Over-Particular | AdventAI

Pacific Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Oakland, California · Jun 26, 1879

Over-Particular.

IN the beautiful village of D——, delightfully situated on the banks of the Ohio River, Mr. Henderson had purchased a pleasant home for his family, which consisted of his wife and their three—I suppose in true story style I ought to say “lovely”—children.

But the Hendersons had been boarding for several years in one of the Western cities, and the children, kept under constant restraint in their two or three rooms, were not as healthy or full of life and spirits as other children of their age, having the freedom and run of the whole house and garden in their own homes, usually are.

'Tis true Harry now and then had roguish mischief shining out of his eyes as if he could enjoy a real-boy's frolic, but poor little Mattie, his elder sister by three years, had been so repeatedly checked by her mother for the slightest misdemeanor, and was so constantly on the watch to shield Harry from any reproof that it gave her a peculiar old, quaint look. One would hardly imagine, seeing her quiet, sedate manner about the room arranging things, or when seated at her work, that she was but ten years old. And yet that little heart was naturally full of warmth and sunshine, and she would have been gleeful under different circumstances.

But Mrs. Henderson, her mother, was not one to enter into the pleasures of her children or call forth their affections. In the first place she had never been particularly fond of children, or understood their many little wants and ways.

To keep them neat and clean, and in their rooms as much as possible, away from troubling the other boarders, seemed all that was necessary. All this was well enough had she only made even their narrow quarters bright and home-like to her children. But strictly carrying out the maxim, “a place for every thing, and every thing in its place,” and not wishing her one parlor to be “littered up,” as she called it, with children's books and toys, she was—alas! the truth must be told—over-particular.

Mr. Henderson observing this, and seeing that his bright Harry and darling Mattie were fast losing their once frank, happy spirits and that even little Jennie, but three or four years old, was becoming less artless and child-like, as if afraid to sing or shout when pleased, like other children, attributed it all to their manner of living, and decided to purchase a pleasant home just out of the city, where they could have more freedom and fresh air.

Ardently attached to his family, and wishing to promote their happiness in every way, he had regretted that his limited means prevented his sooner carrying out this plan.

The past year having been a more successful one, he determined to take them all by surprise and present a home to his beloved wife on the anniversary of her birthday, which occurred the forepart of May—the very time to settle themselves in the country.

In purchasing “Woodbine Cottage,” as Mr. Henderson called it from the luxuriant woodbine clambering all over the front piazza, he considered the present and future comfort of all. For, like many a fond father, he was ever castle-building for his children. Harry was to be his partner and successor in business, Mattie was to become a beautiful young lady, should be highly educated, and perhaps—ah well, that was looking a little too far forward—marry some rich merchant or professional man. Winsome Jennie, who was still so young, he hoped would make home bright to her parents when they became aged. Thus the happy father thought and planned for his loved ones.

In planning for the house he concluded the furniture they had in the city would do well enough for their bedroom and sitting-room; but there should be handsome new furniture for his wife's parlor, while Harry and the girls must have pretty new sets of cottage furniture for their bedrooms. Then he arranged a play-room for them over the back building, where they could be as merry as they pleased on a rainy day without disturbing their mother.

It took some little time to carry out all these plans—repairing and altering the house, etc. But Mr. Henderson kept his secret, though his wife often wondered why he came home so much later than usual, and seemed so absorbed about something. On being questioned he would pleasantly evade too close inquiry, by saying,

“Oh, I have a little business that takes me out of the city occasionally after office hours, but I think I will get through with it before long.”

“Oh, papa,” exclaimed Harry, “won't you take me with you some day, for I am so tired of the city, and would so love to see the country!”

“Yes, do, dear papa.” echoed Mattie, “Harry would enjoy himself so much in seeing all the beautiful trees, the green grass, and the muley cows with their cunning little calves frisking about—and Oh, I can't begin to tell what all!”

“But, darling, why don't you speak for yourself; you seem capable of appreciating all these things?”

“Ah, but, papa! you know I am older than Harry,” said quaint little Mattie, “and you and mamma took me once in the country—named after. It was ever and ever so long ago,” she added, as if many years passed over her head, “but Harry has never been, or at least he was such a wee mite of a thing he didn't remember anything about it.”

Dear unselfish Mattie! she was but three years older than her brother Harry, and could only have been five or six years old at the time she visited her aunt, but ever since it had evidently been treasured up in her mind as a vision from fairy-land, and now the very mention of the word country made her long to have her darling brother see all she had seen, and often talked to him about.

Mr. Henderson, absorbed in business, had long since forgotten the incident which Mattie so treasured up; but, thus reminded of it, he recalled her wild delight, and thorough appreciation of all that was beautiful in nature, and saw how her mind and spirits had since been dwarfed. More than ever pleased that he now had it in his power to make them all happy, he cheerily said:—

“Well, be good children and I will take you all out in the country soon.”

“Me, too; me, too!” said little Jennie.

“Yes, darling, ‘me, too,’ shall go.”

“Away danced Jennie, clapping her hands with joy, such as she had not shown in many a day. The happy father giving them each a kiss then left for the office.

The mother, who had been down-stairs, coming up while they were still excitedly talking over their expected treat, exclaimed:—

“Why, children, what is all this noise about? Harry, just look at the way you have cluttered up the room with your books and things! Martha, I wish you would put this room in order; it is not fit for any one to come in.”

The weird, old look settled on poor Mattie's face as she went about picking up one thing after another and placing them all in precise order, as she knew her mother wished to have them.

Then Mattie and Harry started for school, leaving little Jennie to play quietly alone while Mrs. Henderson seated herself at her work.

Thus to check the children in their play, and have every thing “straightened up,” was no unusual event. But the mother, with too large a “bump of order,” as phrenologists would say, did not notice the effect it was having upon her children, or that the bright gladness of their young hearts was too early checked and might cause premature sadness, or, at the very least, less lightness of spirits than they ought to have.

Bright, sunny May, so eagerly looked forward to by Mr. Henderson, came at last. Every thing in and around the cottage was in perfect order. The fruit-trees were loaded with blossoms, shrubbery well trimmed, and some of it in full bloom, while the grass upon the lawn had that bright, fresh green of early Spring, which is so refreshing to look upon.

To please the children Mr. Henderson had purchased an additional acre joining the cottage grounds, and had a young calf placed in it for Harry, and a lamb for the girls to feed and pet themselves.

On the third day of May, Mrs. Henderson's birth-day, her husband said, quite early in the morning, “Mary, what say you to spending your birthday with the children out in the country?”

“Well, I suppose it would be a good plan, for the children have been whispering together about the country for the past month. But where can we go? Your sister Martha has given up the old homestead, and we have no intimate friends just now living in the country.”

“Oh, well, leave it all to me; only get yourself and the children after breakfast, and I will take you somewhere. Remember, it is your birthday treat, so you must not ask any questions.”

On hearing the good news the long-pent-up children were perfectly delighted, but it was almost sad to see how they repressed their joy, fearing to annoy their mother, and instead of tossing up their hats or other things around, as children might have done upon such a grand occasion, were carefully moving about not to misplace anything. It seemed to them as if breakfast time never would come—they ate at the second table, and had to wait until their parents and other boarders were through—but finally, with a well-filled basket of lunch, they were all snugly packed in a carriage, ready to start out of the city, Mrs. Henderson as much mystified as the children as to where they were going. After two hours' pleasant ride the carriage drove up before an elegant-looking cottage.

“Why, Mr. Henderson!” exclaimed his wife, “where are you taking us to? I don't know any one living here!”

“You certainly are intimately acquainted with the owner,” laughingly replied Mr. Henderson, “only step out of the carriage and I will prove it to you.”

With some hesitation, and with many words of caution to the children as to not making a noise, behaving polite, etc., she followed her husband the walk, leading Jennie by the hand. Harry and Mattie had already spied the calf and lamb eating young grass near the fence, and were ready to scream out with joy at their discovery, but cautioned by her mother, demurely followed her and Jennie. In the meantime Mr. Henderson had rung the bell and said something to the nice, matronly looking woman who attended the door. His wife and children were then ushered into the handsomely furnished parlor. Seeing the uncomfortable look of anxiety and suspense on his wife's countenance, he took her by the arm and led her to the large pier-glass, politely saying, “Allow me to introduce you to the owner of this house, if you do not already recognize her.”

“Why, Mr. Henderson! James, what do you mean?”

“Is it not your birthday? How do you like my present of ‘Woodbine Cottage?’”

Utterly amazed, she could not for some moments realize what her husband meant, then a happy smile settled on her face, and after warmly thanking her devoted husband, she turned to the wondering children and explained to them that it was their own, their very own home. Many a year afterward Mr. and Mrs. Henderson recalled their joyous look when they fully comprehended that this was indeed to be their future home.

After they all had admired the rich and tastily furnished parlors, Mr. Henderson took them over the rest of the house, planning where the furniture they already had was to be placed, showing the children their own pretty bedrooms and play-room, etc. Then they went to look at the grounds and outhouses. Harry was delighted with the chicken-house, and all were pleased with the little Gothic-shaped shed for the calf and pet lamb. They had already made acquaintance with these pets. The lamb was following Jennie, who hugged and kissed it from the first without the slightest fear. When wearied they returned to the house, where their mother had spread out in the dining-room the lunch they brought with them, no provision being yet made to cook a regular dinner. The person who let them in was only a kind neighbor, wife of the carpenter, who had charge of the keys while the repairs were being made. After eating their lunch and taking one more survey of everything, and their journey to the city to pack up and get ready to move out to their new home.

A few years have passed by since they were settled in it; now let us see if a more joyous spirit pervades the new home. Alas! no; for the same disposition to be particular about every thing fills Mrs. Henderson's mind. In fact, it has increased; for her pride in her beautiful home, and her ambition to keep her furniture and every thing in the most perfect order, often makes others uncomfortable instead of adding to their happiness. The servants are constantly

overlooked and corrected if the least thing is misplaced. The children are not allowed to go here or there; must not play on the front lawn, or go among the flowers for fear of spoiling something, and even Mr. Henderson is reminded to leave his boots in the hall, and put on his slippers before coming into the parlor, no matter how tired he may be of an evening, after having been at the office in the city all day. Or if he threw the newspaper carelessly down on the lounge instead of the table, it was folded up before him as a silent reproof, then laid where it belonged. Thus home was not made as bright to any one as it might have been.

Poor Mattie had a more strangely weird look than ever, for she was constantly striving to shield her younger brother and sister from reproof by having her eyes in every direction, to replace as quickly as possible anything they might leave in disorder. She perfectly idolized her brother, but he, boylike, was often thoughtless of the trouble he caused his sister, though he loved her very dearly, and confided to her all his little troubles or ambitious secrets of “when I'm a man.” The one he most talked of was having a home of his own, where his sisters could come and see him, and scatter and bang things about just as much as they pleased, not realizing that if they all lived, they too would be grown up, and not care so much about such things as they now did.

One day Harry came in from school with cheeks flushed, and a wearied look. Flinging down his books, he threw himself on the lounge in the sitting-room.

“Harry,” said Mrs. Henderson, “get up at once, and put your books in the right place.”

“Oh, do let my books be where they are; my head aches.”

“Well, if your head does ache it would not have made it any worse to place your books where they belong. I expect you have been playing too hard.”

Thoughtful Mattie at once placed them on the shelf, Mrs. Henderson not caring who did it so her love of order was gratified. At tea-time Harry scarcely tasted anything, and after tea his father noticing his still flushed cheeks called him to his side, and asked him what was the matter with him.

“Oh, papa, my head aches so!” exclaimed the child, as he laid it down upon his father's shoulder.

Finding that his head was hot, and hands very dry and feverish, he told Harry he thought he had better go to bed, and as he noticed his wife was busy, upon some “household care intent,” he proposed to go with him to his room. The child looked pleased, and took his father's hand till they reached the foot of the stairs, then he seemed unable to lift one foot before the other, and complained of being “oh, so dizzy.” His father at once raised him in his arms, and carried him up to bed. With almost womanly gentleness he undressed his dear boy, then bathed his hands and forehead until they seemed cooler. Seating himself by the bedside, he begged Harry to go to sleep. After tossing about for a while he finally fell into a restless sleep. Mr. Henderson then stole softly down-stairs, and told his wife that he feared Harry was going to be really sick.

“Why, my dear, you are always so anxious about the children! He came in tired from school, as if he had been playing too hard.” But before going to bed she looked in upon him, and saw he was asleep, but Mr. Henderson, still anxious, left their doors open, so that he could go to Harry if he should awake in the night. Feeling uneasy, he did not sleep very soundly, and toward morning heard Harry moaning as if in pain. Hastily dressing, he was soon by his bedside. The child did not seem to recognize him, and was evidently delirious. He called to his wife, and some one was aroused to go for the doctor. The doctor, after looking at Harry, and feeling his pulse, shook his head gravely, as he made up a prescription. When he left the room the anxious parents followed him into the hall, begging him to tell them what was the matter with their darling boy, for Mrs. Henderson, though not usually demonstrative, had an affectionate heart, and when it was roused showed deep feeling. The doctor told them that Harry seemed to have all the symptoms of scarlet fever, and advised them to keep the girls out of his room. But Mattie, loving her brother with all the warmth and depth of an ardent nature, repressed toward others, had been by her brother's bedside a long time in the evening after his father left him. He had awaked and called for a drink just as she was going to her own room, and she complained of his head aching, she had stayed with him till he again fell asleep. She told her mother this, and begged to be still near him. It was too late now for any precautions to avail aught, so Mattie was permitted to soothe her brother's wandering mind. Oh, how the mother's heart ached as he begged her not to reprove him for tossing his things around. “Oh, my head aches so; do let the books stay where they are,” he again and again said, repeating his last words to his mother.

A day later Mattie was not seen in her brother's room, or Jennie's voice heard anywhere about the house. They, too, lay moaning in pain. How glad, Oh, how very glad, would Mrs. Henderson have been, could she only have seen a misplaced chair, or school books lying around! Every thing was in too perfect order now, while a hushed stillness reigned over the whole house, except in the room where the precious little sufferers lay. Toward the end of the week they grew worse, then it was known that Death hovered near. One by one was touched by his icy hand. Who can describe the desolation of that home? The father's bright day-dreams for his children's future happiness on earth all vanished, and his heart left desolate and almost broken; for he had found his greatest source of pleasure and happiness in his children, when free from the cares of business. Over the repentant mother, crushed with grief and anguish, we will draw a veil. It was years before she could banish the longing wish to have her little ones back, to make them happier than she now knew they could have been while with her, but the wish, alas! was in vain. An unvaried order and oppressive silence followed her every-where as a daily reproof, as a lesson learned too late. Are there not others who may learn the same sad lesson too late? Home, remember, cannot be made too happy for the little one, who may be “only lent for a while.”—Ladies Repository.