p. 12 | Clearing Up

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Washington, D. C. · Oct 29, 1903

Clearing Up

Not the weather, but one's house, one's bureau drawers, and closets, and top shelves, and cubby-holes, are in one's power to clear up.

The very neatest housekeeper in the world has her occasional days of putting things to rights, of looking over her stuff and taking stock of her possessions, and of setting her realm in order. Reasons why this should very regularly be done are self-evident. Moth and rust are ever creeping stealthily into places which are closed from daylight. Dampness makes incursions where it is least expected, and dust sifts through cracks and keyholes.

The other day, having mislaid a precious bit of lace, a notable housewife resolved on setting right every repository under her care. She began at the attic, and worked slowly and diligently down. Had she dwelt in a city flat, her progress must have been lateral instead of perpendicular, but it might have been as thorough.

She discovered stacks of old and faded letters; dates were of twenty and thirty years ago. Reading them, she was brought in touch again with friends who have passed away, with friends now old, who then were youthful and impetuous, with a strange and bygone era, though it was but a section of a lifetime. Here were ashes of roses, sentiments which awakened no responsive chord, tones which vibrated no longer. The fitting place for these letters was the fire, and with a certain decorum and touch of gravity, the lady lighted a match and deposited the correspondence in the range, summer-empty of coal, and yawning to receive the strange burden.

Receipts belonging to ancient history shared the fate of the letters. Much of the dust-gathering material was thus eliminated from the housekeeper's task.

Now she came upon stores of clothing, put away with care, in the supposition that it would be made over at some future day. “It hardly belongs to me,” was her verdict, as she shook out skirts, and inspected jackets, and looked over garments which would do good service if

sent to some institution, asylum, or settlement. She made these into piles, labeled them and tied them up, to be sent away by express.

One of the most satisfactory results of her effort at restoring order to a somewhat confused house was in various “finds” which were real treasures; as, for example, books she had owned, which had drifted out of sight; and photographs which came out of limbo, smiling like acquaintances who had been long abroad. Tired, but contented, the lady went to bed early when she had completed her task.

One of these days every one of us will lie with folded hands in the final sleep. After a while those who love us will go over our things, seeing, while we are helpless, our little shifts and mysteries, handling and dividing our raiment, perhaps reading our letters, and putting in order for the last time the house which we tenant no longer. In view of this final disposition of our goods, made by loving hands, is it not wise to keep our effects in an order so beautiful that when we are gone our dear ones shall have no needless difficulty, and find themselves confronted with no very puzzling problems? Life will be no shorter if we are careful each day to set our affairs in order.—Intelligencer.