NOT A RAG ON THEIR BACKS.
THERE are, among the many things which Mr. Smith, like other men,
will _not_ understand, frequent difficulties about the children's
clothing. He seems to think that frocks and trowsers grow
spontaneously; or that the dry goods, once bought and brought into
the house, will resolve into the shapes desired, and fit themselves
to the children's backs, like Cindarella's suit in the nursery tale.
Now, I never did claim to be a sprite; and I am not sure that the
experience of all housekeepers will bear me out in the opinion that
the longer a woman is married, the less she becomes like a fairy.
Stitch! stitch! stitch! Hood's Song of the Shirt, which every body
has heard and admired, is certainly most eloquent and pathetic upon
the sufferings and difficulties of sewing girls. "Much yet remains
unsung," particularly in regard to the ceaseless labors of women who
are as rich as Cornelia in muslin-rending, habit-cloth-destroying,
children's-plaid-rubbing--jewels! I am sure that the Roman matron
never went shopping. I am sure that she did not undertake to keep
her own children's clothing in repair; for if she had, she could not
have been ready, at a moment's warning, to put forward her
troublesome charge as specimen jewels. Do all I can, my little
comforts never _are_ "fit to be seen!"
Many is the weary evening that I have been occupied, past the noon
of night, in repairing the wear and tear of habiliments--abridging
the volume of the elder children's clothes into narrow dimensions
for the next, or compiling a suit for one, out of the fringed
raiment of two or three. Honest was the pride with which I have
surveyed these industrious efforts, and sincere the thought that I
had really accomplished something. Depositing the various articles
where the wearers elect would find them, I have retired to rest;
almost angry with Mr. Smith, who was asleep hours before me--asleep
as unconcernedly as if an indestructible substance fabric had been
invented for children's clothing.
Well, after such a night's work, imagine me waking, with a
complacent and happy sensation that, my work having been _done_ on
the day before, the morning is open for new employment. Down stairs
I come, full of the thoughts of the confusion I shall heap on Mr.
Smith's head. He, observe, told me, as he left me to retire, that I
had much better go to bed, for all my work would amount to nothing
but loss of necessary rest. I am ready to show him triumphant
evidence to the contrary, in the clothes, as good as new, in which
his children are habited. Before I can speak, I discern a lurking
smile in his face. My boy Will stands in a sheepish posture, with
his back as close to the jam, as if he were a polypus growing there,
and his life depended upon the adhesion.
My eldest girl--another of the laboriously fitted out of the night
before, has a marvellous affection for the little stool, and the
skirt of her frock seems drawn about her feet in a most unbecoming
manner.
But the third, an inveterate little romp, unconscious of shame, is
curveting about in the most abandoned manner, utterly indifferent to
the fact she has--not, indeed, "a rag to her back"--for she is _all_
rags! One hour's play before my descent has utterly abolished all
traces of my industry, so far as she is concerned.
I expostulate--at first more in sorrow than in anger--but as Mr.
Smith's face expands into a broad laugh, it becomes more anger than
sorrow. The child on the stool looks as if she would laugh, if she
_dared_. Lifting her up suddenly, I discover that the whole front
breadth of her frock is burned--past redemption.
I say nothing--what _can_ I say? I have not words equal to the
emergency. And the boy--boys _are_ such copies of their fathers! He
actually forgets all embarrassment, and breaks out into a hearty
laugh. I jerk him forward.
Horror on horrors! The unveiling of the Bavarian statue, of which I
read an account in the newspapers the other day, is nothing to it.
The jamb, it appears, has supported something besides the mantle
shelf; for when I draw the young Smith forward, deprived of the
friendly aid of the wall, his teguments drop to the floor, and _he_
stands unveiled! One fell swoop at rude play has destroyed all my
little innumerable stitches; and I am just where I was before I
threaded a needle the night before!
Now I appeal to any body--any woman with the least experience, if
this is not all _too bad_! And yet my husband insists that I have no
need to be continually worrying myself with the needle. It _is_ true
that each of the children has four or five changes of clothes, which
they might wear--but what is the use of their having things to "put
right on--and tear right out!" I like to be prudent and saving. It
was only the other day that Mr. Smith came in early, and found me
busy; and commenced a regular oration. He said that every child in
the house has a better wardrobe than he; and so he went on, and
counted all off to me. He says--and men think they know _so
much_--that if children have clothes they should wear them; and when
they are worn out, provide more, and not try to keep as many
half-worn suits in repair, as there are new suits in a queen's
wardrobe. But he likes, as well as any man, to see his children look
neat, whatever he may say. And yet he pretends that children should
have clothes so made that they can convert themselves into horses,
and treat each other to rides without rending to pieces! And he
protests that it is all nonsense to undertake to keep children
dressed in the fashion! Truly I am tempted to say to the men as Job
did to his friends: "No doubt but ye are the people, and wisdom
shall die with you!"
Such plagues as they are sometimes! But I could not help laughing
after all, when, as I said before, he was lecturing me. The table
was covered with work, done and in progress. He went on till out of
breath. I answered:
"Now you know the children have not a rag to their backs!"
"I should think not," he said, drily, as he looked about him. "The
other morning finished up the rags on hand--but you are doing your
best, with flimsy finery, to get up a new assortment."
"Now, that is unkind in you, Mr. Smith," said I, feeling hurt, and
looking and speaking as I felt. "Really unkind in you. I'm sure it's
no pleasure for me to work, work, work, from morning till night,
until I'm worn down and good for nothing. I wish my children to look
decent at least; and to do this at as small cost to you as possible.
You can't change me with wasting your property, at least."
"There, there, dear! That will do. Say no more about it," returned
Mr. Smith, in a soothing voice. "I didn't mean to be unkind. Still,
I do think that you are a little over-particular about the
children's clothes, as I have said before--over-particular in the
matter of having things _just so_. Better, a great deal, I think,
spare a few hours from _extra work_ given to the clothing designed
for their bodies, to that which is to array and beautify their
minds."
"Now, Mr. Smith!" I exclaimed, and then bending my face into my
hands, gave way to involuntary tears.
That he should have said this!