ECONOMY AND THRIFT IN THE HOME by Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · May 11, 1904

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 30, No. 19.

ECONOMY AND THRIFT IN THE HOME.

By Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle

IT was New Year’s morning. Auntie Hale sat at her knitting in the pleasant south sitting-room, which had been devoted to her use since her advent into the home of her nephew, Bryan Stanwood, and his young wife, Milly. A large, sunny room it was, cozy and comfortable; for young Stanwood always declared that the dear old lady who had been to him more than a mother since his early childhood should never want for anything that it was in his power to supply. And now, as she sat by the cheerful fire, watching the red flames as they glowed and curled up the chimney, while the click, click of her needles played a merry tune, Auntie Hale felt that the lines had indeed fallen unto her in pleasant place.

“There’s just one thing that troubles me,” she murmurs softly to herself. (Auntie Hale had a great habit of keeping up a one-sided dialogue between herself and an imaginary somebody, whom Bryan often declared must be her guardian angel.)

“Yes, there’s just one thing that troubles me. Bryan is thrifty and economical, I brought him up to that, but Milly,—well, Milly’s a right smart young woman, and makes him a good, loving wife, but I think I’ve noticed a worried look on Bryan’s face lately, and I might as well own up to you,” she continued, gravely, growing more confidential toward her imaginary guest—“I might as well own up to you that Milly is inclined to be a little mite extravagant! there! it’s the first time I ever owned it; but she’s a nice little woman, and I think when she has had a few years’ experience, she’ll be all right. But experience teaches a dear school. I know how ‘tis; I was young once myself, and foolish and vain,” and Auntie Hale sighed, and her eyes grew misty, as faithful memory carried her back to the days when she, too, was a young wife.

“Good morning, auntie, good morning,” cries a merry voice, while the door is noiselessly opened, and a pair of soft hands are pressed gently over the dear old eyes.

“You see, I’ve taken you prisoner, auntie, and the only way you can buy your freedom is by guessing who your captor is, and telling her a story; come, now!”

“It couldn’t be anybody but Mistress Milly Stanwood, for nobody cares to hear an old lady’s foolish stories but her,” smiled Auntie Hale, as “Mistress Milly” drew up a low rocker and prepared for a good visit.

“It’s early in the day for a chat now, I know, auntie, but you see I’m going to have company for dinner, and we are invited out this evening, and I thought while I was waiting for Hannah to do the dusting, I’d come into your room and sew the lace in the neck of my gown, and have a cozy chat with you, auntie. By the way, how do you like my new gown? Mrs. DeVoe just finished it.”

“It is quite elegant, indeed, dear; it reminds me very much of one I had years ago, when I was just about your age.”

“You? why, I thought—excuse me, auntie, but Bryan always said Uncle Robert was a poor man, and you know this gown cost fifty dollars, auntie.”

“Mine cost even more than that, my dear, for heartache and tears are more expensive than gold; but it taught me a lesson that I have never forgotten.”

“There, auntie, I knew I could coax a story out of you; of course you will tell me all about it. But really, to tell you the truth, Bryan did look a little serious when he handed me the money for this dress; but I was determined never to appear at that party to-night at the Truesdale’s in my old gown. Mrs. Smith wore such an elegant outfit last month at our party, and I was just bound, auntie, that mine should be as fine. Of course Mrs. Smith’s husband draws a larger salary than Bryan, but—O, dear, auntie, I do so long to be rich, sometimes; I’m awfully tired of being poor. There are so many things I want. The parlor furniture looks so old-fashioned; you know it belonged to Bryan’s mother years and years ago, and I saw Mrs. Gillett looking at it the other day when she called, and I fancied I saw her lip curl,—and that settled me! I’m determined to have a new parlor suit at once. I suppose Bryan will oppose me, but I just can’t stand ridicule, auntie, and—I won’t!”

“That was my weak point once, dear; I know how you feel, and I’ll tell you my little story, since you desire it, tho the telling of it always gives me pain, even after these many years.

“When we were first married, your Uncle Robert and I lived in a neat little cabin which he had built with his own hands, and quite proud we were of it. I well remember when the last finishing touch was given; then we were quietly married, and began living in our cozy nest. There was nothing elegant in our furnishings, I can assure you. But I planted wild cucumber vines at the windows, and Robert made me some round posy beds which I bordered with little stones, and planted with marigolds and bachelor buttons, and O, what a garden we had! I helped Robert in the care of it, and very proud we were of our long rows of cabbage and beets and potatoes and corn. What a simple, happy life we led! We had no carpet on the floor, which it was my delight to keep clean and white. There were but three rooms—a bedroom, a tiny kitchen, and a sitting-room, dining-room and parlor all in one. There was a large braided rug in front of the bed, and one before the fireplace in the sitting-room; a white pine table, half a dozen stools of the same material, and a row of shelves for our few dishes and cooking utensils, and an old-fashioned grandfather’s clock in the corner,—these, with a tiny wardrobe which I had improvised for our best clothes, comprised—”

“Why, auntie, you haven’t mentioned any chairs at all. Where did you sit? I really think now, it must have been cozy and nice. I don’t believe I should consider it any hardship at all to live like that,—so romantic, you know,” and little Mrs. Stanwood smiled as she gave the last stitch to the rich, creamy lace, and shook out the elegant gown daintily. “Very romantic, certainly, auntie; but what about your chairs? you know I take a peculiar delight in nice easy chairs and plenty of them.”

“Chairs? O, the white-pine stools, and a bench, if we were crowded with company, answered nicely; at least it is all we had at that time. Indeed, Milly, I should have pronounced the furniture in your parlor,—even if it is a little out of date,—almost too elegant to use at all, and I am afraid your friend, Mrs. Gillett, would have curled her lip more scornfully at my simple furnishings than you fancied she did the other day. But I must finish my story:—

“One gloomy day in September Robert came home from the village, about ten miles distant, bringing a young woman with him—a distant relative. I remember well how daintily she was dressed, and how entirely out of harmony her fine ribbons seemed to my dazzled eyes, in contrast with our plain surroundings and my simple frock.

“And so, little by little, I grew discontented with my lot, and envied my foolish guest her gaudy attire, until, in an evil hour, when she taunted me with my poverty, I listened to her suggestions.

“‘These ugly stools will never do, Jane,’ she said one day; ‘Mr. Brown is coming to call on us, from the city, you know, very soon, and, really, it will never do to offer him a bench to sit upon.’

“I flushed, and began a remonstrance, but she continued, without heeding me:—

“‘And you, Jane,—I shall be quite ashamed to present you in that calico frock,—seems to me Cousin Robert ought to afford you a better gown; if you don’t happen to have the money, Mr. Green, the merchant at the village, will trust you,—he knows Robert,—and what is the use in looking so mean and shabby?’

“I felt the hot blood mount to my temples, but I said nothing, for already I had asked myself the same foolish question many times since my guest had come, and, having once entertained a thought of envy and discontent, it became easy to listen to any suggestion from the tempter.”

(Concluded next week.)