You think, O man of the world! that you have all the cares and
anxieties. If the cares and anxieties of the household should come
upon you for one week you would be a fit candidate for Bloomingdale--I
mean insane asylum. The half-rested housekeeper arises in the
morning. She must have the morning repast prepared at an irrevocable
hour. What if the fire will not light; what if the marketing did not
come; what if the clock has stopped--no matter, she must have the
morning repast at an irrevocable hour. Then the children must be got
off to school. What if their garments are torn; what if they do not
know their lessons; what if they have lost a hat or sash--they must be
ready. Then you have all the diet of the day, and perhaps of several
days, to plan; but what if the butcher has sent meat unmasticable, or
the grocer has sent articles of food adulterated, and what if some
piece of silver be gone, or some favorite chalice be cracked, or the
roof leak, or the plumbing fail, or any one of a thousand things
occur--you must be ready.
Spring weather comes, and there must be a revolution in the family
wardrobe, or autumn comes, and you must shut out the northern blast;
but what if the moth has preceded you to the chest; what if, during
the year, the children have outgrown the apparel of last year; what if
the fashions have changed. Your house must be an apothecary's shop; it
must be a dispensary; there must be medicines for all sorts of
ailments--something to loosen the croup, something to cool the burn,
something to poultice the inflammation, something to silence the
jumping tooth, something to soothe the ear-ache. You must be in half a
dozen places at the same time, or you must attempt to be.