NEATNESS AND ORDER IN THE HOME by Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · May 4, 1904

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 30, No. 18.

NEATNESS AND ORDER IN THE HOME.

By Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle

BY MRS. L. D. AVERY-STUTTLE.

"ORDER is heaven's first law." "Let all things be done decently and in order."

"There!" exclaims Mrs. Overlynice. "Now you are talking sound sense. I have wondered how long it would be before somebody arose and said a word in favor of decency and neatness;" and Mrs. Overlynice tucked her sleeves up a little higher, twisted her hair in a fantastic knot on the top of her virtuous head, and proceeded to scour and scrub and polish the old pine table in the back kitchen until it almost shone. Mrs. Overlynice was a good little woman in the main; of course she was a trifle cross once in a while when John or the boys forgot to wipe their feet or remove their heavy boots before invading the sanctity of her spotless parlor. But John always made allowance for his wife, because he said nobody could be perfectly kind and lovely when their back ached from scouring, and their arms ached from sweeping, and their whole body ached from a constant battle with dirt; and John was right.

"Why don't you let me give that old pine table a coat of paint, my dear?" he asked.

"Why, John! do you think I want to cover up dirt with paint?"

"Well, I am going to buy you a carpet-sweeper to-day, and then Jennie can do the sweeping as well as you."

"I tell you, John, I never saw a carpet-sweeper in my life that could do as thorough a job of sweeping as I can;" and Mrs. Overlynice placed her hand on her aching back for a moment, and went on with her sweeping.

Now I am not writing this article for Mrs. Overlynice, I am writing it for her neighbor, Mrs. Slipshod.

I called at her house only this afternoon and found her helping Mr. Slipshod chase the cattle out of the clover pasture, where they had been all the morning in defiance of a broken-down gate and rickety fence. Mr. Slipshod said he had intended to mend that gate and to fix the fence for a long time; but now it was too late, for in all probability their best cow would die; and Mrs. Slipshod said she didn't see why they were always so unfortunate. Then she invited me in. At one side of the patch, leading to the front door, reposed in state the decaying carcass of a pig. I did not wonder that Mrs. Slipshod said none of the family had been well for a week.

The chickens hurried off from the front stoop, which they had evidently used for a roost for some time, and cackled impatiently at being disturbed.

"Eggs are very high now," I remarked. "I suppose you have plenty of them."

"Well, no; Mr. Slipshod intends to build a park when he has time, but really our chickens have no place at all, and I believe they lay their eggs over at Neighbor Thrifty's barn."

"That's too bad; how are Mamie and little Dick?" I asked, hearing childish voices in the kitchen.

"Mamie had to stay out of school to-day, because, the fact is, she has nothing to wear. I can't get time to make her anything, and really I think it's sinful to encourage the children's vanity. I hope you'll excuse this room, I haven't swept up since yesterday's wash."

"Why, you don't wash on this pretty carpet, do you, Mrs. Slipshod? I should think you would wash in your back kitchen, you have a nice, large house."

"I would be glad to, but the windows have been broken out for a long time, and I don't like to stand in a draft. Mr. Slipshod is going to putty them in when he gets time."

But I saw that meantime the water spilled from many washings had caused the delicate colors in the carpet to run badly. The few pictures on the walls were draped with dust and cobwebs, and were so unevenly hung as to suggest the idea that there had been an earthquake in the near vicinity.

Just then two dirty little faces appeared in the doorway.

"Why, Mamie Slipshod! you take Dicky and run right back into the kitchen. I'm ashamed of you! you're not fit to be seen."

"We look just as well as mama does, don't we, Dicky?" muttered Mamie, as she led a very dirty little boy out of the room.

Mrs. Slipshod looked a trifle uneasy as she glanced down at her greasy gown, with three or four long slits in the skirt. But as I did not appear to notice it, she grew more confident, and smoothed her frowsy hair complacently.

"Where is your daughter Edith?" I asked. "I have not seen her for some time."

"No," whimpered Mrs. Slipshod, "Edith has left home for good and all. Mr. Slipshod tried to get her to come back home with him when he went to the city, but she wouldn't hear a word to it. Her father takes it pretty hard."

"Was she not contented at home?" I asked.

"No, that's just it. Edith's got to going with a lot of stylish high-fliers, and she's ashamed of her home and her family;" and the poor woman wiped her eyes on her ragged apron.

"That's too bad," I volunteered. "When was she home last?"

"Over three months ago. She brought a lot of company home with her to dinner, and—well—I dare say the house didn't look so very stylish. She sent word she was coming, and I suppose I ought to have had things fixed up a little. But I think it's downright sinful to fuss, and pattern so after the world," and poor Mrs. Slipshod sighed virtuously.

Well, I did my errand, and cut my call short. I pitied the poor woman from my heart. She followed me to the gate, bewailing their bad luck, and wondering why their daughter could not be contented to stay at home. I have since heard that poor Edith is keeping company with a set of young people of very questionable morals, and she has severed her church connections entirely. My heart bleeds for the poor girl, and for her misguided parents; and I said to myself: "Mrs. Slipshod is making a greater mistake than is Mrs. Overlynice. Neither are making true homes for their children, and, as a consequence, the young people of both families are lost to the church, and are going into the world." Then I remembered a certain admonition in the Good Book:—

"Let your moderation be known unto all men."