Keepers Not at Home by Aunt Maria

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Jul 4, 1912

Keepers Not at Home

By Aunt Maria

"WELL, now, I am almost discouraged," said gentle Mrs. Williams, loosening the ties of her wrap as she sank into the easy chair that Mrs. Gordon, her oldest daughter, had drawn to a bright spot near the window as she saw her mother coming home.

"Elsie, please bring grandma a glass of fresh water. You really look tired, mother; tell us what you have been doing; we do not often see you almost discouraged," sympathized Mrs. Gordon.

"Well, it is so; I am almost discouraged. You remember Sister Jones and I promised to sell twenty-five copies of that special number. It is so good! and we thought the women in this neighborhood would be glad to get the good, practical help it would be to them in their homes. Sister Jones has had the rheumatism so she could not get out, and I have been trying to dispose of the whole lot. Only twenty-five, that ought not to take long, I thought.

"Monday I started out in the morning. Being wash-day, I expected to find everybody at home, and knew it would take only a few minutes to tell each one about the paper. As no one answered at the side doors, I rang the front-door bells, but still no one answered. At next to the last house a woman came across to the fence and said her sister lived there, but wouldn't be home till nearly six o'clock, and asked if I would like to leave word for her. I explained my errand, and sold a paper to the woman. She said most of the women in that neighborhood had gone down-town to the Monday sale. Wednesday afternoon there was a big game at the baseball park, so I had a similar experience that day.

"I found three or four women at home on Thursday, and these bought readily. To-day is remnant day, and every one had gone to the sales, I was told.

"It is not that I care so much about the papers, Cassy,"—and the eyes that once were described as dancing brown grew very serious,—"but I fell to thinking about those women's homes. Why, Cassy, when you five were little ones together, before baby Eddy was taken away, our little home duties kept us all as busy as bees. You were only fourteen, and I depended on your help so much, but even then I had scarcely time to make my weekly visit to mother, and get down-town to do the necessary buying for the family.

"As I say, I fell to thinking about those women's homes, and the words of Paul came to me, 'Teach the young women to be . . . discreet, . . . keepers at home.' There were those beautiful houses, well furnished and tastefully arranged, with the blue smoke curling up from the chimneys, all so homelike, but no 'keepers at home.' What would the children do when they came home from school at lunch time? Did the husbands carry pails or get quick lunches down-town? At five o'clock children were still playing in the street before the closed houses. Some boys were quarreling over their game of ball. One little fellow was covered with mud, and his nose was bleeding. 'He knocked me down 'cause I didn't catch the fly,' the little fellow said when I asked him what was the matter. I asked him where he lived, and he said, 'In that cement house with the brown shingles,' pointing to a house I knew was still without its keeper. It made me feel sad, Cassy, to see that little fellow crying in the street, and know his sister was too busy with the other girls even to ask what ailed him. What wonder if that mother, coming home at six o'clock to hurry up supper, should feel nervous on finding things in this state.

"When your father was with us, Cassy, I liked to have the meal all ready when he came home from the office at night. It seemed to smooth the worry out of his face when we all gathered about the table, and he thanked God for the health of the family, and asked him to bless the food and the hands that had prepared it. It rested me, too, and soothed my nerves. I was glad that the dish I prepared to his liking seemed to suit his taste so well." The gray locks rested back against the easy chair, and the slender hands crept together in the gentle mother's lap as the eyes closed in reverie.

"Teach the young women to be sober, to love their husbands, to love their children, to be discreet, chaste, keepers at home," were the words still ringing in the loving heart, mingled with the sacred memories of wifehood and motherhood. "Maybe there is something for us older women to do," mused the "aged" one, as for the first time her mind caught the words. "Teach the young women."

Takoma Park, D. C.