WHERE SHALL WE GO FOR A CHANGE?
I think there is nothing that tries an ordinary householder more than
answering the question with which I have headed this, my last chapter.
In the first place, as a rule, few men consider that a change can
possibly be required. It seems only the other day that they returned
from the last uncomfortable sojourn at some unhappy seaside town, and
they are quite convinced that a second martyrdom cannot be necessary
just at present. In the second, when change is really wanted, no one
knows where to go; and in the third, if the place be selected, and the
rooms taken, the unfortunate creature is sure to meet someone who knows
all about it, and proceeds to make his friend profoundly miserable by
telling him that that especial town is only decent at the very time of
year when he cannot possibly go there; that he knows for certain an
epidemic is raging there; and that the rooms taken for ‘six weeks
certain’ are in the very worst part both for health and comfort, and
that he can but wish him well home again. And the unfortunate traveller
starts depressed and nervous; and having made up his mind to be
miserable, is so, and derives no benefit whatever from that which was to
do him and his soul an immense amount of good.
Now I cannot help thinking that English people, as a rule, do not show
the smallest common sense in the manner they manage their holidays, more
especially, of course, among the middle classes; the upper portion of
which often enough have a tiny cottage somewhere, of which they speak
grandly as ‘my country house,’ and the address of which is inscribed on
their cards, and mentioned in the ‘blue book.’ And they fly to this the
moment the weather becomes in the least warm, remaining there until they
are driven back by the falling leaves and chilling fogs of an October in
the country; and then wonder they are so little benefited. Why, they
have not had any change; no more, at least, than those a shade lower in
the social scale, who go to the same watering-place year after year,
spend their mornings on the beach, their afternoons in slumber, or a
‘country walk,’ and their evenings on the pier or parade, and who see
the same people, say the same things, and do the same actions
mechanically as they do in town, only perhaps in a smaller space, and
under far more uncomfortable circumstances.
The very stupidest thing on earth, to my mind, is the annual sojourn of
a large family of small children, accompanied by their parents, to the
orthodox seaside rooms or lodgings. In the first place, the parents,
children, and nurses are very much too much together; the annoyances of
the predatory habits of the landladies spoil Materfamilias’ temper; the
servants are disorganised, and imagine that because the family makes
holiday they are to be in some measure allowed to do just as they like,
and much resent being unable to make excursions and ramble at large,
whether it is convenient or not for their mistress to spare them. And,
indeed, I do not know a more hard-worked, driven creature than the
ordinary Materfamilias at the seaside, more especially if she has left
her own large airy house, with its nurseries and schoolrooms, and taken
lodgings at a fashionable spot, where every inch of space costs pounds,
and where she can never rid herself of her family for one moment.
It is in her defence that I suggest that change of air should be
obtained in a far easier and more satisfactory manner than it can be
under the circumstances of which I have been speaking. As long as the
children are quite small, I most strongly advise any mother to send them
to the seaside in the end of May, and let them remain there until the
first or second week in July. She should send them to some
plainly-furnished cottage under the care of a lady who would be thankful
to superintend them for the mere fare, change, keep, &c., that would be
such a boon to her; and she should send their nurses with them. In this
early portion of the year lodgings are cheap and clean, and so are
provisions; the days are longer, the heat not so great as later on; and
the children would come back when London was thinning and the parks and
streets safe for them to be in; and at the end of July, having settled
the children in, the father and mother could go for the complete change
and rest they both need so greatly, and which it is impossible for them
to have, encumbered by their household duties and cares, which must be
taken with them if they move their servants and children _en masse_ to
some seaside place for August and September.
Very young children, if proper nurses and superintendents are found for
them, do not require the companionship we shall not be able to give them
later on if we wear ourselves out in their service when they are very
small. By this I do not naturally mean that children should be neglected
or left entirely to the mercy of hirelings. Far be it from me to suggest
anything so dreadful; but I do maintain that for six weeks of the year
they would be quite as well at the seaside without their parents as
they would be with them, more especially if the cottage they are sent to
is well known and the people who keep it are acquaintances, while of
course both the lady superintendent and the nurses should not be new,
but should be thoroughly tested by some amount of service before they
are trusted.
It is better, should we determine to send the children away as I have
suggested, to pay so much per head for all the board and lodging
expenses combined. No servant, and indeed very few governesses, can be
trusted to ‘housekeep.’ I cannot tell why, but the moment they are
allowed to order the food and make purchases for the household, they all
become most wildly extravagant, and have no more notion of managing than
they have of flying. They may, of course, have the truly British notion
that holiday-making and over-eating must go hand-in-hand, and proceed to
demonstrate this by the exorbitant demands made upon one’s purse.
Anyhow, whatever the reason, it is an axiom that housekeeping cannot be
trusted to either, and that we should make arrangements for board as
well as lodging unless we wish to be fairly appalled by the weekly
bills. As an illustration, I may mention that the only time I sent my
children to the sea with the governess, allowing her to cater for them
all, the bills she sent me home for herself, the German maid and three
children, were exactly treble what I paid for ourselves and the same
number of children and six servants, and that she did not consider it
improper to give 6_s._ for a chicken and 8_s._ for a pound of grapes.
From this my readers will perceive that I am warning them out of my own
experience. And this governess, moreover, was an elderly woman who had
lived with us a great many years, and really had in some measure our
interest at heart. Therefore I am convinced neither governess nor
servants can make good managers; they are always provided for as far as
food is concerned; they never have to provide, and therefore know
nothing about it.
I think, once we have discovered a spot that really suits the children,
it is best to keep to that, as children simply require good sands and
good air, and do not trouble themselves about scenery. Deal is
absolutely delightful as regards air, but the beach is unsafe and
pebbly, and has no sand; Margate is quite perfect; so is Westgate;
while Swanage in spring leaves nothing to be desired except for
children who require bracing air; then Swanage is not for one moment to
be compared to either of the places I have named, which are also near
enough to town for the parents to run down and see the children should
they wish to do so, and, indeed, as they ought to do, to learn how they
are getting on.
Personally I know nothing of the east coast, but I believe there are
plenty of little places about there where the children would be happy,
well, and safe; and I should recommend anyone before finally choosing
the summer home of the children to make an exhaustive survey of the
English coast, and, having found one place which will suit, then to
stick to that until the children are twelve years old. Then one would
have to begin to alter one’s plans a little, more especially if the boys
go to school and are only at home in the holidays; then the children and
parents must go out together, else they will never meet, and will grow
up like strangers to each other.
During the minority, so to speak, of the children, the parents would be
wise to spend their holidays in learning which would be the nicest
places to take the children to when they are beginning to grow up; they
should make and keep notes of excursions, advantages, prices, and
houses, and should be able to refer to them in a moment, when they have
to decide on the place where they are to spend their holiday in; they
must not trust to their memory, the best of memories will not retain the
names of the house agents, the position of the different streets, and
the aspect of the different houses, while the notes would be always
there to refer to, and would be of immense service to them in more ways
than one.
Now, having made up their minds to the change, it is absolutely
necessary that a house, not rooms, should be taken, if anyone is to
enjoy the holiday at all.
There can be no freedom and very little enjoyment, and there is great
risk of infection at the seaside unless the house is shared by someone
we may happen to know, if we take only a part of a house. We may have a
fidgety mortal who sends up twenty times a day to ask our children to be
quiet, or we may have a screaming, badly managed baby near us, a piano
which plays just when we don’t want it to play, or we may meet on the
stairs a convalescent from some childish complaint, who may hand it on
to our children, and bring our holiday to an abrupt conclusion with
measles or whooping-cough. Then there are always the landlady, the
larder difficulties, and the horrors of being waited on by strange
servants, generally most inferior ones, and always those who cannot and
do not understand our ways. Therefore I maintain that a house is a _sine
quâ non_, and that if we cannot afford to take one and go away
comfortably we had better remain at home; if we leave we may get fresher
air, we shall have the necessary change, but the change will be for the
worse, and the good the fresher air may do will be more than outbalanced
by the continual rasping worry of arranging, and very likely battling
with the servants, who resent the landlady’s interference, and won’t do
any more work than they can help, under the mistaken idea that the
house-servants are to wait on them, and in the endless worries caused by
the disappearance of one’s food, and the disagreeable feeling that
everything one touches has probably been well ‘pawed over’ by the
lodging-house maid, if not by the mistress herself.
If, therefore, as I remarked before, we cannot afford to go away
comfortably we had better remain at home, going away in detachments if
the doctor thinks that the weaker members must have sea air; in that
case visits can always be managed, for everyone almost has relations or
friends in the country, or knows of some nice family who will take in a
stray child or two and ‘do for them’ with their own; while if the boys
are away at school, they are quite satisfied to return to their own
haunts, while no end of excursions can be made from London and in and
round London, which is, it must be confessed, just a little hot in
August, and smells just a little of over-ripe fruit and dead cabbage
leaves, but is positively delightful in September with its soft skies
and its wonderful effects of cloud and sunshine, and which has always
something amusing to show those who really appreciate the most
delightful and picturesque city in the whole world. I love my London,
even in August, when the parks are empty of fashionable people, but full
of the most beautiful flowers and palms, which only those who remain in
town in that unfashionable month ever see at their prime; and despite
the heat and the odours in the streets, I would rather be in London
than in a cramped lodging at the sea, where I was inundated with
children, worried by bad service, and had none of my own belongings
about me; and, in fact, had not time to read or sit alone to enjoy
myself in the peace and quiet that are absolutely necessary to make a
holiday even endurable.
I hope my readers will not think I am writing of what I do not know when
I say that London in August and September is quite as beautiful and
entrancing as it is in the heart of the season. I have been for the last
seven years constantly in the beloved city in those unfashionable
months, and I unreservedly advise anyone in want of a real change to go
up to town then. They will learn and see more then than at any other
time; they will not be hurried; they will be able to see everything
quietly, and will really see what they never can when the roads are
crammed with carriages and the streets with people--_i.e._ how beautiful
London is, and how many things she possesses we never dream of when we
are simply rushing from occupation to amusement, and are only thinking
of our work or pleasure. However, as I cannot expect all to believe me,
or to share my enthusiasm for the streets and chimney-pots that I adore,
I will simply now advise my readers how to proceed once they have made
up their minds to go away. If possible they should let their own house;
if not, they should endeavour always to keep to the same caretaker who
should, if possible, be married to a policeman and have a dog, but no
children; the furniture should be covered over, and ‘put to bed’ by the
upholsterer, who understands how to prepare for possible moth and damp,
and who will not make an exorbitant charge for what will, as a rule,
prevent most of the things from being spoiled. Fires should be ordered,
no matter what the weather may be, in rotation all through the house,
for one that is uninhabited, and in which very little gas, if any, will
be burned, always becomes damp in our climate; while it would be wise to
have the gas cut off at the meter entirely. We should save a great deal
of waste; and as caretakers are used to lamps in their own abodes, we
should run no risk of fire, not as much as we do when we leave the gas
for the use of those who often enough have never had any control over
it on their own account, and so have not learned how to save it or even
use it.
No valuables should be left in the house; all should be sent to the
bank; and we should naturally take our plate with us for use. But,
having taken our house by the sea, we should in some measure know what
it wants, and we should invariably have ornaments, photographs, &c., to
take with us to brighten up the house and to make it home-like; while
the children must take their story-books, work, and playthings. We must,
in fact, prepare in every way we can for a rainy day; rain must fall,
and if the children have their books and toys, and their own rooms, they
will be as happy, and be no more of a nuisance by the sea than they are
at home; at least, if they are, it will be the fault of the parents and
not of the unfortunate children themselves.
I have always had three very large wicker baskets set apart for using at
similar crises of our existence. One holds the household linen, another
the nursery and schoolroom toys and books, and the third is set apart
for loose cretonne covers, serge table-cloths, and any amount of
photographs and ornaments to render the temporary house home-like; for
even if I find my new domicile replete with ornaments, I always put them
all away at once. Ornaments are always priceless when the reckoning
comes to be taken; they can’t possibly be harmed if they retired into a
cupboard the moment we arrived, and only emerged from their seclusion
the day we leave.
If the china and glass in a house are really expensive and good, I also
put them all away, and I purchase for our own use the very cheapest ware
I can find. China and glass are so very cheap nowadays, that it is far
better to do this than be made to pay fabulous sums for the owner’s
china, which seems to one so hideous, and is only costly because in
these artistic days of ours it is impossible to match it.
The contents of my basket soon make even a hideous room much better;
while one feels that one need not always be on the look-out, as one must
be to protect another person’s property if one does not take these
precautions; but, as a rule, furnished houses are so absolutely
unfurnished and ugly, I am thankful to cover up what I find, and so in
some measure mitigate the horrors of my surroundings, by putting about
as many of my own belongings as I can take with me. We also, when we go
away, always put at the top of each separate person’s box that
individual’s own sheets, pillow-cases, and eider-down quilt; and I never
go away without some spare pillows, and any amount of cushions. This
sounds luxurious; but why should we be uncomfortable because we are not
at home? On the contrary, because we are not we ought to take more care
than ever that all shall be as nice as we can make it; while, the sheets
and pillow-cases being ready, the servants have no trouble in settling
in the first evening. They open the boxes and make the beds at once,
with sheets we know are aired; and therefore, even in the confusion that
is generally apparent at these times, we have no risk of spending our
first night between damp sheets.
Another thing we should provide ourselves with is a hamper of groceries,
and, if we are to arrive late, with sufficient cooked food to supply the
establishment for the night and next morning. Each servant should be
told off to certain duties, and no hurry or confusion should be allowed.
All, except one box in which to put the last things, should be locked
and strapped the night before, and the luggage should be at the station
in good time; the tickets should all be procured; or at least ordered,
the day before; and if these simple precautions are taken the journey
need be hardly any trouble at all. It must be some, but nothing to speak
of, when the servants know their work, are ready in advance, and are not
allowed to forget anything, not even the harmless necessary cat.
Now a few words about the animals: and let me beg anyone who has cats
and dogs to take these poor things with them. We always do; the dogs go
with the horses, the cats with the servants, and they never attempt to
stray. They are absolutely and abjectly miserable if we leave them at
home, even with a caretaker; while they cost nothing to take, and are
happy with us, just as, in fact, they are at home. I have nothing to say
about or to those people who are wicked enough to ‘stray’ their cats, or
leave them shut out in the garden, to forage for themselves. They must
be such cruel wretches, that I hope they may not even read this book;
but many people, possessed of the kindest hearts have no compunction in
leaving their cats to caretakers, little understanding how these poor
things pine for the human companionship to which they are accustomed,
and after which they long pitifully. Now a cat costs nothing, a dog very
little, to take; so I do hope all who can will consider if their holiday
cannot be shared by their dumb friends. I am sure they will never regret
it if they make up their minds to take them with them.
When once settled in the temporary house, all should be found out that
there is to be found out about the points of interest in the
neighbourhood, and all these should be visited; as a rule, a local
guide-book is very little real use; but one should always be obtained
and studied in connection with the county history. One’s holiday is a
thousand times more profitable and pleasant if we see all there is to be
seen, and do not waste our time listening to an inferior band, or
hanging about on the pier, wearing smart clothes, which are entirely out
of place by the sea.
Indeed, blue serge should be the only wear, as far as young people are
concerned, with flannels for boys. I remember how wretched we used to be
over our light print and muslin frocks; in consequence of which I have
always taken care our children should never have anything that they had
to think about on the shore. Half our pleasure used to be spoiled by the
idea that we should have to pay for it by being scolded by our governess
for the sandy, wet garments, inseparable from any real play by the
fascinating sea. Now, with the high india-rubber boots we buy at
Scarborough, and serge skirts, and under-drawers of serge, no girl can
possibly harm, paddle how she may; while the same high boots and serge
or flannel suits make the boys quite happy. The boots protect the feet
from possible cuts, and do away with any hygienic difficulties; many
people refusing to allow their children to paddle because feet should
not be wet if the heads cannot be wet too; the feet do not get wet in
these high boots, and therefore, provided with them, the last objection
to paddling is quite done away with; and without paddling, what is the
seashore? Very little to the children, who cannot have too much of this
most delightful amusement. The sea is the best holiday companion one can
have. I therefore most strongly advise all who are bent on a holiday
for the children to take them to the sea and not to the inland country;
where, if it be wet, mud keeps them prisoners, whereas by the sea rain
dries up at once, and there is always something to look at; for, of
course, the ideal holiday house faces the sea, and has a good view of
whatever is going on.
And now, having said all I can about the children’s holiday, let me add
just a few words about sharing the holiday, if in any way possible, with
some child or someone who cannot afford to go away at all, unless a
friendly invitation manages this for them.
I have written very little about charities in this book, but I could
have set down much on the subject, and I may say that the truest of all
charities is that which quietly and unostentatiously helps that most
unfortunate, most deserving of all classes--the poor lady or gentleman,
who is too well-born to be assisted with money, but who requires help a
thousand times more than the very, very poor to whom one can give a few
shillings. No one ever thinks of the over-worked, underpaid curate or
the orphan child. We could, when we take our house for the holidays,
surely reserve a corner for them. They are pleasant visitors, and we
shall have the delightful feeling that while our children have been
gaining strength we have helped others to do the same. Most people
contrive to have visitors while they are away; let them be those who
would not have gone away at all had we not asked them to come to us
while we are at the sea. They can generally manage the railway fare,
while of course we can judiciously contrive that they are not forced
into any expense for excursions if we take them; we can easily manage
this if we have the smallest tact, while of course we must not affront
them by boldly offering to pay their fare, but if we are accustomed to
go first-class, and yet know third-class would suit our friend’s pocket
better, we can all go third boldly; it will not hurt us one bit, and it
will save them from the unpleasantness of spending more than they can
afford, or of being paid for by us, which would be terrible for them.
There is still another holiday of which I wish to speak, and then I
shall lay down my pen and close my book, and that is the yearly
honeymoon-holiday all husbands and wives should try and manage to take
together.
Nothing so keeps up the bond of affection between them as this,
particularly when both are busy people and see nothing at all of each
other during the day, and are often too tired in the evening to speak at
all except on the most necessary subjects; and even if they are not
tired there are always the boys and girls about, once they have begun to
grow up, and there is no time they can call their own--none in which
they can talk as they used to do--none in which they can discuss the
children’s future or talk about their own plans and hopes and wishes. Of
course I am told many husbands and wives are only too thankful to be
spared the chance of a _tête-à-tête_ that must be nothing save a bore. I
maintain that this is not in the least degree true; that those who have
been married many years have far more in common, far more to say to each
other, than the young folks just starting on life’s journey can possibly
have to say, and that the yearly holiday taken together does more to
make the domestic car move along gracefully and lightly than anything
else I know. The wife is relieved from the unceasing ordering of the
dinner and planning of everything, while the husband once more finds
himself responsible for all the little details, and delights once again
to have his wife to himself and to look after and wait upon as in the
days of old; while the children are safe at their lessons or looking
after the house in their absence; and once more there is a real holiday
feeling in the air, and they can fancy themselves young and starting on
life’s journey hand-in-hand over again. There is nothing so amusing to
me as the discovery that grown-up daughters and sons have no idea that
their father and mother can really want to be alone together, or that
they can possibly prefer each other’s society to that of their friends
or their own children. But, my dear young people, it is the case; and
though of course your parents are always delighted to have you with
them, they do occasionally wish to be alone together. The yearly holiday
allows for that, as does an occasional holiday together during the year;
and these holidays should never be forgotten or omitted. They should be
kept up vigorously, and no blandishments from our children should be
allowed to break in upon the _solitude à deux_--the honeymoon-holiday
should be taken together or not at all.
And now, reluctantly and regretfully, I must say farewell to those with
whom I have conversed so long in these pages. I feel this book has not
the light-hearted gaiety with which Angelina and Edwin plan out their
newly-married life, and with which they start out to furnish their
little home, in ‘From Kitchen to Garret;’ but if I am more serious here
it is because life grows more serious as one grows older, as one
realises how much there is to do and how difficult it is to steer the
bark freighted with one’s growing-up children, and with more money to be
spent judiciously, a larger house to be managed, so that we may do as
much good as we possibly can, so that it may give as much happiness to
as many as can be managed, and in some measure so exist as to leave the
world immediately within its influence just a little bit better than we
found it.
We must realise, wherever we are, that we influence someone, perhaps
very many people, either for good or for evil. It is no use to bury our
heads in the sand, and pretend that no one need be influenced by us
unless they like, and that it is not our fault if they are. It is our
fault, and we cannot get rid of our responsibility in this way; while if
we boldly accept our fate, and do our duty manfully, we shall have our
reward, more especially if we endeavour not to know the ‘best’ people
because we crave for social exaltation, and to mix with those who resent
our intrusion and laugh at our pretensions, but to associate with those
whose noble minds and good thoughts and bright intellects will help our
own, and assist us on our mental progress through the world; and to have
as friends, not those who can give us dinner for dinner, ball for ball,
but those to whom we can give pleasure they would never have did we
refuse to open our doors to them, and to those whose large hearts and
brilliant minds influence ours for good, and lead us insensibly along a
path of peace and safety.
The truest socialism should begin in the perfect home; the socialism
which shares or administers but does not disperse or destroy; the
socialism which opens the park gates to the poor, or the
picture-galleries to those who could never see anything were it not for
the action of the owner, that never receives a benefit without in some
measure sharing it with a poorer brother, and that finally has a noble
end in life; nay, the noblest of all, that of leaving the world a little
better for one’s having lived and loved and worked and suffered in it.
By these rules should the home be formed; in these paths should the
children be led, who should never be allowed for one moment to despise
those they may consider below them in the social scale; who should
always be taught to share their flowers, their shells, their holidays
and pleasures with others; and who should one and all be brought up to
do something in life, something to assist the toiling millions around
us, something to do good to someone besides themselves. Of course this
is hard and anxious work; work, could we have realised it was before us
when we so lightly accepted our fate, and laid together the foundations
of a new home, we might never have found courage to take up; but it is
the work set before every married man and woman in the world. They can
either accept it or reject it; but if they do leave it alone, the undone
work will bring its own punishment in the unhappy wicked children, and
the wrecked and miserable home that will take the place of that which
might have been the home which is the rule, not the exception, in
England, and that we can all have if we have powers of endless work in
us, and realise from others’ experience what is before us all. Then,
when the curtain falls, when the hands part which have held each other
so fondly, so faithfully, all through the journey, the worst parts of
which have been gilded by the unfailing love which is God’s best gift,
the one who goes can go boldly into the darkness, content to leave all
to that Higher Power who has helped them so gallantly all through the
struggle, while the one who stays knows that the link still binds them
together, and will draw them some day back to each other again. When
love can do this, when love can build, maintain, and keep our homes
together, as love does, and as only love can, who shall dare to sneer
and laugh at it, and looking at such homes dare ask sarcastically if
marriage be a failure?
Marriage never is, never can be, a failure, if the home is a true home,
not an abode of vanity, an entertaining house, for gaiety and waste; and
it is to help others just a little more from my own experience of the
happiest of all homes--my own--that I have written this other book
about the household and all that appertains to it, which I now leave to
my good friends and readers, content to feel that they will read me
kindly, knowing of old how kind they can be to one who has said as much
to them on this all-fascinating subject as I have.
PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
LONDON.
ADDRESSES
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Messrs. E. E. PITHER & CO., 38 Mortimer Street, E.C.
Messrs. KAY & SONS, Burnley Mills, Burnley, Lancashire.
Messrs. JACKSON & SONS, 199 High Street, Borough, S.E.
Messrs. HAINES & CO., 83 Queen Victoria Street, E.C.
Messrs. LAND & CO., 92 Cannon Street, E.C.
Messrs. ESSEX & CO., Albert Mansions, Victoria Street, S.W.
Messrs. OETZMANN & CO., Hampstead Road, N.W.
MAISON HELBRONNER, 300 Oxford Street, W.
Messrs. GRAHAM & BIDDLE, Graham House, Oxford Street, W.
Messrs. COLBOURNE & CO., 82 Regent Street, W.
Messrs. B. BURNET & CO., King Street, Covent Garden, W.C.
Messrs. BURR & ELLIOTT, Oxford Street, W.
G. FAULKNER ARMITAGE, Esq., Stamford House, Altrincham, Cheshire.
THE EDINBURGH LIFE ASSURANCE COMPANY, 11 King William Street, E.C.
Messrs. GILES & CO., 19 Old Cavendish Street, W.
Messrs. HOSKYNS & CO., Ben Trovato Red Works, Darlington, Durham.
Mrs. M’CLELLAND, 33 Warwick Road, Maida Hill, W.
Mr. THOMAS, Decorator, Bowdon, Cheshire.
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
hundreds of unformed units=> hundreds of uniformed units {pg 114}
and, as they as generally shrink in the was=> and, as they generally
shrink in the was {pg 147}
allowing great familarity=> allowing great familiarity {pg 167}
they are fourteen and and not a day before=> they are fourteen and not a
day before {pg 179}
End of Project Gutenberg's Nooks and Corners, by J. (Jane) E. (Ellen) Panton