot day for such hard work as yours. How do you sell your strawberries? I ought to have ten cents for them but nobody seems willing to give ten cents to-day, although they are very fine and cost me as much as some I have got twelve and a half for. How many boxes have you? Five, ma'am. They are very fine, sure enough, said the lady, stooping down and examining them, and well worth ten cents. I'll take them. Thank you, ma'am. I was afraid I should have to take them home, said the woman, her heart, bounding up lightly. The lady rung the bell for it was at her door that the tired strawberry woman had stopped to rest herself. While she was waiting for the door to be opened the lady took from her purse the money from the strawberries and handing it to the woman said, Here is your money. Shall I tell the servant to bring you out a glass of cool water? You are hot and tired. If you please, ma'am, said the woman with a grateful look. The water was sent out by the servant who was to receive the strawberries and the tired woman drank it eagerly. Its refreshing coolness flowed through every vein, and when she took up her tray to return home, both heart and step were lighter. The lady, whose benevolent feelings had prompted her to the performance of this little act of kindness, could not help remembering the woman's grateful look. She had not done much, not more than it was every one's duty to do. But the recollection of even that was pleasant, for more pleasant than could possibly have been, Mrs. Meyer's self-gratulations at having saved ten cents on her purchase of five boxes of strawberries, notwithstanding the assurance of the poor woman who vended them that, at the reduced rate her profit on the whole would only be two cents and a half. After dinner Mrs. Meyer went out and spent thirty dollars in purchasing jewelry for her eldest daughter, the young lady not yet eighteen years of age. That evening at the tea-table the strawberries were highly commended as being the largest and most delicious in flavor of any they had yet had, in reply to which Mrs. Meyer stated, with an air of peculiar satisfaction, that she had got them for eight cents a box when they were worth at least ten cents. The woman asked me ten cents, she said, but I offered her eight and she took them. While the family of Mrs. Meyer were enjoying their pleasant repast, the strawberry woman sat at a small table around which were gathered three young children, the oldest but six years of age. She had started out in the morning with thirty boxes of strawberries for which she was to pay seven and a half cents a box. If all had brought the ten cents a box she would have made seventy-five cents, but such was not the case. Rich ladies had beaten her down in her price, had shaffered with her for the few pennies of profits to which her hard labor entitled her, and actually robbed her of the meager pittance she strobe to earn for her children. Instead of realizing the small sum of seventy-five cents, she had cleared only forty-five cents. With this she bought a little Indian meal and molasses for her own and her children's supper and breakfast. As she sat with her children eating the only food she was able to provide for them, and thought of what had occurred during the day, a feeling of bitterness toward her kind came over her, but the remembrance of the kind words in the glass of cool water, so timely and thoughtfully tendered to her, was like leaves in the waters of Mara. Her heart softened and with the tears stealing to her eyes she glanced upward and asked a blessing on her who had remembered that, though poor, she was still human. Economy is a good thing and should be practiced by all, but it should show itself in denying ourselves, not in oppressing others. We see persons spending dollar after dollar foolishly one hour and in the next trying to save a five penny apiece off of a wood sawyer, coal heaver or market woman. Such things are disgraceful, if not dishonest. CHAPTER 19 Lots of Things O dear! said I to Mr. Smith one morning, as we arose from the breakfast table, at which we had been partaking of, rather, a badly cooked meal, more trouble and prospect. What's the matter now? asked Mr. Smith, with a certain emphasis on the word now, that didn't sound just agreeable to my ears. Oh, nothing, nothing! I answered, with as much indifference of manner as I could assume. You spoke of trouble, said he kindly, and trouble, in my experience, is rather more tangible than nothing. I've another raw Irish girl in the kitchen who, according to her own confession, hasn't been above ten days in the country. Isn't that enough? I should think so, but why, in the name of goodness, did you take another of these green islanders into your house? It's easy enough to ask questions, Mr. Smith, said I, a little fretfully, but I checked myself. We looked at each other, smiled, and said no more on the subject. Your name is Anna, I believe, said I, as I stepped to the kitchen door a couple of hours afterwards. That's my name, replied the new domestic. I will send home a loin of veal and some green peas, said I. They are for dinner, which must be ready at two o'clock. You know how to roast a piece of veal, I presume. Leave me for that same, honey. And the green peas. All right, Mum, I've lived in quality houses since I was so high, I can cook anything. Very well, Anna, we will see. I have to go out this morning, and you must do the best you can. Don't fail to have dinner ready by two o'clock, Mr. Smith is a punctual man. Anna was profuse in her promises. If, said I, recollecting myself, as I was about opening the street door and returning along the passage, if anything is sent home for me, be sure to take it upstairs and lay it carefully on my bed. Yes, Mum. Now don't forget this, Anna. Ah! Never fear, I hate, Mum. I'll not forget a word of your instructions. I turned away and left the house. My principal errand was a visit to the milliners, where I wished to see a bonnet I had ordered before it was sent home. It was this bonnet I referred to when I desired Anna to place carefully on the bed in my chamber anything that might come home. On my way to the milliners I stopped at the grocers, where we were in the habit of dealing and made selections of various things that were needed. The bonnet proved just to my taste. It was a delicate white spring bonnet with a neat trimming and pleased my fancy wonderfully. The very thing, said I, the moment my eyes rested upon it. Do you want a box? asked the milliner after I had decided to take the bonnet. I have one, was my answer. Oh, very well, I will send the bonnet home in a box, and you can take it out. That will do. Shall I send it home this morning? If you please. Very well, I'll see that it is done. After this I made a number of calls which occupied me until after one o'clock when I turned my face homeward. On arriving I was admitted by my new girl, and as the thought of my beautiful bonnet now returned to my mind, my first words were, Has anything been sent home for me, Anna? Ah, yes indeed, Mum, was her answer. Lots of things. Lots of things, said I, with a manifest surprise, for I only remembered, at the moment, my direction to the milliner to send home my bonnet. Yes, indeed, responded the girl, lots, and the man brought him on the funniest wheelbarrow you've ever seen. On a whalebarrow? Yes, and such a whalebarrow. It had a whale on each side, as I'm a living cinnamon mum, and a cunning little whale in front, cocked way up until the air, that didn't touch nothing at all, at all. There's no such whalebarrows as that same in Ireland, milady. And what did you do with lots of things brought on this whalebarrow? said I, now beginning to comprehend the girl. Put them on your bed, sure. On my bed? I exclaimed in consternation. Sure, and didn't I remember the last word you spoke to me? Anna, says ye, and if only thing is sent home for me be sure to take it carefully upstairs and laid on my bed, and I did the same. Sure I couldn't have found a nicer place if I gone the house over. Turning from the girl I heard upstairs, it was as I had too good reason to fear, such a sight as met my eyes. In the centre of my bed, with its snowy white mars sails covering, were piled lots of things, and no mistake, sugar, tea, cheese, coffee, soap, and various other articles not accepting a bottle of olive oil, from the started cork of which was gently oozing a slender stream, laying a jumbled heap, while on a satin damask covered chair reposed a greasy ham. For a moment I stood confounded. Then giving the bell a violent jerk I awaited in angry impatience the appearance of Anna, who, in due time after going to the street door, found her way to my chamber. Anna, I exclaimed, what in the name of goodness possessed you to do this? And I pointed to the bed. Sure, and you told me to put them on the bed. I told you no such thing, you stupid creature, I said if a bonnet came to put it on the bed. Oh, sorry, what did you ever say about a bonnet, Mum? It's the first time I ever heard anything about a bonnet from your blessed lips, and that's true. Where is my bonnet then? Did one come home? Plays, Mum, and there did, and a pretty one it is too, as ever my two eyes looked upon. What did you do with it? I inquired, with a good deal of concern. It's safe in that great mahogany closet, Mum, she replied, pointing to my wardrobe. I stepped quickly to the mahogany closet and threw open the door. Alas, for my poor bonnet, it was crushed in between two of Mr. Smith's coats and tied to a peg by the strings which were, of course, crumpled to a degree that made them useless. Too bad, too bad! I murmured as I disengaged the bonnet from its unhappy companionship with broadcloth. As it came to the light, my eyes fell upon two dark spots on the front, the unmistakable prints of Anna's greasy fingers. This was too much. I tossed it in a moment of passion upon the bed where, in contact with lots of things, it received its final touch of ruin from a portion of the oozing contents of the sweet oil bottle. Of the scene that followed and of the late, badly cooked dinner to which my husband was introduced an hour afterwards, I will not trust myself to write. I was not, of course, in a very agreeable humour, and the record of what I said and did and of how I looked would be in no way flattering to my own good opinion of myself, nor prove particularly edifying to the reader. I shall never forget Anna's new variety of whaleberry, nor the lots of things she deposited on my bed. She lived with me just seven days and then made way for another, a little more tolerable than herself.