Taking My Boy's Advice by Mrs. Harriet A. Cheever

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Feb 12, 1885

Taking My Boy's Advice.

By Mrs. Harriet A. Cheever

Just after tea I was standing in the middle of the room with arms folded, and eyes cast down, thinking intently.

“A penny for your thoughts, mamma!” said Willie, my youngest.

“Oh! Willie, boy, I’m trying to decide what to do first this evening. There is a pile of mending, the stockings and socks to be darned. Joe’s new books to be covered, and Aunt Jennie is coming, and the muslin curtains for her room should be hemmed to-night.”

“I know what I’d do?” queried rogue Willie, with a smile.

“Well, what would you do, my boy?”

“I’d let the stocks, and socks, and other old rags take care of themselves till to-morrow. Joe might cover his books himself; do ’im good, and keep the cove out o’ mischief, and ’spose the lar-dy curtains warn’t put up till after Aunt Jennie got here, ’spect anybody’d die? Besides, there’s a story in the paper I’m a-sufferin’ to hear read. Come on, Mumpsy! read the paper to-night, and not do anythin’ else; just rest your face and hands. Guess I wouldn’t crowd myself into a work basket and thimble all the time!”

My first thought was, ah! how little the dear child knows of the cares and duties devolving upon the mother of a family. The next moment an impulse seized me, which ordinarily would have seemed to indicate lack of reason on my part.

I would take Willie’s advice, and see what the result would be.

“Well, get the paper, Willie, and in a moment I will be ready to read.” Then going to the closet, I found some nice brown paper, and the bottle of mucilage.

I had no idea it would rest me so. In the first place it was real pleasure to watch Willie’s face, as the cleverly written story unfolded itself, and I was interested myself in finding how it all came out. Pretty soon Joe came in with his new school books. He was delighted at the thought of covering them himself, and it astonished me to see how nicely he set to work.

At eight o’clock Willie went to bed with a satisfied little face, and I sat reading, the entire evening, and it is a fact, my sleep that night was more refreshing than it had been for a long time; nor was that all, it often occurred that during the morning hours, overcome with unconquerable drowsiness, I would drop asleep in my chair, but that morning I felt bright enough to equal any exertion.

It is true, when Aunt Jennie came the pretty muslin curtains were not up at the windows, but to my simple explanation she replied just as I expected:—

“You know I would a thousand times rather never see muslin curtains up, tasteful as they are, than to know you had overworked to get them there. Mortal woman, my dear, can do just so much, and no more. Nature will have her due, first or last!”

So I fell to reflecting as to whether, after all, it was good judgment on the part of the housekeeper and mother being so ambitious to accomplish as much in a given time as we naturally are. I well know the satisfaction afforded by having everything in apple-pie order when Saturday night comes around, but would it not be wise for us in the prime of life to pause for a moment, and ask seriously, Is it necessary, is it best, all this wearying round of toil and anxiety?

I know many a faithful wife and mother will say the theory and arguments in favor of occasional relaxation from a certain round of duties is all proper and well enough for those who can control their time to suit their own convenience, but my work would never be done if I failed to employ every wakeful moment, and I should hardly dare declare her mistaken. But need all the work be done that is? Is there not too often an unwholesome ambition urging us on rather than a real necessity?

One day, soon after my evening of rest, Mrs. Harmon called to see what I would make for the church fair. I replied with a feeling of discouragement, that I would do what I could, mentally resolving not to worry or tax myself too severely even if I did nothing, for with my crowded hands how could I make fancy articles for the fair? and a growing nervousness warned me of the danger should I attempt too much. But I was dumb with astonishment and admiration for my neighbor, when she went on and told what she had done within the preceding twenty-four hours.

The evening before she had worked till eleven o’clock on an exquisite sofa-pillow for the fair; at five that morning she was up, had swept and dusted, and had a batch of pies well under way before breakfast; at dinner-time she had baked pies, mixed a great plum cake, repaired a coat for Mr. Harmon, and put away the week’s washing. Since dinner she had put down a carpet, cut and basted a dress for Josie, and had written a long letter, and now at five o’clock she was all dressed up, sitting in my parlor making a call.

“And I expect to do just as much within the next twenty-four hours,” she added with a triumphant smile.

After she had gone, I actually shed tears, thinking how much more energetic she was than I, with all my untiring perseverance and diligence, for what day ever saw such an amount of work accomplished at my hands as she described.

It was time for the spring cleaning, and do my best there was no time for making a single article for the fair, which I dreaded to attend, and meet Mrs. Harmon’s reproachful glances, for of course she would know nothing of my having denied myself a much coveted piece of furniture in order to give all I could towards the church object; but I bought a season ticket, and was present the opening night. One of the first objects to attract my attention was the beautiful sofa-pillow Mrs. Harmon had made, but I did not see her during the evening, and concluded she was conducting one of the side shows.

As no one could call for me that evening, I started for home early, but had gone only a short distance when I almost ran against Mr. Harmon.

“I did not see Mrs. Harmon at the fair,” I remarked, “although she must have been there.” “Hump! Confound the fair!” he blurted out.

“Mrs. Harmon isn’t there, she’s flat on her back, where she is likely to stay all summer. The doctor says one of the worst cases of nervous prostration he ever saw.”

I expressed sincere sympathy and regret, but Mr. Harmon was not to be comforted.

“I told my poor wife over and over again,” he went on, “that no good would come of her driving about as she did, but she was ambitious, and very saving of time and money, and a pretty sum it’s going to cost getting her up again, though goodness knows, I don’t begrudge doing all I can for poor wife.”

Mr. Harmon was a kind-hearted man, but in moderate circumstances, and his wife’s illness was a serious drawback to him in many ways. Other assistance would be necessary beside the young girl they kept as help. There was a family of young children with their numberless requirements, and a doctor’s bill of no inconsiderable amount was inevitable, and it was both painful and ludicrous to hear Mr. Harmon deplore the unfortunate persistence with which his wife would push things, in one breath, and with the next, loyally declare his willingness to do all in his power for “poor wife,” now she was sick.

But I have made a new rule to be strictly adhered to. One evening of every week, beside Sabbath, is to be devoted to reading, conversation, or any other diversion or respite, and the change is a most welcome one, and, come to read my papers a little more leisurely, I am surprised to meet with so many useful hints as to different and profitable methods of housekeeping, domestic management, and all such matters both helpful and entertaining.

We are naturally a pushing, enterprising people, but a rank growth is never a wholesome one, and with our hurried lives, hurried in eating, drinking, and hastening from one duty to another, we prove, it seems to me, the truth of an old proverb, although the application is perhaps a new one. “There is that withholdeth more than is meet, but it tendeth to poverty.”

Aunt Jennie was right. Nature will have her due sooner or later; an exacting mistress she, and attempting to withhold her rights will only provoke towards foreclosure on her part the mortgage she holds on our estates both temporal and physical. Have you noticed how old people, those whose earlier ambitions are dead, whose life-work is almost done, regretfully reflect on having allowed their former zeal to run away with their discretion?

“If I only hadn’t worked so hard that cold spring to finish the cleaning quite so soon, I shouldn’t have had this cough fastened on me for all these years.”

“If I could only have been contented with doing a full day’s work in twenty-four hours, I shouldn’t have been burdened all my declining days with this poor lame back.”

“Don’t tear about so, dear. You won’t be any the stronger for it a little while hence, depend upon it you won’t.” And let me add, my reader, dear grandma knows.—Mrs. Harriet A. Cheever, in Christian at Work.