MOVE, MOVING, MOVED.
The first of May is to many the beginning of the year. From that are dated
the breakages, the social startings, the ups and downs, of domestic life.
One-half New York is moving into smaller houses, the other half into
larger. The past year's success or failure decides which way the horses of
the furniture-wagon shall turn their heads.
Days before, the work of packing commenced. It is astonishing how many
boxes and barrels are required to contain all your wares. You come upon a
thousand things that you had forgotten, too good to throw away and too poor
to keep: old faded carpet-bags that would rouse the mirth of the town if
you dared to carry them into the street; straw hats out of the fashion;
beavers that you ought to have given away while they might have been
useful; odd gloves, shoes, coats and slips of carpet that have been the
nest of rats, and a thousand things that you laid away because you some day
might want them, but never will.
For the last few days in the old house the accommodations approach the
intolerable. Everything is packed up. The dinner comes to you on shattered
crockery which is about to be thrown away, and the knives are only painful
reminiscences of what they once were. The teapot that we used before we got
our "new set" comes on time to remind us how common we once were. You can
upset the coffee without soiling the table-cloth, for there is none. The
salt and sugar come to you in cups looking so much alike that you find out
for the first time how coffee tastes when salted, or fish when it is
sweetened. There is no place to sit down, and you have no time to do so if
you found one. The bedsteads are down, and you roll into the corner at
night, a self-elected pauper, and all the night long have a quarrel with
your pillow, which persists in getting out of bed, and your foot wanders
out into the air, feeling for greater length of cover. If the children cry
in the night, you will not find the matches nor the lamp nor anything else
save a trunk just in time to fall over it, getting up with confused notions
as to which is the way to bed, unless there be some friendly voice to hail
you through the darkness.
The first of May dawns. The carts come. It threatens rain, but not a drop
until you get your best rosewood chairs out of doors, and your bedding on
the top of the wagon. Be out at twelve o'clock you must, for another family
are on your heels, and Thermopylæ was a very tame pass compared with the
excitement which rises when two families meet in the same hall--these
moving out and those moving in. They swear, unless they have positive
principles to prohibit. A mere theory on the subject of swearing will be no
hindrance. Long-established propriety of speech, buttressed up by the most
stalwart determination is the only safety. Men who talk right all the rest
of the year sometimes let slip on the first of May. We know a member of the
church who uses no violence of speech except on moving day, and then he
frequently cries out: "By the great United States!"
All day long the house is full of racket: "Look out how you scratch that
table!" "There! you have dropped the leg out of that piano!" "There goes
the looking-glass!" "Ouch! you have smashed my finger!" "Didn't you see you
were pushing me against the wall?" "Get out of our way! It's one o'clock,
and your things are not half moved! Carmen! take hold and tumble these
things into the street!" Our carmen and theirs get into a fight. Our
servants on our side, their servants on theirs. We, opposed to anything but
peace, try to quiet the strife, yet, if they must go on, feel we would like
to have our men triumph. Like England during our late war, we remain
neutral, yet have our preferences as to which shall beat. Now dash comes
the rain, and the water cools off the heat of the combatants. The carmen
must drive fast, so as to get the things out of the wet, but slow, so as
not to rub the furniture.
As our last load starts we go in to take a farewell look at the old place.
In that parlor we have been gay with our friends many a time, and as we
glance round the room we seem to see the great group of their faces. The
best furniture we ever had in our parlor was a circle of well-wishers. Here
is the bed-room where we slept off the world's cares, and got up glad as
the lark when the morning sky beckons it upward. Many a time this room has
been full of sleep from door-sill to ceiling. We always did feel grandly
after we had put an eight-hour nap between us and life's perplexities. We
are accustomed to divide our time into two parts: the first to be devoted
to hard, blistering, consuming work, and the rest to be given to the most
jubilant fun; and sleep comes under the last head.
We step into the nursery for a last look. The crib is gone, and the doll
babies and the blockhouses, but the echoes have not yet stopped galloping;
May's laugh, and Edith's glee, and Frank's shout, as he urged the
hobby-horse to its utmost speed, both heels struck into the flanks, till
out of his glass eye the horse seemed to say:
"Do that again, and I will throw you to the other side of the
trundle-bed!" Farewell, old house! It did not suit us exactly, but thank
God for the good times we had in it!
Moving-day is almost gone. It is almost night. Tumble everything into the
new house. Put up the bedsteads. But who has the wrench, and who the
screws? Packed up, are they? In what box? It may be any one of the half
dozen. Ah! now I know in which box you will find it; in the last one you
open! Hungry, are you? No time to talk of food till the crockery is
unpacked. True enough, here they come. That last jolt of the cart finished
the teacups. The jolt before that fractured some of the plates, and Bridget
now drops the rest of them. The Paradise of crockery-merchants is
moving-day. I think, from the results which I see, that they must about the
first of May spend most of their time in praying for success in business.
Seated on the boxes, you take tea, and then down with the carpets. They
must be stretched, and pieced, and pulled, and matched. The whole family
are on their knees at the work, and red in the face, and before the tacks
are driven all the fingers have been hammered once and are taking a second
bruising. Nothing is where you expected to find it. Where is the hammer?
Where are the tacks? Where the hatchet? Where the screw-driver? Where the
nails? Where the window-shades? Where is the slat to that old bedstead?
Where are the rollers to that stand? The sweet-oil has been emptied into
the blackberry-jam. The pickles and the plums have gone out together
a-swimming. The lard and the butter have united as skillfully as though a
grocer had mixed them. The children who thought it would be grand sport to
move are satiated, and one-half the city of New York at the close of
May-day go to bed worn out, sick and disgusted. It is a social earthquake
that annually shakes the city.
It may be that very soon some of our rich relatives will, at their demise,
"will" us each one a house, so that we shall be permanently fixed. We
should be sorry to have them quit the world under any circumstances; but
if, determined to go anyhow, they should leave us a house, the void would
not be so large, especially if it were a house, well furnished and having
all the modern improvements. We would be thankful for any good advice they
might leave us, but should more highly appreciate a house.
May all the victims of moving-day find their new home attractive! If they
have gone into a smaller house, let them congratulate themselves at the
thought that it takes less time to keep a small house clean than a big one.
May they have plenty of Spaulding's glue with which to repair breakages!
May the carpets fit better than they expected, and the family that moved
out have taken all their cockroaches and bedbugs with them!
And, better than all--and this time in sober earnest--by the time that
moving-day comes again, may they have made enough money to buy a house from
which they will never have to move until the House of many mansions be
ready to receive them!