The Poor Washerwoman

The Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Oct 15, 1861

The Poor Washerwoman.

"I DECLARE, I have half a mind to put this bed-quilt into the wash to-day. It does not really need to go either; but I think I will send it down."

"Why will you put it in, Mary, if it does not need to go?" asked her good old aunt, in her quiet and expressive way.

"Why, you see, aunt, we have but a small wash to-day; so small that Susan will get through by one o'clock at the latest, and I shall have to pay her the same as though she worked till night:—"

"Stop a moment, dear," said the old lady, gently, "stop a moment and think. Suppose you were in the situation poor Susan is, obliged, you tell me, to toil over the wash-tub six days out of the seven, for the bare necessaries of life; would you not be glad, once in a while, to get through before night, to have a few hours of daylight to labor for yourself and family; or, better still, a few hours to rest? Mary, dear, it is a hard, hard way for a woman to earn a living; begrudge not the poor creature an easy day. This is the fourth day in succession she has risen by candlelight and plodded through the cold here and there to her customers' houses, and toiled away existence. Let her go at noon if she gets through: who knows but that she may have come from the sick bed of some loved one, and she counts the hours, yes, the minutes, till she can return, fearing that she may be one too late? Put it back on the bed, and sit down here while I tell you what one poor washerwoman endured, because her employer did as you would to make out the wash." And the old woman took off her glasses, and wiped away the tears that from some cause had gathered in her aged eyes, and then with a tremulous voice related the promised story:

"There never was a more blithesome bridal than that of Ada R——. None ever had higher hopes, more blissful anticipations. Wedding the man of her choice; one of whom any woman might be proud—few, indeed, had a sunnier life in prospect than she had.

"And for ten years there fell no shadow on her path. Her home was one of beauty and rare comfort; her husband the same kind, gentle, loving man as in the days of courtship; winning laurels every year in his profession; adding new comforts to his home, and new joys to his fireside. And besides these blessings, God had given another: a little crib stood by the bedside, its tenant a golden-haired baby-boy, the image of its noble father, and dearer than aught else earth could offer.

"But I must not dwell on those happy days; my story has to do with other ones. It was with them as it has often been with others—just when the cup was sweetest, it was dashed away. A series of misfortunes and reverses occurred with startling rapidity, and swept away from them every thing but love and their babe. Spared to one another and to that, they bore a brave heart, and in a distant city began a new fortune. Well and strongly did they struggle, and at length began once more to see the sunlight of prosperity shine upon their home. But a little while it staid, and then the shadows fell. The husband sickened, and lay for many a month upon a weary couch, languishing not only with mental and bodily pain, but oftentimes for food and medicines. All that she could do, the wife performed with a faithful hand. She went from one thing to another, till, at length, she who had worn a satin garment upon her bridal day, toiled at the washtub for the scantiest living. In a dreary winter, long before light, she would rise morning after morning, and labor for the dear ones of her lowly home. Often she had to set off through the cold, deep snow, and grope her way to kitchens, which were sometimes smoky and gloomy, and toil there at rubbing, rinsing, starching, not unfrequently wading knee-deep in the drifts, to hang out the clothes that from even ere she had fastened them to the line. And when night came, with her scanty earnings, she would again grope through the cold and snow to her oft-times lightless and fireless home; for her husband was too sick, much of the time, to tend even the fire or strike a light. And, O, with what a shivering heart she would draw near, fearing ever she would be too late! It is a fact, that for six weeks, at one time, she never saw the face of her husband or her child, save by lamp-light, except only on the Sabbath. How glad she would have been to have had, once in a while, a small washing gathered for her!

"One dark winter morning, as she was preparing the frugal breakfast and getting every thing ready before she left, her husband called her to the bedside.

" 'Ada,' said he, in almost a whisper, 'I want you to try and get home early to-night; be home before the light goes: do, Ada.'

" 'I'll try,' answered she, with a choked utterance.

" 'Do try, Ada. I have a strange desire to see your face by daylight: to-day is Friday; I have not seen it since Sunday. I must look upon it once again.'

" 'Do you feel worse?' asked she, anxiously, feeling his pulse as she spoke.

" 'No, no, I think not; but I do want to see your face once more by sunlight. I cannot wait till Sunday.'

"Gladly would she have tarried by his bedside till the sunlight had stolen through their little window; but it might not be. Wanted,

and she must go forth to labor. She left her husband. She reached the kitchen of her employer, and with a troubled face waited for the basket to be brought. A smile played over her wan face as she assorted its contents. She could get through easily by two o'clock; yes, and if she hurried, perhaps by one. Love and anxiety lent new strength to her weary arms; and five minutes after the clock struck one she hung the last garment on the line, and was just about emptying her tubs, when the mistress came in with a couple of bed-quilts, saying—

“As you have so small a wash to-day, Ada, I think you may do these yet.” After the mistress had turned her back, a cry of agony, wrung from the deepest fountain of the washerwoman's heart, gushed to her lips. Smothering it as best she could, she set to again, and rubbed, rinsed, and hung out. It was half-past three when she started for home, an hour too late! and the aged narrator sobbed.

“An hour too late,” continued she, after a long pause. “Her husband was dying; yes, almost gone! He had strength given him to whisper a few words to the half-frantic wife, to tell her how he had longed to look upon her face; that he could not see her then, he lay in the shadow of death. One hour she pillowed his head upon her suffering heart; and then—he was at rest!

“Mary, Mary dear,” and there was a soul-touching emphasis in the aged woman's words, “be kind to your washerwoman: instead of striving to make her day's work as long as may be, shorten it, lighten it. Few women will go out to washing daily, unless their needs are pressing. No woman on her bridal day expects to labor in that way; and be sure, my niece, if she is constrained to do so, it is the last resort. That poor woman, laboring now so hard for you, has not always been a washerwoman. She has seen better days. She has passed through terrible trials too. I can read her story in her pale, sad face. Be kind to her; pay her what she asks, and let her go home as early as she can.” *

“You have finished in good time to-day, Susan,” said Mrs. M., as the washerwoman, with her old cloak and hood on, entered the pleasant room to get the money she had earned.

“Yes, ma'am, I have; and my heart, ma'am, is relieved of a heavy load, too. I was so afraid I should be kept till night, and I am needed so at home.”

“Is there sickness there?” said the old aunt, kindly.

Tears gushed to the woman's eyes as she answered, “Ah, ma'am! I left my baby 'most dead this morning: he will be quite so to-morrow. I know it, I have seen it too many times; and none but a child of nine years to attend him. O! I must go, and quickly.” And, grasping the money she had toiled for while her baby was dying, she hurried to her dreary home.

Shortly after they followed her; the young wife who had never known a sorrow, and the aged matron whose hair was white with trouble, followed her to her home, the home of the drunkard's wife, the drunkard's babes. She was not too late. The little dying boy knew its mother. But at midnight he died, and then kind hands took from the sorrowing mother the breathless form, closed the bright eyes, straightened the tiny limbs, bathed the cold clay, and folded about it the pure white shroud; yes, and did more—they gave, what the poor too seldom have, time to weep.

“O, aunt!” said Mrs. M. with tears in her eyes, “if my heart blesses you, how much more must poor Susan's! Had it not been for you, she would have been too late. It has been a sad yet holy lesson. I shall always now be kind to the poor washerwoman. But, aunt, was the story you told me a true one—all true, I mean?”

“The reality of that story whitened this head when it had seen but thirty summers; and the memory of it has been one of my keenest sorrows. It is not strange that I should pity the poor washerwoman.”—Wesleyan Family Visitor.