SEWING-SCHOOL.
ETHEL'S hands were now very full of work. Her infant-class had
increased beyond the capacity of the room which held it, though she
had sent three classes into the large room—a change which was not
accomplished without many tears and remonstrances on the part of
the promoted infants. A sewing-school had also been started "on the
Hill," the chief burden of which fell on Ethel and Anna. It began with
Anna's class of girls. Mr. Dalton one evening showed his missionary
magic-lantern to the children and parents, with a lecture descriptive
of the pictures, and of places and people he had seen in his travels.
Of course, all the children were greatly interested, and especially
Anna's class. This interest was increased by Anna's borrowing Ethel's
book of Eastern photographs to show them, and by her reading them a
letter which Miss Beecher had written to the Bible-class, giving an
account of the school-girls, and describing their delight at receiving
the box of presents sent by the said Bible-class.
"I wish we could send them something from 'this' school," said Matty
Brown, the youngest and brightest of the girls. "How nice it would be
to get a letter all the way from Persia, wouldn't it?"
"I wish we could," said another. "Do you think we could manage it, Miss
Burgers?"
"Perhaps we might," said Anna.
"I'm afraid we couldn't sew good enough to make anything worth while,"
said Mary Yeager. "I shouldn't want to send things so far unless they
were 'nice,' you know."
"Don't you know how to sew, Mary?" asked Anna.
"No, ma'am—not very good," replied Mary.
"I can't, either," said Matty Brown. "Ma is going to teach me to use
the sewing-machine, some day when she has time."
"You ought all to know how to sew," said Anna, who had been well taught
that old-fashioned accomplishment, and was a proficient in the use
of the needle. "You ought to know how to make and mend all your own
clothes. Then you can work, not only for yourselves, but for those who
are worse off than you are."
"I should like to know how to crochet and work worsted," said Jenny
Millar. Jenny's father was rather better off than most of the fathers
belonging to the class, and she was in no way inclined to make the
worst of that circumstance. "I don't care about plain work."
"Crochet-work and working worsted are all very well in their places,"
said Anna; "but they are of very little consequence compared to plain
sewing and knitting. Nobody ever went cold and ragged for want of
worsted work, but a good many do both because they don't know the
proper use of a sewing-needle. What would you say to a man who said he
did not care to learn reading and writing—he wanted to learn Latin?"
The girls laughed, and Jenny looked rather affronted. "I don't expect
to have to work for my living," she said, with a toss of her head. "My
father is rich enough to make a lady of me: my mother says so."
"Your father's being rich will never of itself make a lady of you,"
said Anna. "Neither will the fact of your not working for a living.
Riches and fine clothes have little to do with the matter. It takes a
great deal more than these to make a lady."
"I am sure Mrs. Fowler is respected, and she works for a living," said
Mary Yeager.
"So are a great many other women, who work hard all their lives,"
replied Anna. "Kindness and good habits and manners, and consideration
for the feelings of those about her, make any woman respectable."
"I should like to learn to sew plain work real nicely," said little
Christine Murdoch. "Mother often says she is so sorry she cannot teach
us."
"Why cannot she teach you?" asked Anna.
"Oh, don't you know? She has a stiff arm," replied Christine.
And Elsie added, "She broke her arm on the ship coming to this country,
and it wasn't set right; so, when it got well, the joint was spoiled.
But she can do a many things, though she cannot sew," added Elsie, with
pride. "Father says he wonders how she keeps everything about the house
so nice as she does. Mother says she learned to sew in school; and she
can do beautiful work—that is, she could do it in old times, when she
had her arm."
"I wish we could have a sewing-school," said Christine.
"Oh, Miss Burgers, how nice it would be!" exclaimed Matty Brown.
"Couldn't we have one, don't you suppose? We could come on Saturday
afternoons, and you could teach us. I am sure every one would like it;
wouldn't you, girls?"
Every one agreed that it would be "perfectly splendid," and one girl
added that it would be "awful nice." "Awful" was an adjective and
adverb of all-work upon Iron Hill. *
* "Awful," "splendid," and "you know" are common colloquial
barbarisms.—EDITOR.
"Well, I will talk to my mother, and see what she says," said Anna, at
last. "If she is willing to have me begin, I will see what can be done."
"Why, Miss Burgers, do 'you' have to mind your mother?" asked Mary
Yeager, in a tone of great surprise. "A grown-up young lady like you."
"Certainly I mind my mother," replied Anna, not sorry for the odd
question. "I mind my mother just as much now as I did when I was three
years old."
"And do you ask her every time you want to go anywhere, just as 'we'
have to?" continued Mary.
"Just the same, Mary. I never go anywhere or undertake anything of any
importance, without asking my mother. I prefer to do it, because I love
my mother, and would rather please her than any one in the world."
Mary was evidently much impressed with the idea that a grown-up young
lady, who wore flounces, and a hat with a little bird in it, should
mind her mother of her own accord; and Anna hoped the lesson would have
a good effect.
The project of the sewing class was discussed through the week; and on
Sunday, Anna told the girls that they might come the next Saturday, and
bring their own work either sewing or knitting.
It was presently found that the school could not be confined to Anna's
class. All Ethel's little girls immediately became wild upon the
subject, and petitioned so earnestly to be allowed to come, that there
was nothing for it but to say that she would see what could be done.
Ethel went home, and talked the matter over with Emily.
"It would be an excellent thing for the children," said Emily;
"excellent in every way. I have always regretted that the sewing-school
at the Home was given up. One gains such a hold, not only on the girls,
but on their mothers."
"The chief trouble seems to be to know what to set such little ones
about," said Ethel. "Of course, they know nothing of sewing."
"Oh, you will need quantities of patchwork for them; that is the best
for the infants," replied Emily. "It is easy and pleasant, and admits
of a great many beginnings and leavings off; which are always desirable
with young children. I will look over my own and Juliet's piece-trunks,
and see what I can find; and I will baste up a quantity for you to
begin upon. I only wish I could take hold and help you; but you know—or
rather you 'don't' know, but you will soon find out—how much talking
such a class involves; and the doctor will not let me use my throat at
present."
"I suppose it will be a pretty noisy affair," said Ethel. "That is the
worst of it."
"You must not let it be noisy," said Emily, decidedly. "You must begin
with establishing strict order, and you must maintain it. Unless you
do, your school will be nothing but a nuisance, and the children will
be worse for it, instead of better."
Ethel looked a little doubtful. "I know it is so in Sunday-school,"
said she; "at least in the infant room; but I thought, perhaps the
children would not come to the sewing-school if we were too strict with
them."
"Then let them stay away," said Emily; "but there is no danger."
"You don't want to let them get the idea that they are doing you a
favour by coming to school," said Mr. Dalton, who had entered in
time to hear the discussion. "That is a very mischievous notion, and
subversive of all good. Make them understand that you are doing them a
great kindness and favour by teaching them, and that the continuance of
the favour depends upon their good conduct, and they will think a great
deal more of their privileges."
"Depend upon it, Henry is right," said Emily. "I remember very well the
case of Kitty Fisher!"
"What was that?" asked Ethel.
"It happened when we had the large school at the Home," said Emily.
"We had an average attendance of eighty children of the very roughest
class—not at all equal in social standing to your Iron Hill pupils; but
regular street children. For some little time we had had trouble in the
class to which Kitty belonged. The teacher, Miss Edwards, was a gentle
little thing, and her scholars walked over her, so that at last she
became discouraged and stayed away, and Juliet took the class. The work
was given out as usual.
"'I don't want to do that,' said Kitty Fisher, throwing down her work,
which was a brown factory-garment. 'I want some white cloth, like that
girl's over there!'
"'You must take the work that is given you, Kitty,' answered Juliet, in
her quiet, polite way.
"Kitty evidently took the mild tone in which Juliet spoke for a sign of
giving way. She was never more mistaken in her life. She gave the work
a push, which threw it on the floor, and said, with a toss of her head,
'I sha'n't do that. If I can't have the work I want, I shall just go
home—so!'
"In another moment, before she had time even to think of resistance,
Kitty found herself put out in the yard, and the door shut in her face.
Her bonnet was handed out to her, and she was told to go, and not to
show herself again. We never had a more orderly or industrious school
than that day. Kitty lingered about, and at recess attempted to come in
with the others; but she was sternly repulsed, and departed crying.
"The next Saturday she came again, with a very humble petition, and
she was allowed to come in and resume her place, on promising that she
would try to be a good girl. She kept her word for that day, taking
extraordinary pains with her work. Juliet was careful to praise her as
much as she honestly could; and never was a lamb meeker or more quiet
than Kitty. When school was out, she lingered around the door, as if
she had something to say.
"'Well, Kitty, what is it?' asked Juliet, who was putting up the work.
'Do you want anything?'
"Kitty put up her face, and said, in a sort of scared half-whisper,
'Please, teacher, I want to kiss you.'
"Juliet said she was never more surprised in her life. 'She was not a
very agreeable object,' said she; 'but I should have kissed her if she
had been twenty times worse.'
"From that time we had no more trouble with Miss Kitty, or her class."
"But suppose she had not come back," said Ethel.
"Then we should have let her stay away," replied Emily. "It is not
worth while to endanger the prosperity of the school for the sake of
one scholar."
"How I do wish you could help us; you have so much experience!" sighed
Ethel. "I am afraid we shall make a great many mistakes."
"I dare say you will make some mistakes,—that is to be expected," said
Emily; "but you must remember that neither Juliet nor any of us had any
experience when we began at the Home. Don't you remember the direction
of the old French teacher? 'If you want to learn to speak, "speak!" If
you wish to learn to write, "write!"' It is only by doing things that
one learns to do them.
"That is Mrs. Jones's way of teaching," remarked Ethel. "When she
taught me to make pie-crust, she made me do everything about it with my
own hands, while she sat by and showed me what to do."
"Mrs. Jones has the correct theory and practice of teaching," said Mr.
Dalton.
"Well, then, we will just go over and do the best we can," said Ethel;
"and when we are puzzled, we will come and ask Emily what comes next."
"There is no particular danger of your making any very serious
mistakes, unless you undertake too much at a time," remarked Emily.
"When Mrs. Upjohn undertook to oversee our school, she thought the
children might as well be learning something else while they were
working, and she tried to teach them to repeat hymns and other things.
The consequence was what was to be expected. The work was not half
done, nor the hymns half learned."
"I thought we might, perhaps, have a little singing," said Ethel.
"There would be no harm in that, provided you took a separate time for
it. Indeed, I think it would be a very good plan to stop work once or
twice, and sing for five minutes or so."
"I want to learn all the best ways," said Ethel; "because—because I
might, some time, have to manage some such thing by myself."
The sewing-school met the next Saturday, and behold, not one girl in
the school was absent,—not even Jenny Millar, who, however, declared
that she did not come to learn to sew. She wanted to learn how to work
worsted, or some such thing.
"We cannot undertake that, at present," said Ethel. "If you all take
pains, and behave very well, perhaps we may, by-and-by, teach you some
pretty fancy-work as a reward, but not at present. Do you know how to
make buttonholes, Jenny?"
No; Jenny did not know how to make buttonholes, nor how to stitch, and
it soon appeared that she could not hem or fell neatly.
"You see, you have a great deal to learn before you come to
fancy-work," said Anna, smiling. "Let me see how neatly you will do
this hem; and when you learn that, we will teach you something else."
Jenny murmured and tossed her head, but finally concluded to stay,
"just for once."
On the whole, the first day was a success. Ethel's infants were
delighted with the patchwork, and succeeded as well as could be
expected. Several of the girls wanted to learn to knit, and these were
placed in a class by themselves,—Anna promising to try and find them a
teacher as soon as possible.
"I believe I know just the person, if she will consent," said Ethel.
"Old Mrs. Trim, Richard Trim's mother, I mean. I noticed, the day we
called there, how very fast and skilfully she was knitting."
"What, that nice little old lady, who sits on the front seat in
chapel?" asked Anna. "Oh, I should love to have her in the school.
Where does she live? Can't we go and see her to-night? It is not late."
Ethel hesitated a moment. She remembered Widow Green's cow and the big
dog; but she would not refuse. Her heart beat rather unpleasantly fast
as they drew near the house, and she saw that old Lion was lying, as
usual, directly across the gate, and looking, from his size, greatly
"out of drawing" with the little cottage and garden.
"What an immense dog!" said Anna, who was not herself especially
valiant where dogs were concerned. "Do you think he is gentle?"
"Oh, yes, I believe so," replied Ethel. "He seemed quiet enough the
other day, where people were concerned, though he runs after cows in
rather a startling manner. Come, old fellow," she added, making an
heroic effort and speaking to the dog, who lay flapping his big tail
against the broad sidewalk in a lazily polite manner—"Come, old fellow,
get up, and let us come in, won't you?"
Lion executed a portentous yawn, which made Ethel feel as if she were
going to be swallowed, and then rose to make way for them. He evidently
thought himself obliged by civility to do the honours of the place in
the absence of his master, for he accompanied them to the side door,
(front doors on Iron Hill being only used at funerals or other great
occasions,) and with divers nods of his head and wags of his tail, made
them free of the premises.
The window was open, but Mrs. Trim was not to be seen, though they
could hear her moving about up-stairs.
"How neat everything looks!" said Anna. "See what fine balsam-plants."
"Yes, they are larger than Emily's, though they were planted later,"
replied Ethel. "Those balsams are associated with my first visit to
Iron Hill; and a wonderful goose I made of myself. I feel like calling
myself names every time I think of it."
"What did you do?" asked Anna.
"I will tell you another time. Here comes Mrs. Trim."
Mrs. Trim received them with her usual chatty cordiality, and insisted
on their sitting down to rest themselves, and drinking a glass of her
ginger-beer. Ethel had never tasted ginger-beer in her life, but she
found the cool, foamy beverage far from disagreeable, and was glad to
show that she enjoyed it. Mrs. Trim was evidently very much flattered
by the proposition that she should take the knitting class.
"But I rather guess you had better get some of your folks to look after
it," said she. "Not but I should like to do it; but then, you see,
there are folks about here who mightn't like it if you was to pass over
them, and come to me for a teacher. It might make feeling, you see."
"It would be very foolish for any one to be displeased about such a
thing as that," said Anna, rather warmly. "There is no question of
passing people over. It is only as to who will make the best teacher
for the class."
"That's all so," replied Mrs. Trim. "It is very foolish for folks to
set themselves up one above another, and have notions about gentility,
and all that; but, my dears, 'folks' is 'folks,' all the world over;
and if you are going to do any good in the world, you must be content
to work in it 'as it is,' and not as it ought to be."
"That is true," said Anna, "but we had quite set our hearts on having
you in the sewing-school, Mrs. Trim."
"I am sure it is very good of you, dear; and, as I said, I should like
it of all things; but really I don't think it's best. This chapel and
mission's a-going to do all the good in the world up here, if it's only
managed right; and I don't want to have the least thing happen to set
folks against it. There's Millar's folks, now. Millar pretends he don't
believe in anything, not even that he's got a soul to be saved; and his
wife laughs at pious folks, and says they only pretend to believe the
Bible, and all that. I never was so surprised in my life as I was when
I heard that they had let their children go to Sunday-school."
"I found Jenny Millar was the most untaught girl in my class, though
she was the best dressed," remarked Anna. "All the others knew
something about the Bible and the history of our Lord but herself,
and I was surprised at her ignorance. What you tell me, explains the
matter, and I shall take special pains with her."
"Just so," said Mrs. Trim, earnestly. "Poor little dear, my heart
has often ached for her when I have heard her father talking his
nonsense before her. Well, Mrs. Millar said, last night, she believed
she'd go to chapel Sunday evening, if it was only to hear those girls
sing,—meaning you, my dears, I suppose. I couldn't help hoping that the
truth might find its way to her heart, poor thing. Now, you see, if you
were to set me to teaching her girl, she might not exactly like it, and
so I think it Will be better if you can get some of your own friends to
take the class."
"I see," said Anna. "I dare say you may be right, Mrs. Trim. How nice
your garden looks!"
"Yes; Dick is awful proud of his garden," replied Mrs. Trim. "Some
folks say he is silly to spend so much time on his flowers and things;
but I don't think so. They help to make it pleasant for him; and when
he comes from work, or when they have a holiday, as they do once in a
while when the Works is out of order, instead of going to the saloon or
the grocery, he goes to work weeding and trimming his vines and things.
He thinks an awful sight of the flowers your sister sent him—especially
the balsams; but he has put two or three of them in pots for a sick,
bed-ridden girl, over there on the other corner. I wish you young
ladies would go to see her, some day. It would be a real kindness, for
she don't see many people, and she is a great sufferer."
"What is the matter with her?" asked Anna.
"She has got something on her leg," replied Mrs. Trim. "I don't know
the nature of it, but it hurts her dreadfully at times. She is fond of
reading, but her head is weak, and she can't read long at a time."
"If she likes flowers, I might bring you some for her," said Ethel.
"It would do her twice as much good if you was to go and see her
yourself," replied Mrs. Trim. "The very sight of your pretty, nice
dresses and hats would do her good,—she sees so few pretty things."
Ethel hesitated. She had, as we have seen, a great horror of severe
illness, and especially of anything disgusting or frightful. But a
minute's thought decided her.
"I will go, of course," said she. "I will try to come up early next
week. Come, Anna, we must go, now. Good-night, Mrs. Trim. Good-night,
old Lion," she added, patting the dog's head as he put it up to her.
"You and I shall turn out good friends, after all."