SHIRT BUTTONS.
IN a previous chapter, I gave the reader one of the Experiences of
my sister's husband, Mr. John Jones. I now give another.
There was a time in my married life, (thus Mr. Jones writes, in one
of _his_ "Confessions,") when I was less annoyed if my bosom or
wristband happened to be minus a button, than I am at present. But
continual dropping will wear away a stone, and the ever recurring
buttonless collar or wristband will wear out a man's patience, be he
naturally as enduring as the Man Of Uz.
I don't mean by this, that Mrs. Jones is a neglectful woman. Oh, no!
don't let that be imagined for a moment. Mrs. Jones is a woman who
has an eye for shirt buttons, and when that is said, a volume is
told in a few words.
But I don't care how careful a wife is, nor how good an eye she may
have for shirt buttons, there will come a time, when, from some
cause or other, she will momentarily abate her vigilance, and that
will be the very time when Betty's washing-board, or Nancy's
sad-iron, has been at work upon the buttons.
For a year or two after our marriage, I used to express impatience,
whenever, in putting on a clean shirt, I found a button gone. Mrs.
Jones, bore this for a while without exhibiting much feeling. But it
fretted her more than she permitted any one to see. At length, the
constant recurrence of the evil--I didn't know as much then as I do
now--annoyed me so that I passed from ejaculatory expressions of
impatience into more decided and emphatic disapprobation, and to
"Psha!" and "there it is again!" and the like were added:
"I declare, Mrs. Jones, this is too bad!" or
"I've given up hoping for a shirt with a full complement of
buttons--" or
"If you can't sew the buttons on my shirt, Mrs. Jones, I will hire
some one to do it."
This last expression of displeasure I never ventured upon but once.
I have always felt ashamed of it since, whenever a recollection of
my unreasonableness and impatience in the early times of the shirt
button trouble has crossed my mind. My wife took it so much to
heart, and so earnestly avowed her constant solicitude in regard to
the shirt buttons, that I resolved from that time, to bear the evil
like a man, and instead of grumbling or complaining, make known the
fact of a deficiency whenever it occurred, as a good joke. And so
for a year or so it used to be when the buttons were missing:
"Buttons again, Mrs. Jones;" or
"D'ye see that?" or
"Here's the old story"--
Always said laughingly, and varied as to the mood or fertility of
fancy. But on so grave a subject as shirt buttons, Mrs. Jones had no
heart for a joke. The fact that her vigilance had proved all in
vain, and that, spite of constant care, a shirt had found its way
into my drawer, lacking its full complement of buttons, was
something too serious for a smile or a jest, and my words, no matter
how lightly spoken, would be felt as a reproof. Any allusion,
therefore, to shirt buttons, was sure to produce a cloud upon the
otherwise calm brow of Mrs. Jones. It was a sore subject, and could
not be touched even by the light end of a feather without producing
pain.
What was I to do? Put off with the lack of a shirt button
uncomplainingly? Pin my collar, if the little circular piece of bone
or ivory were gone, and not hint at the omission? Yes; I resolved
not to say a word more about shirt buttons, but to bear the evil,
whenever it occurred, with the patience of a martyr. Many days had
not passed after this resolution was taken, before, on changing my
linen one morning, I found that there was a button less than the
usual number on the bosom of my shirt. Mrs. Jones had been up on the
evening before, half an hour after I was in bed, looking over my
shirts, to see if every thing was in order. But even her sharp eyes
had failed to discover the place left vacant by a deserting member
of the shirt button fraternity. I knew she had done her best, and I
pitied, rather than blamed her, for I was sensible that a knowledge
of the fact which had just come to light would trouble her a
thousand times more than it did me.
The breakfast hour passed without a discovery by Mrs. Jones of the
fact that there was a button off of the bosom of my shirt. But, when
I came in at dinner time, her first words, looking at me, were:
"Why, Mr. Jones, there's a button off your bosom."
"I know," said I, indifferently. "It was off when I put the shirt on
this morning. But it makes no difference--you can sew it on when the
shirt next comes from the wash."
I was really sincere in what I said, and took some merit to myself
for being as composed as I was on so agitating subject. Judge of my
surprise, then, to hear Mrs. Jones exclaim, with a flushed face,
"Indeed, Mr. Jones, this is too much! no difference, indeed? A nice
opinion people must have had of your wife, to see you going about
with your bosom all gaping open in that style?"
"Nobody noticed it," said I in reply. "Don't you see that the edges
lie perfectly smooth together, as much so as if held by a button?"
But it was no use to say anything; Mrs. Jones was hurt at my not
speaking of the button.
"I'm sure," she said, "that I am always ready to do anything for
you. I never complain about sewing on your buttons."
"Nonsense, Mrs. Jones! don't take it so much to heart," I replied;
"here, get your needle and thread, and you can have it all right in
a minute. It's but a trifle--I'm sure I havn't thought about it
since I put on the shirt this morning."
But all would not do--Mrs. Jones' grief was too real; and when I,
losing to some extent, my patience, said fretfully, "I wish somebody
would invent a shirt without buttons," she sighed deeply, and in a
little while I saw her handkerchief go quietly to her eyes. Again
and again I tried the say-nothing plane; but it worked worse, if any
thing, than the other; for Mrs. Jones was sure to find out the
truth, and then she would be dreadfully hurt about my omission to
speak.
And so the years have passed. Sometimes I fret a little when I find
a shirt button off; sometimes I ask mildly to have the omission
supplied when I discover its existence; sometimes I jest about it,
and sometimes I bear the evil in silence. But the effects produced
upon Mrs. Jones are about the same. Her equanimity of mind is
disturbed, and she will look unhappy for hours. Never but once have
I complained without a cause. But that one instance gave Mrs. Jones
a triumph which has done much to sustain her in all her subsequent
trials.
We had some friends staying with us, and among the various matters
of discussion that came up during the social evenings we spent
together, shirt buttons were, on one occasion, conspicuous. To
record all that was said about them would fill pages, and I will
not, therefore, attempt even a brief record of all the allegations
brought against the useful little shirt button. The final decision
was, that it must be the Apple of Discord in disguise.
"A button off, as usual!" I muttered to myself the next morning, as
I put on a clean shirt. Mrs. Jones had risen half an hour before me,
and was down stairs giving some directions about breakfast, so that
I could not ask to have it sewed on.
And after leaving my room, I thought it as well not to say any thing
about it. In due time we gathered with our friends around the
breakfast table. A sight of them reminded me of the conversation the
previous evening, and I felt an irresistible desire to allude to the
missing shirt button as quite an apropos and amusing incident. So,
speaking from the impulse of the moment, I said, glancing first at
Mrs. Jones, then around the table, and then pointing down at my
bosom, "The old story of shirt buttons again!"
Instantly the color mounted to the cheeks and brow of Mrs. Jones;
then the color as quickly melted away, and a look of triumph passed
over her face. She pushed back her chair quickly, and rising up,
came round to where I sat, took hold of the button I had failed to
see, and holding it between her fingers, said, "Oh, yes, this _is_
the old story, Mr. Jones!"
I drew down my chin so as to get a low angle of vision, and sure
enough, the button was there. A burst of laughter went around the
table, in which Mrs. Jones most heartily joined; and I laughed, too,
as glad as she was, that the joke was all on her side. I have never,
you may be sure, heard the last of this; but it was a lucky
incident, for it has given Mrs. Jones something to fall back upon,
and have her jest occasionally, whenever I happen to discover that a
button is among the missing, and that she can, even at times, find
it in her heart to jest on such a subject, is, I can assure you, a
great gain. So much for shirt buttons. I could say a great deal
more, for the subject is inexhaustible. But I will forbear.