Wash-Tub Philosophy
"I've been up to me neck in soap-suds ever sense daybreak, an' I ain't
done yit."
So declared Mrs. Stickles as she wiped her hands upon her apron and
offered a chair to her visitor, Betsy McKrigger.
"I'm rale glad to see ye, nevertheless," she continued, "fer it's been a
month of Sundays sense I sot eyes on ye last. How've ye been? An' yer old
man, is he well?"
"Only fairly," replied Mrs. McKrigger, laying aside her bonnet and shawl,
and taking the proffered chair. "Abraham went to the mill this mornin' an'
I came this fer with 'im. We were clean out of flour, an', although the
roads are bad, there was no help fer it, so he had to go, poorly as he is.
He'll stop fer me on his way back."
"An' what's wrong with 'im?" asked Mrs. Stickles, going back to her
washing.
"The doctor thinks he's got delapitation of the heart. Abraham was never
very strong there, and suffers most after eatin'. I'm gittin' very nervous
about 'im."
"Oh, is that all?" and Mrs. Stickles paused in her work. "I wouldn't worry
about that. Mebbe he eats too much. Men's hearts an' stummicks are purty
closely kernected, an' what affects the one affects t'other. It's
indisgestion the man's got-that's what 'tis. It's a wonder to me they
don't all hev it."
"Mebbe yer right, Mrs. Stickles. 'Abraham is certainly a big eater. But it
wasn't eatin' which gave 'im the delapitation yesterday."
"What was it, then?"
"It was Si Farrington who gave it to 'im. That's who it was."
"Ugh!" ejaculated Mrs. Stickles. "Surely a cur like that wouldn't affect
anyone, would it? I'm jist waitin' to run agin Farrington meself, an' then
we'll see who'll hev palputation of the heart. It'll not be me, I reckon."
"It's very true what ye say," replied Mrs. McKrigger, bringing forth her
knitting, "but when ye owe the man a bill at the store, an' heven't the
money to pay, it makes a big difference."
"So he's been at you, has he? I s'pose he's been tryin' to git yer cow,
horse or farm. He tried it here, but Parson John, bless his soul, soon
stopped that."
"No, not like that. He only hinted what he'd do if Abraham didn't sign the
pertition."
"Oh, I see. He's goin' to run fer councillor, an' wanted yer husband to
sign his denomination paper, did he?"
"No, no, not that. It's about the parson."
"What! Parson John?"
"Yes, it's about 'im, poor man."
"Land sakes! What's up now?" and Mrs. Stickles paused in her work and
stood with arms akimbo.
"Farrington thinks the parson's too old fer the work, an' that we should
hev a young man with snap an' vim, like Mr. Sparks, of Leedsville. He
believes the young people need to be stirred up; that they're gittin'
tired of the old humdrum way, an' that the parish is goin' to the dogs.
But that wasn't all. He thinks the parson isn't a fit man to be here after
that disgraceful racin' scene on the river last Sunday. He sez it's an
awful example to the young. So he's gittin' up the pertition to send to
the Bishop."
Mrs. Stickles had left the wash-tub now and was standing before her
visitor. Anger was expressed in her every movement.
"An' do ye tell me!" she demanded, "that yer husband signed that paper?"
"W-what else was there to do?" and Mrs. McKrigger dropped her knitting and
shrank back from the irate form before her. "How could he help it?"
"Betsy McKrigger, I never thought ye'd come to this. Help it! Why didn't
yer husband help Farrington out of the door with the toe of his boot?"
"But think of that unpaid bill, Mrs. Stickles."
"Unpaid bill, be fiddlesticks! Would ye turn aginst yer best earthly
friend fer the sake of a bill?"
"What else could we do?"
"Do? Let yer cow or anything else go! What do sich things amount to when
yer honour's at stake. Dear me, dear me! has it come to this?"
"Ye needn't make sich a fuss about the matter," and Mrs. McKrigger
bristled up a bit. "It's a purty serious thing when yer whole livin's in
the fryin'-pan."
"Livin', livin'! Where does yer livin' come from anyway, Mrs. McKrigger?
Doesn't the Lord send it? I reckon He'll look after us. Didn't He tend to
old 'Lijah when he done his duty. Didn't the ravens feed 'im? An' what
about that widee of Jerrypath? Didn't her meal and ile last when she done
what was right? Tell me that!"
"Oh, yes, that may be as ye say. I ain't botherin' about old 'Lijah an'
that widow. If them people lived to-day they'd jine forces an' start the
biggest flour an' ile company the world has ever seen. I wish 'Lijah 'ud
come our way some day, fer me an' Abraham hev often scraped the bottom of
the flour barrel an' poured out the last drop of ile, not knowin' where
any more was comin' from."
"Tut, tut, woman!" remonstrated Mrs. Stickles. "It's wrong fer ye to talk
that way. Hev ye ever really wanted? Didn't the flour and the ile come
somehow? Whenever we're scrapin' the bottom of the barrel it seems that
the Lord allus hears us, and doesn't let us want. I guess, if we stan' by
the Lord, He'll stan' by us. I'm mighty sorry yer man signed that
pertition aginst that man of God. It don't seem right nohow."
"I'm not worryin' about that, Mrs. Stickles. Farrington has considerable
right on his side. The parson is old. We do need a young man with snap an'
vim. The parson's sermints are too dry an' deep. Abraham sleeps right
through 'em, an' says it's impossible to keep awake."
"Well, I declare!" and Mrs. Stickles held up her hands in amazement. "To
think that I should live to hear sich words in me own house. Ye say the
parson's too old. Ain't ye ashamed of them words? Too old! D'ye want some
new dapper little snob spoutin' from the pulpit who hasn't as much
knowledge in his hull body as Parson John has in his little finger? I know
there's many a thing the parson talks about that I can't understan', an'
so there is in the Bible. I often talk the matter over with John. 'John,'
sez I, 'Ye recollect when ye was makin' that wardrobe fer me out in the
shed two springs ago?'
"'Well,' sez he.
"'An' ye remember how the children used to watch ye an' wonder what ye was
makin'!'
"'Sartinly,' sez he.
"'An' how they used to pick up the shavin's ye planed off, an' brung them
inter the house.'
"He kalkerlated he did.
"'Well then,' sez I, 'John, them children didn't understan' what ye was
makin', but they could pick up the shavin's an' make use of 'em. So when
Parson John is preachin' an' I can't altogether foller him, I kin pick up
somethin' here an' thar which I do understand, an' them are the shavin's
which I kin use, an' do use. Oh! John,' sez I, 'hasn't the parson been
droppin' shavin's fer over thirty years, an' not allus in the pulpit
either, an' haven't we ben helped 'cause we picked 'em up an' made 'em our
own?' John said I was right, an' he knows, dear soul."
"That may be all very well fer you an' John," replied Mrs. McKrigger, "but
what about the young people, an' the older ones fer all that, who won't
pick up the shavin's? Farrington sez we want a poplar young man who kin
speak without any preparation, like Mr. Dale, the missionary who was here
last summer. Now, there was a man up to whom the young men could look, a
reglar soldier, who had been in the fight in Africy, had lived among
lions, tagers and niggers. He was a hero, an' if we could git a rale live
missionary like that, he'd make Glendow hum, an' the old church 'ud be
packed to the doors every Sunday. It's them missionaries who has the hard
time. Oh, they're wonderful people. Parson John's a good man, but he ain't
in the same line with them nohow. He's too commonplace, an' don't stir the
people up."
For a while Mrs. Stickles did not reply. She wiped her hands on her apron,
and crossing the room took down a small pot, put in a little tea, filled
it with water, and set it on the back of the stove to draw. Next she
brought forth some large frosted doughnuts, and after she had poured a cup
of tea for Mrs. McKrigger and one for herself she sat down upon an old
splint-bottomed chair.
"Did I ever tell ye the conversation I had with Mr. Dale, that missionary
from Africy?" she at length asked.
"No, I never heerd it," came the reply.
"Well, that's queer, an' it happened only last summer, too. Ye see, we all
went to the missionary meetin' in the church, an' Mr. Dale told us about
that furren land. Somehow I didn't take to the man, an' I liked 'im less
as he went on. All the time he was speakin' I noted how eagerly Parson
John listened. Often his buzum heaved-like, an' I thought I heerd 'im
sigh. But when the speaker 'gun to compare Africy with Canada and Glendow,
I got mad. 'Here the work is small,' sez he; 'thar it's mighty! Here ye
hev yer hundreds; thar we hev our thousands. Here things is easy; thar
hard.' As he talked on that way I looked at the parson an' saw a pained
expression on his dear face. I jist longed to jump to me feet, an' pint
out that old grey-headed man a sittin' thar, an' tell a few things I know.
But I got me chance later."
"What! ye didn't say anything hard, I hope?" interrupted Mrs. McKrigger.
"Only the plain truth; jist what he needed. Ye see, me an' John was axed
into the Rectory afterwards to meet the missionary an' hev a cup of tea.
Mr. Dale did most of the talkin', an' told us a hull lot more about his
experiences in Africy. But somehow he rubbed me the wrong way. He had
little use fer Canada, an' said so, an' that was mor'n I could stan'.
"'Mr. Dale,' sez I, speakin' up, when his jaw stopped waggin' fer an
instant. 'Would ye be willin' to leave yer present field of labour?'
"'No,' sez he, lookin' at me surprised-like.'
"'An' why not,' sez I.
"'Oh the work is so inspirin' out thar,' sez he. 'I'd about die in a--a--'
(I think he was goin' to say a country parish like this) but he said
'settled field whar the work is so quiet, ye know.'
"'An' ye wouldn't be willin' to give up Africy,' sez I, 'fer a poor parish
like Glendow, if thar was no clergyman here?'
"'No,' sez he, in a hesitatin' way, fer he didn't seem to know what I was
a drivin' at.
"'Exactly so, Mr. Dale,' sez I. 'It takes a heap of spunk, I reckon, to go
to them furren fields, but I kalkerlate it often takes jist as much to
stay to hum, feed pigs, hens, an' look after a hull batch of children.
I've hearn men preach about sacryfice in big churches, but I generally
find that, when a poor country parish gits vacant, they don't seem
inclined to give up their rich churches an' step into a humbler place. Yet
sometimes I've heerd of sich men goin' to furren fields. An' why is that,
Mr. Dale?'
"'That they might do more work fer the Master,' sez he.
"'I think yer wrong thar,' sez I. 'Now, look here. To enter a country
parish is to be almost unknown, an' people say, 'Oh, he's only a country
parson,' an' they stick up their ugly noses, which they think are
acristocat. But let a man go to a furren field, an', my lands! they
blubber over 'im an' make a great fuss. If he combs the head of a little
nigger brat out thar in Africy--though no doubt he needs it--why the
missionary magazines an' papers are full of it. If he pulls the tooth of
an old Injun chief who has a dozen wives taggin' around after 'im, the
people hold up thar hands in wonder, an' call 'im a hero. But let a man
stay at hum in a parish like Glendow, an' no one hears of his doin's,
cause they don't want to.'"
"My! ye didn't say all that?" exclaimed Mrs. McKrigger, "an' to a rale
live missionary, too."
"Them's the exact words I said, an' them ain't all," rattled on Mrs.
Stickles. "I had me tongue on 'im then, an' it did me good to see his
face. He looked once towards the door as if he thought I'd jump at 'im.
Oh, it was as good as a circus to see 'im shake," and she laughed at the
recollection of it.
"'Remember,' sez I, 'I ain't got nuthin' agin furren missions, fer they do
a heap of good. But I would like to see things levelled up a bit. If I git
down on me knees an' scrub the floor, it's nuthin' thought of. But if a
missionary does it, a great fuss is made. When Parson John is dug out of
snow-banks every week, when his sleigh gits upsot an' throws 'im into the
ditch, no one outside the parish ever hears of it. But let sich things
happen to a furren missionary, an', my lands! it's wonderful.'
"I could see all the time that Mr. Dale was gittin' excited an' excititer.
"'Woman,' sez he in a lofty kind of way, which reminded me of a young
rooster tryin' to crow, 'do ye realize what yer talkin' about? Do ye know
yer treadin' on delicate ground?'
"'Yes,' sez I, 'when I tread on a man's toes, it's purty delicate ground.'
"'I don't mean that,' sez he. 'But do ye know that _I'm_ a
missionary, an' do ye know what it means to be away from hum seven years,
away in a furren land?'
"'Yes,' sez I. 'It means a holiday of a hull year at the end, with yer
salary goin' on, an' yer travellin' expenses paid. D'ye think, Mr. Dale,
that the parson here ever gits sich a holiday? Y'bet yer life he doesn't.
He's been here workin' like a slave fer over thirty years now, an' in all
that time _he_ never had a holiday.'
"At that the parson himself speaks up. 'I think yer wrong thar, Mrs.
Stickles,' sez he. 'I had two hull weeks once, fer which I've allus been
most thankful.'
"'An what are two weeks?' sez I. 'An' didn't ye pay yer own travellin'
expenses?'
"'Yes,' sez he, 'I did.'
"'Thar now,' sez I to Mr. Dale. 'What d'ye think of that? Two weeks in
over thirty years of hard work!' But that reminds me of somethin'
else--an', sez I, 'Who pays yer salary, Mr. Dale? D'ye mind tellin' me
that?'
"'The Mission Board' sez he.
"'An' do ye git it reglar?' sez I.
"'Every month,' sez he.
"'I thought so,' sez I. 'An' d'ye think the parson here gits his every
month?'
"'I don't know,' sez he. 'But s'pose he does.'
"'Not by a long chalk,' sez I. 'He has to wait months an' months fer it,
an' sometimes he doesn't git it at all, an' then has to take hay an' oats,
or do without. I know that to be a fact. Old skinflint Reeker over thar
owed two dollars one year to the church, an' he wondered how in the world
he was to git out of payin' it. Durin' the summer a Sunday-school picnic
was held on his place back in his grove, an' fer one of the games the
parson cut down four little beeches about as big as canes. Thar was
thousands of 'em growin' around, an' wasn't worth a postage-stamp. But old
Reeker saw 'im cut 'em, an' the next day he went to the parson an' told
'im how vallable the beeches was--his fancy trees or somethin' like
that--an' charged 'im fifty cents a piece, the amount he owed to the
church. "Wasn't that so, Parson?" sez I, turnin' to 'im.'
"'Yes, yes,' sez he. 'But it ain't worth speakin' about now. I think we
had better have our cup of tea, an' talk no more about the subject.'"
"Dear, good man," and Mrs. Stickles wiped her eyes with the corner of her
apron. "He was kinder upsot at what I said. But not so, Nellie. Her sweet
face jist beamed on me, an' when I went out into the kitchen to help her
she put her arms about me old neck, an' gave me a good big thumpin' kiss.
That's what she did."
Scarcely had Mrs. Stickles ended, ere bells were heard outside.
"Why, I declare, if Abraham ain't back already!" exclaimed Mrs. McKrigger,
rising to her feet and donning her hat and wraps. "He's made a quick trip.
I'm very grateful, indeed I am, fer the cup of tea an' the pleasant time
I've had. Ye must come to see me as soon as ye kin."
Mrs. Stickles stood for some time at the window watching the McKriggers
driving away. She was thinking deeply, and a plan was being evolved in her
mind which made her forget her washing and the various household duties.
At length she turned and entered the room where her husband and little
Ruth were lying.
"John," she said, after she had related to him what Mrs. McKrigger had
told her about Farrington and the petition, "d'ye think you an' Ruthie
will mind if me an' Sammy go into the shore this afternoon with old
Queen?"
"Why no, dear," was the reply. "But don't ye think the roads are too bad,
an' besides, what are ye thinkin' of?"
"I don't mind the roads, John. They're purty well smashed down by now, an'
Queen's very stidy. I've a plan, John, which comes right from me insides,"
and leaning over she whispered it into his ear.
"Land sakes, dear!" replied her husband. "D'ye think ye kin manage it?
Will they listen to ye? Ye're only a woman, remember, an' what kin a woman
do?"
"Yes, I'm only a woman, John, an' mebbe 'tain't a woman's place. But when
men are too scart an' heven't as much spunk as a chicken jist outer the
shell, what else is thar to do? Is thar no one in the hull parish to stan'
up fer the Lord's anointed? Tell me that. Didn't that beautiful Queen
Ester stan' before her crank of a husband, Hazen Hearus, an' plead fer the
lives of her people? An' didn't Jael do the Lord's will when she put old
Sirseree outer the way, tell me that? Now, I ain't a queen like Ester, an'
I hope I ain't a woman like Jael that 'ud drive a nail through a man's
head. I'm jist plain old Marthy Stickles, but mebbe I kin do somethin' fer
the Lord, even if I ain't purty or clever."
An hour later an old, lean horse fastened to a homemade pung was wending
its way slowly along the road leading to the river. Holding the reins was
Sammy, a queer little figure, wrapped from head to foot, bravely
maintaining his precarious position on six inches of the end of the board
seat. Towering above him, broad-shouldered and ponderous, sat Mrs.
Stickles, the very embodiment of health and strength.
"Sammy," said she, as the sled lurched along the rough road, "I don't like
this bizness. But when the Lord's work's to be did, somebody's got to set
his face like flint, as the Bible sez, an' do it. Don't ye ever fergit
that, Sammy. Don't ye ever disremember that yer ma told ye."