What to Leave Out by Kate W. Hamilton

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Jan 21, 1886

What to Leave Out.

By Kate W. Hamilton

THERE was the faint suspicion of a headache, to begin with—not a good beginning, for Mrs. Grey had opened her eyes upon a busy day.

"Oh, dear! There are a dozen more things to be done to-day than I can possibly do," she sighed, as she left the breakfast table.

"Then you must decide what to leave out," answered Mr. Grey, who was gathering up hat and gloves for his trip down town.

It did not sound like a very wise reply, nor a particularly sympathetic one, his wife thought, as she watched him passing down the street. Of course he did not understand. He had only to go to his office, get through a regular routine, and stop at a certain hour. If a woman's work were like that! And she quoted the old couplet:

"A man's work is from sun to sun; A woman's work is never done."

But she had no time to moralize. The rooms must be dusted and put in order; the apple jelly—delayed too long—must certainly be made to-day; and she wanted to look over her baskets and boxes, and find some pieces for Auntie Snow's quilt. Oh, there were a host of things to be done—no use trying to count them, she said—but the worst of all was Tot's little dress, which must be finished. There was so much work on that dress!

"The apples will be ready directly, ma'am," suggested Bridget, who had no idea of any work outside of her own realm.

"So will I be," answered Mrs. Grey, promptly. But after all, it required some time to arrange the rooms in the dainty order she liked, and then Willie must be dressed for his kindergarten, and his tiny lunch basket packed; so that it was nearly ten o'clock before she was ready for the kitchen.

The jelly was getting on finely, when Tot created a diversion by falling down stairs.

"Bless the baby! There's no bones broken, ma'am," said the warm-hearted Bridget; and once assured of that fact, Mrs. Grey soothed the child while keeping one eye on the clock and the other on the jelly kettle.

"I shall have one good hour, at least, for my sewing this forenoon," she had just remarked to herself, in a congratulatory tone, when a message arrived from her sister Helen, announcing her coming with a young school friend for dinner.

"It is so far to go home, and I know you are always ready for droppers-in," ran the girlish note.

Mrs. Grey read it with a smile and a sigh. "Always ready!" Little did Helen know about it. Mrs. Grey donned the apron so recently thrown aside, and hastened to the kitchen to make a pudding. To be sure, the dinner would be nice with some more simple dessert that Bridget could prepare; but the young housekeeper's pride rejected that suggestion. She wanted something extra when the girls came, and so the precious hour was consumed.

Helen and her friend enjoyed and commended, lingering and chatting, in girl fashion, until the latest moment. Their appreciation of her pretty home and praises of her housekeeping were very pleasant; but the little dress was unfinished; and as soon as she had closed the door upon her visitors, Mrs. Grey flew up stairs and caught up her long-neglected sewing. She had not a moment to spare, but it seemed as if there were never so many calls for moments.

Willie came home, and was eager to show the bright papers and cards which that morning he had learned to arrange.

"Yes, dear; they are very pretty," answered the mother absently.

"But you don't look at them, mamma," complained the child.

"Why, yes; I said they were very pretty. But mamma is busy now, Willie, run away."

The child withdrew disappointed, but soon came back.

"Mamma, I have ever so many pictures; won't you help me paste them in my scrap-book?"

"Some other time, dear, I am too busy now."

"But, mamma, I'll do them myself if you'll only show me," urged the little fellow.

"I am too busy. Run away now, Willie, and stop teasing." The nervous headache, which had been slowly gaining ground all the morning, made her temples throb painfully now, and her tone was impatient.

Willie reluctantly retreated to the window, looked out drearily; and began to drum a pair of discontented little feet against the panel. It was not a sound calculated to soothe disturbed nerves.

"Willie, do stop that drumming!"

"Well, what can I do, then?" demanded Willie, in a tone that caught the irritation of the older one.

"I do not know what you want to do. Run away and amuse yourself, that's a good boy, and let mamma work."

Willie obeyed, trudged down stairs, and presently found company on the street. Not very choice company—even Willie realized that, but he rebelliously whispered to himself,—

"I don't care! I couldn't make mamma glad, nor s'prised, nor nothing."

Meanwhile, the busy needle flew on as rapidly as the delicate embroidery would allow; but it seemed to the weary worker that Willie had scarcely disappeared before Tot awakened from her nap. Tot could not be sent out of the room, and on this particular afternoon she manifested no inclination to amuse herself. Picture books she threw aside as soon as she found herself left to look at them alone. Then her slate was given her; but that she placed at once on her mother's knee, and every stroke of the unsteady little hands was accompanied by an importunate, "Look, mamma, look!" She was a sad hindrance, and the faint smile which at first rewarded her efforts soon vanished.

"Tottie put her slate on the chair; that will be nicer," suggested mamma, coaxingly; but Tot shook her head. She wanted somebody to watch, approve, and direct, and the dimpled arm rested more and more heavily upon the tired knee.

"Tot, you musn't lean so; you draw my work away," was repeated several times; and then the little artist was pushed aside with an impatient, "I can't bear it any longer! You must take your slate somewhere else, Tot."

Tot took the slate away with a burst of petulant tears, but brought herself back:

"I's tired; I wants to be held."

"Not now. Dear me! I do wish Bridget would come up stairs and take you! I must finish this dress."

The child, in her dainty attire, did not look as if she were suffering for clothing; and if, indeed, the want had been pressing, the little garment in process of construction need not have been so elaborate. That thought flashed through the young mother's mind; but she did not pause to consider it; she was too hurried and worried to consider anything. Her head throbbed and her hand trembled. If Willie would only come and amuse that fretting child! Where was Willie? she suddenly questioned, somewhat uneasily, as she remembered that he had been gone for an hour or more. She had no time to look for him just yet, and he was forgotten again, as a slow step on the stairs informed her that Auntie Snow was coming.

"O Auntie, I haven't looked up those pieces yet; I've been so busy to-day," she explained, apologetically.

"Well, deary, some other day will do," answered the old woman, cheerfully, trying to keep her disappointment out of her tone.

"I have had so much to do," repeated Mrs. Grey, wishing her caller would depart at once, and annoyed, she scarcely knew why, by the knowledge that the kindly old eyes were taking note of her work. "I have hardly taken time to breathe this afternoon."

"You musn't try to do too much," answered the quavering voice, gently, after a moment's pause. "My sister used to be one of the real driving kind; but I've heard her say that she couldn't wash and iron in the same day and be a Christian."

The remark sounded irreverent at first, and then the listener suddenly suspected that it was not so, and drew her thread through with a jerk that broke it. Conversation flagged, and the visitor soon went away; but the hurrying fingers flew on, until, at dusk, the last stitch was taken. The worker's eyes were almost too heavy to see it; but she held the garment up for the inspection of the disconsolate little bundle on the floor, curled up on the hearth rug with the kitten.

"Didn't want some nice dress; wanted some nice mamma," declared the still aggrieved Tot.

It was only a child's petulant speech, but in it there was a keen dagger of truth. The mother turned abruptly away and hung the little dress out of sight. In a year what difference would it make to any one whether that little garment had been so exquisitely trimmed or more simply made? Could she have put into that afternoon love, sympathy, companion-ship—a mother's impress on her children's hearts and lives—that might have outlasted many years. She had leisure to think it all over that evening after the little ones were in bed—an enforced leisure when she lay on the lounge with a handkerchief bound around her throbbing temples. Auntie Snow was right: one could not crowd in too much work without growing hurried, nervous, and irritable—unchristianlike in temper and feeling. But then—she suddenly looked up at her husband who was reading near her, and asked,—

"What did you mean by what you said this morning about choosing what to leave out?"

"God does not ask impossible things," he answered slowly. "A day that is too full usually holds many questionable duties; but its first positive one is wisely to choose what we will allow to be crowded out. That our strength shall be as our day, is a promise for the days as God sends them, and not as our pride, ambition, or impatience makes them."—Kate W. Hamilton.