p. 18 | Scenes in my Household

The Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Jun 11, 1861

Scenes in my Household.

The following article, although it partakes quite largely of the nature of a story, contains valuable hints for such as love the Golden Rule, and will be read with peculiar interest by thousands of the readers of the REVIEW. While the scene is evidently taken from the "higher walks of life," it instructs those in its lower walks, and especially does it tell the rich and affluent to be merciful to those contending with the discouraging spirit of poverty. I clipped it from a Detroit daily.

G. W. A.

WASHING days, with far too many housekeepers, are days of trouble and disorder. I've tried washing-machines twice, and twice abandoned them; for instead of diminishing, they increased the trouble and disorder. Your true Biddy always ruffles her feathers at every attempted improvement in her domain. She is dead set against labor-saving machinery, or new inventions in the culinary line. As for washing, she has no faith in anything but hard knuckles and a cherry board; and in regard to time, it must be from sun to sun—steam and soap-suds, from morning till dusky twilight.

Getting desperate, as housekeepers sometimes will when tried beyond endurance, I turn over a new leaf now and then, and throw my kitchen cabinet into confusion. Biddy, however, is sure to get her revenge, and drive me into the old order of things.

But this is keeping me back from a washing-day incident, which I design to relate. I keep two domestics, one a nursery and house-maid, and the other a cook. I hire a washerwoman on Mondays, to whom the sum of seventy-five cents has been usually paid for the day's work.

One Monday evening, a few weeks ago, just after the gas had been lighted, I was sitting at my work-stand, with Hetty on a stool by my feet, reading a new book, which her father had brought her at dinner time, when the cook came in and said—

"Mary's done the washing, ma'am."

I took out my porte-monnaie, and had selected three quarters of a dollar, when the cook added—

"Mary thinks she ought to have a dollar."

"Well, she won't get it," was my quick and rather excited answer. "Three quarters are enough, and all she'll receive from me. I never saw such people! you can't satisfy them!"

"It's a big wash," replied the cook, "and hard work standing over the tub from morning till night."

"There's no use in talking," said I sharply, "I shall not pay her a dollar."

"May be 'ye'd be after dividin' it with her then," suggested the cook, who had gone over to the side of Mary. "Say ye'll give her a shillin' more nor three quarters."

"May be I won't, then," said I positively.

Cook went down stairs, leaving me in not a very comfortable state of mind. I felt annoyed at this demand. Seventy-five cents was all I ever had paid, or ever expected to pay for a day's washing. A dollar seemed out of all reason. Mr. Wilkins came in soon after, and the subject passed from my thoughts. He brought me home a photographic impression of that sweet picture, entitled, "Past and Future," with which I was delighted.

"How much did it cost?" was a very natural question.

"Only twenty-five cents," was the reply.

"Indeed! is it that cheap?"

"Yes, very cheap. Impressions of this kind are usually sold at from fifty cents to a dollar."

"Can you get any more of them?" I inquired.

"Yes."

"At the same price?"

"O, yes."

"I'd like two more," said I. "Will you get them for me to-morrow?"

"Certainly; but what do you want with two more?"

"I would like to give one to Mrs. Walker, and send the other to sister Alice."

"You shall have them," was my husband's cheerful response.

"Did you get the note paper and envelopes?" I now inquired, remembering a little commission I had given him in the morning. He drew forth a package and placed it in my hand.

"Gilt edge?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Pink-lined envelopes?"

"O, certainly;" that was your direction. But I call it extravagant. Now, how much extra do you suppose I had to pay for gilt edge and pink-lining?

"I'm sure I don't know," was my carelessly spoken answer.

"Nor don't care, either, why didn't you say?" He smiled, with just a shade of gravity in his eyes, adding—"But I will inform you, nevertheless. The pink and gilt in that little package cost just fifty cents."

"Nothing so very ruinous in that." I threw back the words laughingly.

"Not at all; only it just crossed my mind that many a poor man works hard all day for just double the amount here spent in gold leaf and tinting—useless, all!"

I dropped my eyes away from the earnest look with which my husband seemed regarding me. He had not meant to utter a rebuke, but his words went home. My thoughts passed instantly to poor Mary, our washerwoman, and her long, hard day's work. I thought of her two children at home, from whom she had been absent since morning, and the meagre provision she could make for them and herself on the small sum of her earnings—seventy-five cents a day, with the certainty of never more than three or four full day's work in a week. I thought, likewise, of my refusal to increase the sum of one day's earnings by the small addition of even a single shilling, which my cook with more kindness and sympathy than I had given her credit for, urged me in her impulsive way to advance. A shame spot burnt on my cheek. Rising suddenly, I went down stairs to the kitchen.

"Where's Mary?" I asked.

"Gone," answered cook, coldly.

"Did she get her supper?"

"No, ma'am. She couldn't stay. The wash was heavy, and we didn't get through till late."

"Why didn't you get her some supper?"

"I wanted to, but she said no, she wasn't hungry."

"I'm sorry," was my remark, and stood thoughtful for some moments. Conscience was troubling me.

"Is she coming next week, as usual?"

"Don't know, ma'am. She didn't say. Guess as how she'll try to make a day somewhere else, if she can."

I returned and went up stairs, feeling altogether uncomfortable. What a trifle was the sum to me which I had refused to advance—to her of how much importance. In parting with it, I should never have felt the slightest diminution of comfort, while the gain to her would have been great. Very exact was I in dealing with this poor woman, bargaining for her work at the lowest rate for which it could be obtained, yet liberal in expending from a mere generous impulse—giving away things of taste and ornament to persons better able to purchase than I was to bestow. The matter troubled me. I looked so sober, as I sat at the head of the tea-table, that my husband inquired with a shade of concern on his face, if I were not well.

"O, yes," I replied, rallying myself, "quite well;" and then I tried to make conversation, in order to push aside, if possible, the unpleasant thoughts that intruded themselves. But I remained ill at ease. Conscience kept accusing me. Had I been just, humane, considerate? I could not answer, yes. Fifty cents for gilt and tint was a thing of no consideration; but twenty-five cents to my poor washerwoman, who toiled wearily from sun to sun, was so weighty a matter, that self-interest would not permit me to decide in her favor. Two or three times during the evening I had resolved to send my cook to Mary, who lived not far distant, with the twenty-five cents I had so positively refused to advance on her wages. But this would have been to acknowledge myself wrong, and human nature is weak. I was not quite ready for this.

"You needn't get me those photographs," said I to Mr. Wilkins on the next morning, as he was leaving after breakfast.

"Why not?" he inquired, looking at me curiously.

I really felt as if he were reading my thoughts, and my eyes fell away involuntarily.

"Gilt edge and pink-lining!" Mr. Wilkins looked at me from the corners of his eyes a little reprovably.

"For shame!" I answered, hiding the real state of my mind under a show of mock displeasure.

I could not get Mary out of my mind. Every now and then a thought of her would intrude, and continued throughout the day. Several times I resolved to send her the extra sum she had asked for her day's work, but pride—I call the feeling by its right name—held my good intent from action; and so the days went on and the week closed.

Sunday evening found my thoughts going forward to Monday, that day of days to housekeepers. I had never known a more faithful or punctual washerwoman than Mary, and had often said of her, speaking to myself, "She's a treasure." The question of her appearance as usual, on Monday morning, was therefore a serious one, and the doubt involved made me feel uncomfortable. Rather than lose her, I would have paid a dollar for the day's work cheerfully. She was better worth that than most washerwomen the usual seventy-five cents.

"I wonder if Mary will be here in the morning," said I, speaking to my cook.

"Don't know, ma'am," answered cook, soberly. I could see that the extra quarter was in her mind, and she wished me to remember how I had refused to advance Mary's wages.

"Did she say anything about giving up the place?" I inquired.

"She said it was worth a dollar, ma'am, and she could get it—and so she can."

I said no more, but left cook brooding over the matter, with no pleasant anticipations.

I arose early on the next morning, and went down to the kitchen. There stood Mary over her washing-tub, as I had seen her on every Monday morning for a twelvemonth. She looked up as I came in, with her usual grave smile of recognition; but the smile was more fleeting than usual, and as it faded out I saw lines of trouble on her face.

"Are you not well, Mary?" I asked kindly.

"Not very well, ma'am," she answered in a tone that stirred my heart with a feeling of sympathy.

"What ails you?" I inquired.

"Johnny's been sick, and I've had to be up with him almost every night."

"What's the matter with Johnny?"

"I don't know, ma'am. He's had a fever, and such a dreadful headache."

Fever! Ah, I knew too well what that word meant, for many an hour had I lain scorched with fever, and often tormented by thirst. My thoughts went realistically to one well remembered time, when, after a long delay, a cool, juicy orange was placed to my eager lips, and then, as my thoughts passed to Mary's little boy, an accusing spirit charged me with holding back from his lips a like refreshment.

"Is he no better this morning?"

"Not much ma'am."

I turned away from the kitchen and went up stairs, with a strangely uncomfortable feeling about my heart. An image of the sick child haunted me. I fancied him suffering from thirst as I had once suffered, when the hot breath of fever seemed to be drying up my blood.

After breakfast I sent for a few oranges, and taking them in my hands, entered the kitchen, where Mary was at work, and said to her—

"Don't you think these would taste good to Johnny?"

Mary's hands paused in their work, and her eyes filled with tears.

"O, ma'am," she answered with a tremor in her voice, "he cried so last night for an orange, and I couldn't buy him one."

A sob came near overmastering me, but I kept it down.

"Put on your bonnet, Mary," said I, "and take these home to Johnny. Poor child, I know what a fever thirst is."

Tears fell over her face, and her lips tried vainly to express her thanks. I did not want the words, for I saw that her heart was full of gratitude.

"I'll be back in a minute," she said, a few moments afterward, and went hurriedly out.

"Here is your money." The day had closed, and the washerwoman's work was done. I held two half-dollars in my hand. Mary looked at them, and then at me, while a flash of surprise mingled with hope and pleasure stood on her face. No further word was spoken. She stood a moment, moved, I could see by the grateful feelings that would not trust themselves in utterance—then turned from me, and left for home.

Was I not a happier woman, as I sat amid my children that evening, than I was just one week before? Ah, we cannot wrong another, without laying burdens upon our own hearts. How many golden opportunities for gathering life's sweetest pleasures do we let go by, permitting selfishness, and a narrow injustice to the poor, to rob both us and them of the good to which we are both entitled.

A trifling incident some may say, on which to hold the reader's attention so long. Do you feel so my friend? Think again, and away from yourself as much as possible, and perhaps the impression may change.