p. 12 | TOO NICE FOR COMFORT by Helen P. Barnard

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Dec 29, 1887

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 13, No. 50.

TOO NICE FOR COMFORT.

By Helen P. Barnard

THAT ottoman, covered with real lace and satin ribbon, who would dare rest a weary foot upon it? That sofa-pillow, shaped most alluringly for repose, who would venture a tired head upon such elegant fabric bound together by countless stitches of embroidery silk? Out in the library is a table-desk, just the thing for a family to gather about on a winter evening, with its drop-light, but even that has been made a household idol with a scarf that cost the ladies of the house infinite trouble and money; and although unique pen-holders, paper-cutters, and fancy weights are arranged upon it as if for convenience, it is all to look at—the elegant inkstand is empty, for fear of accident, and all writing must be done elsewhere.

The same obstacle to comfort is in every part of the house. The dining-room crumb-cloth is so elegant that the mistress is constantly distressed lest a morsel fall upon it. Even the nursery is invaded by this law—the children's best toys are used for decoration, to give the room the semblance of luxurious playing!

A lady was admiring a French doll in one of these show nurseries. "What wouldn't I have given for this when a child!" she said. "And a whole trunk full of clothes! What hours of fun these must bring!"

The small owner of so much, gazing mournfully at the Parisian belle, replied, "She isn't made to play with—she's my look-at dolly!"

My friend found that the doll was a type of the restrictions placed upon all the simple pleasures of childhood. Everything was too nice for every-day use. Her clothes were not to romp in; she wore silk and velvet to school, and fine shoes that she was daily admonished not to get scratched. Even the lawn about her father's house was too nice to step upon; a man was kept at work all summer, trimming and raking it, until, instead of being something spontaneous and useful for children to sport upon, it was as nearly as possible like a vivid green carpet from the manufactory.

Sometimes the master of the house, coming home weary of business, longed for less luxury, and more comfortable arrangements. If he ventured to rest in an easy-chair, he was gently, but firmly, dislodged by wife or daughters with—"O father, you'll spoil that!" or, "Father, that's for company!"

"I'd give more for mother's kitchen, with its chintz-cushioned rocker, than for all the fancy fixings in this whole house!" he often said. "There isn't one spot of solid comfort in it!"

This only provoked that pitying superior smile that women accord the masculine who cannot rise to their ideal. They could not see the pathos under his half-playful protest. Why shouldn't the gods they worship satisfy him? Well for them that the man loved home, and instinctively turned to that when pressed with care, or else he might have drifted far away. O blind wives and mothers, who allow the love of beautifying, possibly the desire for display, to clash with the true

object of home! Where are your boys tonight, mother, while you anxiously match the shades for that silken banner? Under whose banner are they enlisting? Homes ought to be as lovely as time and means will allow, but let comfort be united with beauty.

—Helen P. Barnard, in Watchman.