MUST-HAVES AND MAY-BES.
"A Summer in Leslie Goldthwaite's Life," one of the most charming, as
well as one of the most helpful of Adeline D.T. Whitney's books, was
sent into the world over a quarter-century ago. But age cannot wither
nor custom stale, nor render old-fashioned the delightful volume with
its many quaint and original ideas. Others besides girls have learned
the practical truth of one sentence which, for the good it has done,
deserves to be written in letters of gold:
"_Something must be crowded out._"
More than one perplexed and conscientious worker has, like myself,
written it out in large text and tacked it up in sewing-room, kitchen,
or over a desk.
In the beginning, I want to guard what may seem to be a weak point by
stating, first and above all, that this is not an excuse for slighting
or "slurring over" our legitimate work.
One easygoing housekeeper used to say that, in her opinion, there was
a genius in slighting. Her home attested the fact that she had reduced
the habit of leaving things undone to a science, but it is doubtful if
the so-called genius differed largely from that which forms a
prominent characteristic of the porcine mother, and enables her to
enjoy her home and little ones with apparent indifference to the fact
that outsiders denominate one a sty, and her offspring small pigs.
Not very long ago I was frequently brought into contact with a woman
who has, as all her friends acknowledge, a faculty for "turning off
work." She has a jaunty knack of pinning trimming on a hat, which,
although bare and stiff in the start, evolves into a toque or capote
that a French milliner need not blush to confess as her handiwork.
She can run up the seams in a dress-skirt with speed that fills the
slower sisters working at her side with sad envy. She puts up
preserves with marvelous dexterity, and can toss together eggs,
butter, sugar and flour, and turn out a cake in less time than an
ordinary woman would consume in creaming the butter and sugar. But it
is an obvious fact that the work of this remarkable woman lacks
"staying power." Her too rapid and long stitches often give way,
allowing between them mortifying glimpses of white under-waist or
skirt to obtrude themselves; in a high wind the trimmings or feathers
are likely to blow loose from the dainty bonnets; her preserves
ferment, and have to be "boiled down," while the cutting of her cake
reveals the truth that under the top-crust are heavy streaks, like a
stratum of igneous formation shot athwart the aqueous. The maker of
gown, hat, preserves, and cake lacks thoroughness. As one irreverent
young man once said after dancing with her--"she is all the time
tumbling to pieces."
Since something must be crowded out, the first and great point is to
determine what this something must be. Certain duties are of prime
importance, others only secondary. One writer says of a woman who had
cultivated the sense of proportion with regard to her work: "We felt
all the while the cheer and gladness and brightness of her presence,
just because she had learned to make this great distinction,--to put
some things first and others second. She had mastered the great secret
of life."
This talk of mine reminds me of a prosy preacher who chose one Sunday
as the text of his sermon, "It is good to be here," and began his
discourse with the announcement, "I shall employ all the time this
morning in telling of the places in which it is _not_ good to be. If
you come to hear me to-night I will tell you where it is good to be."
So we will consider the things which must not be put aside. Some
duties are plain, self-evident, and heaven-appointed. Such is the care
of children. To the young mother this is, or should be, the first and
great object in life. Her baby must have enough clothes, and these
clothes must be kept clean, fresh and dainty, for his pure, sweet
babyship. His many little wants must be attended to, even if calls are
not returned and correspondence is neglected. But it is not absolutely
necessary to load down the tiny frocks with laces and embroidery that
are time consumers from the moment they are stitched on till the
article they serve to adorn is ready for the rag-bag. The starching,
the fluting, the ironing, all take precious hours that might be
employed upon some of the must-haves.
Home duties take the precedence of social engagements. A busy mother
cannot serve John, babies and society with all her heart, soul and
strength. Either she will neglect the one and cleave unto the other,
or neither will receive proper attention. Even a wealthy woman who can
make work easy (?) by having a nurse for each child in the household,
cannot afford to leave the tender oversight of the clothes, food, and
general health of one of her babies to those hired to do the
"nursing." There is no genuine nurse but the mother; and although
others may do well under her eye and directed by her, she can never
shift the mother-responsibility to other shoulders; and if she be
worthy of the dignity of motherhood, she will never wish to have it
otherwise.
A few days ago I heard a clever woman say that a friend of hers had
chosen as her epitaph--not, "She hath done what she could," but "She
tried to do what she couldn't," and that her motto in life seemed to
be, "What's worth doing at all is worth doing _swell_." This speech
applies to too many American women, and so general is the habit of
overcrowding, that she who would really determine what is worth doing
at all must hold herself calmly and quietly in hand, and stand still
with closed eyes for one minute, until her senses, dazed by the wild
rush about her, have become sufficiently clear, and her hand steady
enough, to pick out the diamonds of duty from the glass chips which
pass with the superficial observer for first-water gems. It is well
for our housewife to have some test-stone duty by which she may rate
the importance of other tasks. Such a test-stone may be John's or
baby's needs or requirements. Of course she must not expect to make as
much show to the outside world by keeping the children well and happy,
entertaining her husband each evening until he forgets the trials and
vexations of his business-day, preparing toothsome and wholesome
dainties for the loved ones, and making home sweet and attractive, as
does the society woman who attends twenty teas a week, gives large
lunches and dinners, and "takes in" every play and opera.
"The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun
With the deluge of summer it receives.
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest;
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?"
If my reader is a mother it will not take very long for her to justly
determine the values.
Recently I heard a busy woman and an excellent housewife say: "If I am
pressed with important work, and my parlors are not very dusty, I
unblushingly wipe off the polished furniture, on which every speck
shows, and leave the upholstered articles until another time."
This was not untidiness. It was only putting time and work to the best
advantage, that there might be enough to go around.
I read the other day in the woman's department of a prominent paper a
letter from a subscriber who said that she was so driven with work
that it was all she could do to get her washing done, much less her
ironing. So she had determined to use her bed-linen and underclothing
rough-dry. Would it not have been wiser as well as neater, for her to
have plain, untrimmed underwear, and iron it without starching? For
here comfort is also to be considered. Is not smooth, neat linen to
take the precedence of trimming and starch?
Another thing which must not be crowded out is rest, and the care of
the health,--and the one includes the other. A day in which no
breathing-space has been found is a wicked day. Not only is it our
duty to the bodies which God has given to care properly for them, but
it is, moreover, a positive duty to our fellow-man. An overworked
person is likely to be cross and disagreeable, for the mind is
affected by the state of the body, and it is an absolute sin to put
ourselves into a condition that makes others miserable. It is also
wretched economy to burn the candle at both ends every day. When it is
needed to aid us in some large piece of work the wick will be
consumed, and the light will faintly flicker, or splutter feebly and
die.
Among the things which may be easily and advantageously crowded out,
we may rank unnecessary talking. The housekeeper would be surprised
were she to take note of the time spent by her servants, and, perhaps,
even by herself, in saying a few words here, and telling a story there
in the time which rightfully belongs to other tasks. Could she look,
herself unseen, into her kitchen, she would find Bridget and Norah,
arms akimbo, comparing notes as to past "places" or present beaux.
Gossip is their meat and drink, and it does not occur to them, or they
do not care, that they are paid the same wages for time thus spent as
for the hours at the tubs and ironing-board. "When you work, work; and
when you play, play," is an excellent motto for both mistress and
maid.
To many workers there is a lack of courage and a sinking of heart at
the thought of a large piece of work ahead of them, and such persons
lose a vast amount of time in looking at a duty before they attack it.
This habit of dallying over a task is something which may certainly be
crowded out.
The two great points in the successful management of time are
concentration and system. At the beginning of each day set duties in
array before your mind's eye, and attack them, one at a time. This may
at first sight sound like ridiculously unnecessary advice. But unless
my readers are exceptional women, they all know what it is to be so
pressed with things that must be done that they do not know what to
begin first. Having chosen the most important task, attack that, and
when you have once laid hold of the plough, drive straight ahead, not
allowing the sight of another furrow, which is not just straight, to
induce you to stop midway to straighten it before you have finished
the one upon which your energies should now be bent. Too many women
are mere potterers, not earnest laborers. They begin to make a bed,
and stop to brush up some dust that has collected under the bureau.
Before the dust-pan is emptied, the thought occurs of a tear in one of
the children's aprons, and by the time that is mended, something else
appears that needs attention, and all day long tasks are half
completed and nothing is entirely finished, until at night the poor
toiler is weary and discouraged, with nothing to show for her pains,
except an anxious face and a semi-straight household.
Woman's work is quite as dignified as man's, and why should it not be
arranged as carefully and systematically? If some thing must be
crowded out, let it be, with forethought and reason, set to one
side,--not shoved or huddled amid mess and confusion.