Twenty Minutes Earlier

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Aug 10, 1916

“Twenty Minutes Earlier”

In the heat of an unseasonably hot morning, Mrs. Blair stood in the kitchen kneading down her bread. It was a large baking, and she was perspiring freely. At a warning hiss she raised her eyes, and saw that the starch cooking for the laundress was boiling over. At the same time there was a wail from the nursery, and the milkman rang the bell next door. The bottles stood with the other unwashed dishes in the sink.

Her lips tightening nervously, Mrs. Blair flew to the rescue of the starch, leaving a smudge of flour on the range, hastily rinsed the bottles and set them upon the porch, leaving another white mark on the door. The increasing volume of the wails above made her hasten to bring down the youngest Blair and put him in the high chair out of reach of mischief until she finished her bread. But no sooner were her hands in the flour than the telephone rang with an insistent, nerve-racking jingle.

Mrs. Blair flew to the hall.

“Yes; tonight? All right. A what? No, indeed, I can’t. I’m head over heels in work now. Yes, I’m sorry, but I can’t. Good-by.”

“What next!” she exclaimed in irritation. “With the washerwoman in the laundry, and bread to bake, Sarah’s blue dress to finish before tomorrow night, and the housework not touched yet! Everything to be done at once, and now, on top of it all, company! And Jim wanting special pudding! I don’t see how I’ll ever get done!”

“I wouldn’t mind working until I was dead tired if I ever seemed to get done!” she said to herself as she turned the hot water into the dish pan. With tantalizing perversity, the stream of water glanced a cup, and sent a shower out upon the floor. In bending to wipe it up, she stepped upon the hem of her apron and pulled it loose.

“I declare,” she exclaimed, as she soused the glasses in their hot bath, “it beats all how muddled up I do get. Other women get done; why don’t I? I’m sure I’m at it from morning till night. Let’s see—bread to bake, baby to dress, dinner to get, house isn’t touched, dress to fix, company—” Aghast, she began drying the dishes, her lips twitching nervously.

“Mrs. Blair,” shrilled Lizzie, the laundress, “there ain’t enough washin’ powder.”

Mrs. Blair carried a box of powder to the stairs and dropped it into Lizzie’s hand. Her eyes noted the disorder of the cellar-way cupboard wearily. She had intended to clean those shelves this morning.

“I can’t stand another interruption!” she said aloud, and at that moment the baby succeeded in his earnest attempt to reach the jar of sirup on the table. The result was disastrous to his clothing.

Mrs. Blair hastened to snatch it from him and pick him from the chair.

“Oh, oh!” she moaned, as she unbuttoned his night clothes, bathed his face and hands, and put him into clean rompers. She thought wildly of running away, but the work would still be waiting when she came back.

With lips pressed tight, she began to work faster.

“If I ever get done,” she kept saying to herself. “But I never do. Mrs. Hall always has time for a nap in the afternoon with her baby; and that little Jennie Wells sits on the porch every morning before dinner. Neither of them seems to work as hard as I do.”

The work went on with constant interruptions, from the laundry, from the baby, from the telephone. Before dinner she dashed out to the chicken house to feed the hens, and coming in, remembered that she hadn’t sent the grocery order for supper.

“If I called Jim, he’d forget all about it. And it isn’t likely they’ll bring it in time. But I’ll just have to risk it, for I simply can’t take time to dress and go down town.”

With set lips and tired muscles, Mrs. Blair worked on. “The day will end sometime, I am glad to say, and I can rest, whether I’m done or not!”

When the children came from school the work was accomplished, but Mrs. Blair was not yet dressed.

“Hang up your cap, Junior,” she reminded her son. “Twins, take baby into the yard, and don’t let him get dirty. And Sarah, you’d better do part of your lessons now. Father will want you to help entertain his company tonight. I believe I’ll rest a few minutes before I dress.”

Stretched out on the couch, Mrs. Blair was too tired to relax. Staring tensely at the ceiling, she caught Sarah’s words as she translated aloud from her Latin.

“By Cæsar all things must be done at once,” she murmured.

“Was he keeping house?” questioned Mrs. Blair, wearily.

“Why, no, mother, of course not. Cæsar was a great general,” explained Sarah. “What made you think he was keeping house?”

“Because that’s the way it is when you keep house. Everything has to be done at once. Well, go on. Did he get done?”

“I guess so,” said Sarah. “But, then, he didn’t do the things himself. He sent other people to do them. He just sort of—”

“Bossed the job,” murmured Mrs. Blair.

“Teacher says it’s harder to find a man who can set other people to work than it is to find workers. She says a man who can oversee work is sure to be successful.”

“Maybe so.”

Mrs. Blair was quiet during the supper and all through the evening. She usually was quiet, but there was an atmosphere of thoughtfulness about her which attracted her husband’s notice.

“What is it, Marty? Counting how many things you’re going to do tomorrow?”

“Not exactly,” replied his wife. “I was just wondering—have you wound the clock?” she asked suddenly.

“Not yet.”

“I’ll do it.” She put the clock upon the table and crept into bed.

“Sarah,” said Mrs. Blair at breakfast, “you may clear off the table and wash the dishes.”

“But, mother,” objected Sarah, “I never have more than time to curl my hair and get to school.”

“You will this morning,” said her mother quietly. “We got up twenty minutes earlier. Be sure to put the milk bottles and tickets on the porch.”

“Jim” (Mr. Blair rattled his paper to show he heard), “I wish you’d feed the chickens before you go.”

“But, Marty, I never have time to more than catch my car.”

“You will this morning. We got up twenty minutes earlier. Junior, sweep off the porches and the walk to the gate. You’ve time—”

“We got up twenty minutes earlier,” finished her son.

Mrs. Blair’s eyes twinkled as she turned to the twins.

“Make the beds, girls, then bring me your ribbons; and if baby is awake, help him downstairs.”

“Have we time?” doubtfully.

“Plenty.”

“Here are some eggs, Marty. Those hens of mine keep laying pretty well.”

Mrs. Blair smiled at the possessive tone; it was the first time he had been to the hencoop since the hens were bought.

“Porches are done, mother,” announced her son.

“So are the dishes. Will my dress be done by tonight, mother?”

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Blair, taking a hot iron from the stove.

“I thought you were afraid—” began Sarah.

“It will be done.”

“We got up twenty minutes earlier,” said Junior.

“Suppose we did! Mother couldn’t make a dress in twenty minutes.”

“I suppose not. Still, six times twenty is one hundred and twenty minutes, or two hours. Right, mother?”

“Right, son.”

“Come on to school, Junior,” cried Sarah. “You and mother are always having jokes nobody understands.”

Quiet settled on the house. Smiling at the baby who was playing contentedly, she turned to her work. The aggravating feeling of hurry, of having more tasks piled up than she could accomplish, had all disappeared. As she rubbed the hot iron over the tablecloth, Mrs. Blair spoke aloud.

“Who would think that twenty minutes could make such a difference? As Junior counted, though, it’s two whole hours! To think I had to go back to history to find it out!”

Three o’clock found Mrs. Blair, having had a nap with the baby, on the front porch, Sarah’s dress in her lap, her husband’s favorite pudding steaming on the kitchen range. Four o’clock, and the children home; Mrs. Blair nodded smilingly.

“Your dress is just done, Sarah. Will you please see if the pudding has enough water in it?”

Mr. Blair noticed his wife’s cheerful face and dainty dress at once. “More company?”

“No—only my family and—Cæsar!”

“Cæsar who? Tell us, mother!”

“Well, I’ve found myself lately unable to get through my work. You all know how irritable I’ve been. Yesterday, Sarah told me.”

“I?”

“Yes. You said, ‘By Cæsar all things must be done at once.’ I sympathized with him, until you told me he only had other people do those things for him. So I began to study it out. There were the breakfast dishes; they were usually a drag in the morning. The upstairs could go, and it very often did, but it always worried me. The hens weren’t ever fed until noon; sometimes not then. So I set the clock forward twenty minutes, and we got up that much earlier. Father fed the hens, Jimmie swept the porches, Sarah washed the dishes, the twins made the beds. With such a good start I got my work done without the usual irritating hurry. From now on, we’ll get up twenty minutes earlier.”

“Thirty minutes, Marty, if it makes such a difference to you.”

“Or an hour,” suggested Sarah. “The best mother anybody ever had, and we all shoved our work upon her!”

“Now, do you see why six times twenty is two hours?” teased Junior.

“Six times twenty—To be sure!”

— Onward.