The Knock-Box

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Nov 23, 1916

THERE was more than average contentment and general “get-alongness” in a Connecticut family where I visited one summer. Back of the politeness and pleasant attitude of each to the other lay a secret of some sort, which was joked about and laughed over, but never divulged to the general public. The mystery hovered about a slitted box which stood on the parlor mantel. It resembled a mail box, and when it was emptied each evening, notes were handed around to mother, father, brothers, and sisters. Sometimes they were read with quiet gravity, sometimes with a smile. One morning a missive fell on my plate. Here is the message it held:—

“If our company would be good enough to phone when she decides not to return for luncheon, the cook would be exceedingly grateful.”

I reread it, mystified a trifle, also a bit ruffled, I confess, and a laugh went round the table.

“Mother,” cried one of the girls, “explain to the company about our knock-box. It was not exactly fair to discipline her without a warning.”

That forenoon while I helped to empty a darning basket, I suggested, “Now tell me about the knock-box.”

“The knock-box,” explained my hostess, “is an ancient and honorable institution of this family, but it was not fair to initiate you as we did.”

“It was perfectly fair. I felt guilty enough yesterday when I found you had waited luncheon for me. Now for the story.”

“When we were married,” she began, “I was a faultfinder, a petty, fussy housewife, picking on somebody about something all the time. One evening my husband took me to task, and I suddenly realized that if I did not take heed, I might develop into a genuine nagger like a woman next door, who is the terror of our neighborhood. He suggested as a cure that instead of blurting out every little fault I found in him, I should write it down each day, and drop my criticism in a box. He said he would do the same thing with me. We christened it the knock-box. The rule was made that complaints should be politely worded, and read over several times before being mailed. If they seemed too trivial for utterance, they were to be destroyed. I remember the first time we emptied the knock-box. I found a suggestion that coffee ought to be served steaming hot, and that when a man lent his knife to a lady, he expected it to be returned.”

“My husband had one solitary knock to read. I had destroyed ten or twelve during the day; on a second reading they had sounded petty. This one was about a man who left his belongings scattered all over a house when he dashed out to catch a car. It was seed sown in good ground. The work grew lighter each day after that, because my husband became tidier. It is years since he found a complaint in the knock-box about careless habits. When the children were old enough to read and write, they found little reminders in the box. They were also allowed to send knocks to us, and some of them were very funny. I remember one from Bobs about hanging the key of the preserve closet where he could not reach it. At the age of eight Margaret objected strenuously to wearing pinafores. All agreed that eight o’clock was much too early to go to bed. You have no idea how the knock-box saves a family from snarls. One little bit of faultfinding is capable of stirring up a storm of recrimination. Besides, a written hint sinks in as no amount of nagging can.”

Can you imagine what my first task was on reaching home? I instituted a family knock-box. It works; oh, it has worked like a charm!—Woman’s Home Companion.