But in the case of the “mother and housekeeper,” who inquires how

real, earnest, practical shopping may be disarmed of its terrors, and

made easy and simple, we would say there is nothing easier if you

begin right. Before leaving home on a shopping expedition, be “fully

persuaded in your own mind” that you know just what you want, what

you must have, and how much you are willing and can afford to pay

for what you desire to purchase. Make out a plain list that you can

understand at a glance, and when you enter the store call first for

the _must-haves_, examine the quality and pattern, and ascertain if

the price is such as to justify you in buying. Then, if satisfied on

those points, look at various patterns of the same fabric and price,

and select the one that pleases you the most perfectly, and, naming

the quantity and place to send, pass on to other departments. Don’t

allow your attention to wander to anything but the article under

consideration, until you have decided that item. If it is a dress,

examine and decide before looking at sheeting or table linen or

anything else. That settled, pass on to the next topic on your list,

and so continue until you have finished the work you had arranged to

do. Then, if you have a little leisure, you can look about you at the

various articles displayed, gratifying your love of fine things, and

gaining an insight into the quality and price of articles you may need

in time; only take care that when your purchases are finished, you do

not interfere with other purchasers, or engross the time of busy clerks

unduly. In making out a list, classify the articles you are intending

to buy, putting groceries, crockery, books, dry goods, etc., each by

themselves, and begin at the nearest place. By this method you will

save yourself much time and fatigue.

These are very simple rules; but try them and see if shopping is any

longer a duty to be “dreaded.”

LXXV.

DUSTING.

AMONG the many little things a good housekeeper should vigilantly watch

over, while trying to teach a child or inexperienced girl, careful

and thorough _dusting_ is one of the most prominent. It is not alone

those who are confessedly ignorant that require this supervision, but

one half of all the hired help we ever saw have never been trained to

do that kind of labor perfectly. They are accustomed to look at it as

being of less importance, and more easily slighted without attracting

notice and subjecting themselves to rebuke, than other portion of

their duties. They may be very capable in many other parts of the work

allotted to them, yet lamentably fail when they undertake to dust a

room. A parlor- or chambermaid may begin her work properly. With broom,

whisk, duster, and dust-pan, with short sleeves, a clean handkerchief

or cap over the head to protect the hair from dust, she commences to

clean and “put the room to rights” in the most approved manner. Books,

papers, works of art, ornaments, or furniture--everything movable--are

carried into the next room if convenient, or if not, neatly covered

from the dust, which must necessarily be raised while sweeping; thus

leaving the floor as nearly vacant as possible, to facilitate that

operation.

But, if superintending this work done by a new girl, you will notice

that, however methodical in all else pertaining to her work, she does

not stop to clean, carefully dust, and polish each article, as she

takes it from the room, and by so doing have them all ready to set back

again, with no delay, when the room is well swept and dusted. She seems

to have no idea that this will simplify her work, save time and extra

handling, and, as often happens, in case of any necessity for unusual

haste in finishing the work, be a great convenience. But, seeing how

like a good worker the girl takes hold of the other portions of her

labor, you perhaps think it not best to embarrass her by too many

criticisms at first, having no fear but at the close of the sweeping

the dusting will be well done; called away by other duties, you leave

her to finish, on the whole well pleased, and hopeful that you have

secured one who will prove faithful and reliable, relieving you from

constant watchfulness in her department.

On your return, the first glance at the room confirms your hopes, but

by a second look your dream of peace grows shadowy. The room is nicely

swept, the furniture placed more nearly in the proper position than,

for a first trial, you had expected; but there the charm vanishes.

Such dusting! It must have been attempted; for you see the mark of

the dusting-cloth, as if hastily passed over, or brushed across the

plain surfaces of tables, chairs, etc., but looking more as if flies

or spiders had run races over them, than like the efforts of a human

hand to dust the room. Here and there some one or two articles have

been tolerably polished, but wherever there is any elaborate carving,

intricate molding, or dainty piece of statuary, requiring extra care,

the dust has settled, and lies unmolested in ugly masses, defacing or

concealing all the beauty.

You summon the girl, trying all the time to school your heart and

voice to patience. You show her the dust, and, taking the work into

your own hands, proceed to give her practical demonstration of how the

work can and must be done. As you pass from one article to another,

you explain the injury to furniture and ornaments which will follow

careless dusting. Point out how speedily dust hides in the moldings

and carvings, and show her how to gain access to all the intricate

and troublesome ornamental work. As you proceed she sees how easily

and perfectly it can be done; but do not flatter yourself that this

lesson, so thoroughly and plainly given, will relieve you from the

responsibility of following up your chambermaid with continued

watchfulness and reminders. Be prepared to repeat this lesson every

week, and at the end of months find the repetition still necessary. If

you do not find this so, you may thank God and take courage, for you

have secured a treasure which you will do well to cherish.

It is because our servants are so inclined to slight this seemingly

small, but really very important part of domestic economy, that we

think mothers should begin early to teach their little daughters how

to dust a room, and polish, by thorough dusting, all the furniture and

articles of beauty. Let them take first lessons in learning to keep

their play-room and playthings free from dust, and the knowledge thus

gained in play will soon be of much practical and valuable assistance

to their mothers. We know there are some children naturally careless

and flighty, while others are born neat and methodical. This difference

is very observable in children of the same family, trained by the

same mother, with equal care; and mothers soon understand that one

child must be looked after, in every step of her way toward becoming

a practical, useful, helpful daughter and woman, more than the other.

Such children draw very heavily on their mother’s strength, patience,

and hopefulness; but if the child is of an affectionate disposition, in

the end love and experience will conquer.

There is great need that mothers be not discouraged in their endeavors

to teach their daughters all that pertains to practical domestic

economy; for, if we are not greatly mistaken, the time is not far

off when we shall all feel the necessity of looking to our daughters

to assist us in the nicer parts of housework, if we would have

comfortable, happy homes; relying on servants only for the coarser,

harder parts that would tax our strength too severely, or engross

our time too much, to leave any for social life or intellectual

improvement. These must receive their full share of our attention; but

the home cares have equal claims. Let there be an equal distribution,

giving to each her portion in due season, and there will be less waste

and extravagance, and lighter hearts and happier homes.

LXXVI.

A CHAPTER ON SOUPS.

HESITATION in taking the first steps in any new enterprise or new work

is very common. With some it springs from great caution; with others,

from lack of confidence in their own ability. They magnify troubles

which may arise, and imagine all manner of difficulties, until very

small and easy duties are clothed in a mystery which they shrink from

solving.

In working, a novice, if at all timid or lacking self-reliance, often

keeps herself in a constant state of alarm lest she make some great

mistake, and, strange as it may seem, few things in the whole round of

cooking-experiments assume a more formidable aspect than the simple act

of making a soup. It is a mystery which grows more _uncanny_ the longer

it is looked at from a distance; but lay your hand upon it, and you

will soon learn that you have been frightened at a shadow.

There are several things preliminary to making soup which are quite

essential. First of all, it is desirable, though not absolutely

indispensable, that you provide yourself with the best and most

convenient utensils.

A _stock-pot_ is usually a large, round kettle, with a closely fitting

cover, into which the meat or bones and odd bits for preparing the

stock or broth for soups are put, to be cooked. It is generally made of

iron or copper.

A _soup-digester_ is a kind of stock-pot made wholly of iron. The

lid fits closely into a groove in the top of the digester, with a

projecting piece which, when turned till it meets the socket or notch

on each side of the groove, acts like a lock, holding the lid on

tightly. In that respect it is far better than the stock-pot, for

nothing can boil over in the digester, and no steam escapes except

through the _valve_ at the top of the cover. They are to be obtained at

almost all hardware stores, and are of all sizes, from three quarts to

ten gallons.

Next, having provided the utensils, good “stock” of various kinds

should be kept constantly on hand, regulating the quantity prepared

at one time by the state of the weather and the size of your family.

In summer, in a cool cellar, it will keep, by frequent scalding,

several days. In winter it is safe to keep it much longer, only, like

everything else, it requires to be looked after carefully. Few soups

can be of the best quality without a strong _stock_ to start with.

_Liebig’s Extracts of Meat_ answers very well for a substitute, but is

better used in connection with the stock.

Every bit of meat which is left over, that cannot be satisfactorily

employed otherwise, should go at once into the _stock-pot_ or

_digester_. Bones, after carving from them all the meat that can be

advantageously secured, must be well cracked and added to the other

pieces. The vessel should be always near, ready to receive any stray

morsel. When enough is collected to make a good quantity of stock, put

cold water to the pieces; for the juices, which are what you desire to

obtain, are much more readily extracted in cold water than in hot. On

the contrary, meats that are to be boiled for table use should always

be put into _boiling_ water, which closes the outer surfaces instantly,

thus retaining the juices.

When the water is added, set the digester over a moderate fire, where

the contents will not boil rapidly, only simmer. After it begins to

boil, add salt and pepper. Opinions differ as to the length of time

needed in the preparation of good stock; but it is generally allowed

to simmer most of the day, which is too long, and it thereby becomes

muddy. We think a few hours’ boiling will extract all the juice, and

make better stock than longer. Remember that stock should have more

salt, pepper, and seasoning than would be desirable in the soup to be

made from it.

When done, strain it into a large stone pot, kept for that purpose

exclusively, and cover closely till morning, when the fat will all rise

to the top and harden, and should then be removed. Never allow stock to

remain in the stock-pot or digester overnight; for, even when there is

no copper to render it unsafe, it will assuredly taste of the iron,

and the flavor be very greatly injured by it.

If you have no bones or bits of meat on hand to make stock with, a

knuckle of beef or veal can be procured with little expense; or, if

a rich soup is desired, several kinds of meat should be mixed. For

instance: Take four pounds of the shin of beef, four pounds of the

knuckle of veal, and a half-pound of good lean ham--any scraps of

poultry, necks, wings, etc.--that may chance to be unused. Three

onions, three carrots, one head of celery, a few chopped mushrooms,

two or three fresh tomatoes, or what would be equal to them in canned

tomatoes, if they can be obtained; just a shake of savory herbs and

parsley, and, in cold weather, three turnips. In warm weather turnips

will cause the stock to ferment. Add an ounce and a half of salt, one

table-spoonful of sugar, twelve white peppercorns, six cloves, three

small bits of mace, and four quarts of water. Line the nicely cleaned

digester, after well buttering it, with the ham cut in thin, broad

slices carefully trimmed from all the outer fat that may taste too

strong of the smoke, or which is at all rusty. Then cut all the meat

from the beef and veal into about three-inch pieces, and lay them over

the ham. Set it on the stove, and when all is delicately and equally

browned, put in the beef and veal bones, well cracked, the bits of

poultry-trimmings, and pour over all four quarts of _cold_ water.

When it comes to the boiling point, bring to the side of the stove or

range, skim very carefully, adding now and then a little cold water, to

stop rapid boiling. Let it simmer in this way till it is quite clear,

and then put in all the vegetables and other ingredients, and keep it

simmering over the stove five hours. Do not let it at any time come to

a brisk boil, as that will waste the stock and injure the color.

When done, strain through a fine hair-sieve or cloth into a large stone

_stock-jar_, and cover up carefully till needed.

Prepared in this way, a stock will keep in cool weather a long time,

if kept covered closely from the air, by occasionally scalding, and

is always on hand when you wish a rich soup. While it is cooking, in

adding water to stop boiling, be sure that you add enough to supply

that wasted in steam, so that when done and strained you will have four

quarts of liquid. One quart will be sufficient for the stock for four

rich soups.

A less rich stock may be obtained by using less meat and seasoning, or

by carefully saving the water in which fresh meat or fowls have been

boiled, adding vegetables and seasoning to suit yourself. Let it simmer

gently for six hours, skimming it carefully, and then strain and set

aside for use.

_White stock_, for white soup, is made like the rich stock; only,

instead of browning the meat before adding any water, you should rub

the digester with butter, lay in the meat, moisten with half a pint

of water, and simmer slowly, until the gravy begins to flow; then add

five quarts of cold water and such vegetables and seasoning as you

prefer, or the same as for rich stock, and let all simmer five hours.

When stronger stock is required, double the quantity of veal, or put

in an old fowl. The liquor in which a young turkey has been boiled is

excellent for white stocks or soups.

_Browning_ for soups is made with two ounces of powdered sugar and half

a pint of water. Put the sugar in a smooth, clean saucepan over a slow

fire till it begins to melt; keep it in motion with a wooden spoon all

the time until it becomes black, when the water should be added. Let it

dissolve in the water, then cork closely, and use only a few drops when

required. In France an onion is burnt to put with the browning; but

all browning, although it adds somewhat to the looks of some kinds of

soups, does not often improve the flavor.

To _clarify_ stocks or soups which are sometimes a little muddy,

carefully separate the whites of eggs from the yelks, and use the

whites to clear the soup. One egg to every quart of stock or soup to

be clarified. Beat well together, with one fourth of a pint of water

to every egg, and, still beating, add gradually to the stock, which

should be just warm. Then place it over the fire, and when it boils

skim thoroughly, whisk it well, and draw the kettle to the side of the

stove, to let it settle till the whites of the eggs become separated

from the soup; then strain through a fine cloth, and, if rightly done,

the stock or soup will be clear.

Thus, as will be readily understood, we have given most important

preliminary steps toward making soup. In the next article we give

directions for making several kinds of soups, and thereby answer

several requests in one chapter.

LXXVII.

MORE ABOUT SOUPS.

MANY suppose they can obtain just as good soup by preparing the whole

between breakfast and dinner, claiming that the idea of keeping “stock”

on hand is a foolish one, and an increase of the cares and labors of

providing. We think this is a mistake, springing from ignorance in some

cases, in others from the fact that the objectors have never tried what

seems to us the better way. It is certainly the most economical, and on

trial we are sure will be found a saving of time and labor, instead of

an additional tax.

By allowing the material for stock to simmer slowly, one obtains the

foundation for the strongest and best flavored soup which can be made

from flesh. Whereas, if the meat is taken in the morning, and prepared

for dinner the same day, one must hasten matters, and cannot take time

to separate the meat in small pieces, or have a soup free from muddy

streaks and a strong, disagreeable flavor.

Liebig objects to cooking the stock for any great length of time,

because he assumes, and justly, that the albumen and fibrin which,

after protracted cooking, will rise hard and bony, cannot be so

thoroughly separated as not to leave some disagreeable flavor, and take

away much of the real nutriment of the soup. He says if we take one

pound of beef free from fat, and separate it from the bones finely, as

for mince-meat or sausages; then mix it uniformly in its own weight of

cold water, heat it slowly to a boiling point, and allow the liquid

to boil briskly for only a few minutes; then strain through a towel

to free it from the coagulated albumen and fibrin which will be mixed

with it, we can, by this short boiling, secure an equal weight of the

most aromatic soup or beef-tea, of such strength as cannot be obtained,

even by boiling for hours, from a solid piece of flesh. Youmans says,

by long boiling the rich part of the meat extracted by the cold water

coagulates and becomes insoluble, instead of remaining dissolved

in the soup, as it should do, in order to secure the most highly

nutritious substance of the meat. A piece of flesh put into boiling

water _undivided_ is in the most unfavorable condition possible for

making good soup. It is customary to protract the boiling, because it

is supposed to thicken and enrich the soup.

We have no doubt, if the mistress could oversee the whole process, that

a better soup would be obtained by less than the four or five hours’

cooking which we recommended in our last article for stock. But if she

is obliged to commit the preparing of stock or soups to willing but

careless hands, who half the time do not cut the meat up fine or crack

the bones, a longer time is necessary to extract the full flavor, which

will not then be as pure.

What are called _clear soups_ should be of a light straw color, and not

too strongly flavored with the meat.

_White_ or _thick soups_ must only be thick enough to adhere slightly

to the spoon when hot.

_Purée_ consists of vegetables or meat reduced to a very smooth pulp,

and then mixed with enough stock to make a thick soup like most of the

bean or pea soups.

One of the most generally palatable soups is the _turtle_ or _black

bean soup_, with rich beef stock for the foundation.

Soak a pint and a half of the beans overnight in plenty of lukewarm

water. In the morning drain off all the water and cover with fresh cold

water; see that your soup-digester is perfectly cleaned, and three

quarts of beef stock put in it, then set it over the fire. (Of course

you never allow your digester or soup-pot to be put away without being

thoroughly cleaned; but _sometimes_ girls have been known to forget

or make a mistake; and it is best for many reasons that all utensils

should be examined thoroughly, rinsed with hot water, and wiped dry

each time you take them out for use, if only to remove what dust may

settle on them while in the closet.)

As soon as your kettle is in order and the stock in it, drain off the

water from the beans; put them into the stock and set at once over the

fire where it will come to a boil slowly. As soon as that takes place,

set it a little one side, and it will simmer, not _quite_ boil, till

time for dinner. It will take some four or five hours to make the beans

perfectly tender. Half an hour before straining, add a teacupful of

tomato catsup and half a pint of canned tomatoes or six fresh ones.

Let it cook a little more briskly for a half-hour, then rub through a

coarse sieve or colander, and serve hot. In preparing stock for this

soup, the savory herbs and mushrooms may be omitted, also the tomatoes,

as it is better to add them just before the beans are done, and strain

all together. Some like to squeeze a few drops of lemon-juice into

soup when in their plates, and it is well to have a quarter of a lemon

put on a small saucer or cup-plate by every one at the table, so that

they can add it if agreeable.

An excellent _beef soup_ can be made from the bones left from a roast.

Cut the bones apart, and crack them to pieces with a broad hatchet kept

for that purpose only, as the good husband may object to having his

carefully kept hatchet used by “women folks,” and _you_ may be equally

unwilling to take articles that have been used you know not for what.

Cover the bones with cold water, and set on the range where they will

simmer, _not boil_, between three and four hours. When the meat is so

tender as to slip easily from the bones, scrape it all off and set it

aside; put the stock thus made in a stone pot and cover closely, after

it is cold. We should have said in former directions that stock must

not be covered up till cold, then closed carefully. The next day remove

every particle of the fat; warm the stock enough to strain it; cut up

one onion (if you and your family like them), two or three potatoes,

one turnip, a few bits of cauliflower or cabbage, if desired, and two

carrots. Put these in the stock, adding, if you like, a half-pint

of rich stock; add pepper and salt to your liking, half a teacupful

of tomato catsup, a table-spoonful of rice washed clean, or “star”

macaroni. Boil one hour, and dish without a second straining. Of course

all these seasonings and vegetables must be varied or modified to suit

the special tastes of different families.

The meat cut from the bone may be made into nice “force-meat balls,”

and put into the soup when dished for the table. To make these balls,

rub the meat smooth in a marble mortar. If very dry, moisten with a

spoonful of rich stock. When smooth, season with salt, pepper, a little

thyme, summer savory, and green parsley chopped fine. Beat one egg

light and stir in, thickening the whole with cracker crumbs, enough to

roll into small balls the size of a large walnut, and fry in boiling

lard, or place on a dish and bake a clear, even brown, and put into the

soup the last thing before sending to the table.

_Julienne soup_ is among those most used at hotels and eating-houses.

Put half a spoonful of butter into the soup-kettle; slice in two

onions, and fry to a clear brown, taking care not to scorch them; then

add three quarts of good stock, two small turnips and two carrots

chopped small. Let this boil gently one hour, and then add a pint

of green peas, freshly gathered, and the same of young and tender

string-beans, a little mace, salt and pepper as needed, and a single

stock of celery chopped fine. Too much celery gives a bitter taste to

soup. Boil two hours more; then rub a table-spoonful of butter, with

the same amount of flour, and stir gradually into the soup. Boil a few

minutes and dish.

A good _vermicelli_ soup with stock made from a shin of veal, boiled

in three quarts of water, can be prepared with little trouble. The

stock must be skimmed carefully, and, this done, put in one whole

turnip, one carrot, and one onion; none of these should be cut up. Boil

three hours; add salt and pepper to taste, and a quarter of a pound

of vermicelli after the three hours’ boiling, and let it boil gently

one hour more, then take out the bone and vegetables and serve. If the

stock boils away too much, add a little water.

LXXVIII.

TESTING CHARACTER.

NOTHING so completely unmasks all the peculiarities of each individual,

showing bright and noble traits most clearly, and casting deeper

shadows on all that is weak, disagreeable, and unlovely, as being shut

up in a steamer or in cars for days together, acquiring an intimacy

in one week far more familiar than would have been formed in a year

of ordinary intercourse. Nowhere are selfishness, irritability, and

vanity so quickly detected; nowhere are such opportunities to manifest

patience, self-abnegation, and all sweet and gentle qualities, in the

most forcible and attractive manner, as in this phase of social life.

You may call daily, or spend weeks with people in their own homes,

and never imagine that fierce ambition, weak and silly vanity, petty

jealousy, or a harsh and bitter temper are smoldering where all appears

so cheerful and quiet, ready to be fanned into flames by the first

annoyance beyond their power to repel. While no shadows fall or clouds

obscure their sky, how pleasantly the moments pass by! Smiles and

gentleness meet you at every step. To secure your comfort and pleasure

is their delight; to dispense the hospitality of their homes gracefully

and with a free hand does them honor; to neglect to do so would detract

from the dignity of their social position, and be disgraceful. Every

attention and courtesy paid to a guest reflects honor on the host, and

few are so perfect that these considerations do not have some weight.

This may be assumed without at all detracting from higher motives.

But become companions on a journey with those who, as host and

hostess, have been so attractive, and the most astonishing changes, for

which you are entirely unprepared, utterly foreign to your estimate

of their character, may meet you in every word and act. Take care,

however, while watching the _mote_ in your neighbor’s eye, that he does

not discover the _beam_ in your own. In the infelicities of traveling,

remember you are liable to the same criticism, and watch and pray lest

your own conscience compels you to acknowledge the justice of the

censure.

On the other hand, you will often see persons so quiet and gentle at

home, that while you respect, you never think of them as presenting any

very striking characteristics. Sensible and unobtrusive, the goodness,

unseen, carries comfort to all around, while the recipients seldom

recognize the cause of the good influence which surrounds them, until

some startling commotion proclaims their silent ministration. The

freedom born from a common annoyance, discomfort, or danger, such as is

often experienced in traveling, sometimes reveals heroes and heroines

where we least expected to find them.

One may read some strange chapters in character if he quietly watch

a crowd rushing on board a car or steamer, eager to secure the best

position, where most can be seen with the greatest comfort. The

rudeness and selfishness of each movement and act would be unpardonable

in their own homes. If you are careful to be on board early, before the

“rush” begins, it is certainly permissible to secure the best seat you

can, but with the reservation that old age, feebleness, and infancy

have a claim on all, which, if need be, should lead you willingly to

relinquish the position, however desirable, if by so doing you can add

to the comfort of any who come to you with these vouchers for their

right to your assistance and sympathy. Unfortunately, we often see this

gentle consideration for age and feebleness disregarded; but when

it shines forth how beautiful it is! How it covers little faults and

foibles, which, but for such unexpected manifestations, would have much

power to vex and distress!

An elderly lady in feeble health took her seat in the cars, homeward

bound after a long absence. Being a cold, rainy day, it was especially

desirable to avoid all draughts from open windows. A party of young

people in high spirits seated themselves in front, and at once opened

the window. The wind, sleet, and rain rushed in, making all around

uncomfortable. Several remonstrated, but with no satisfactory results.

Even the indulgent father gently insinuated that they might themselves

suffer from such exposure, but not a word was spoken of the risk to

others. Every other seat being occupied, the invalid could make no

change; and feeling that all the health gained by her absence from home

might be lost through this severe exposure, with much reluctance she

mildly requested that the window nearest her might be closed. The favor

was rudely refused.

These young people were evidently persons of wealth, on their way to

travel some time in Europe. From such examples, what impressions must

the people of the “old country” form of the characters and manners of

the new? The lady, probably reflecting gravely on the habits of the

young of the present day, sighed for the time when age was honored and

the young taught to reverence gray hairs.

Time flew by, and again the invalid sought health far from home. The

boat was crowded with the young and gay. No wonder she remembered

the scene on the cars with sad forebodings, the sadder because on a

voyage one is liable to more discomforts than when traveling by land,

and probably was prepared to be perfectly isolated, asking for and

expecting nothing. The passage was disagreeable in the extreme, and

all more or less seasick. Of course, under such circumstances, it

would not have been surprising if each was disposed to think only of

his own discomfort. On the contrary, kindness, respect, and attention

were the rule, with hardly one exception. Those but slightly sick were

prompt in ministering to the comfort of the more seriously afflicted.

Affectionate inquiries, gentle sympathy, and, when needed, most tender

assistance, filled with bright spots a voyage which, but for this

blessed spirit, would have been intolerable; making warm and genuine

friends for life of those who but a few days before were perfect

strangers.

These two experiences prove how unwise it would be to form one’s

estimate of all, in any circumstances, by the freaks and folly of a

few. How easy to excuse much heedlessness and frivolity, hoping for

better things with coming years, if out from among many youthful

follies such good traits are made apparent!

If this law of unselfish kindness were thoroughly understood; if all,

particularly the young, could realize the rich reward for every kind

act, repaying them tenfold even in this life,--it would extract many

thorns from weary feet, prevent much heart-burning, and give a glory to

the life below only second to that blessed life above, where, when they

enter, they may hope to hear, “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the

least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” “Well done, good

and faithful servant, enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.”

LXXIX.

IF WE KNEW!

“If we knew the baby fingers

Pressed against the window-pane

Would be cold and stiff to-morrow,

Never trouble us again,

Would the bright eyes of our darling

Catch the frown upon our brow?

Would the print of rosy fingers

Vex us then as they do now?

“Ah! those little, ice-cold fingers,

How they point our memories back

To the hasty words and actions

Strewn along our backward track!

How those little hands remind us,

As in snowy grace they lie,

Not to scatter thorns, but roses,

For our reaping by and by!

“Strange we never prize the music

Till the sweet-voiced bird has flown!

Strange that we should slight the violets

Till the lovely flowers are gone!

Strange that summer skies and sunshine

Never seemed one half so fair

As when winter’s snowy pinions

Shake the white down in the air!

“Lips from which the seal of silence

None but God can roll away,

Never blossomed in such beauty

As adorns the mouth to-day;

And sweet words that freight our memory

With their beautiful perfume

Come to us in sweeter accents

Through the portals of the tomb!

“Let us gather up the sunbeams

Lying all around our path;

Let us keep the wheat and roses,

Casting out the thorns and chaff;

Let us find our sweetest comfort

In the blessings of to-day;

With a patient hand removing

All the briers from our way.”

THE wind is playing with the long gray beard on the grand old live-oak

over our heads; the air, soft and balmy, brings the slightest

intimation of perfume from the orange-trees around us; the golden

fruit, half hidden in the rich, glossy leaves, and here and there a bud

just opening into the delicate blossom, give promise of another harvest

before the first is fully gathered. Before us lies the beautiful St.

John’s river, smooth and tranquil as a summer sea; but a steamer in the

distance, like a graceful swan, approaches the wharf, and will soon

disturb its calm, and toss the placid waters into merry ripples or

foaming, sparkling waves. Only for a moment she touches the wharf, then

glides away, and the river subsides into its wonted calm. Her coming

and going have no interest for us, save that which a glimpse, however

transient, of beauty, strength, and grace must always awaken. She

brings none to greet us and claim the welcome, so gladly given by one

far from home.

Everything around us is quiet. The inmates of the cottage are mostly

out sailing. The gentle provider for the household comforts, “on

hospitable thoughts intent,” is preparing for their return from this

“toil of pleasure,” tired and ravenously hungry. We are entirely alone;

and as we sit in this wonderful quiet, the little poem quoted above,

“If We Knew,” stirs our heart with strange and solemn power.

Lives there one who does not, in moments of retirement or solitude,

look back to the earliest hours of childhood, and recall times when,

if he could have known the results, his actions would have been far

different?

If all could in youth look along the map of life clear to the

end, seeing all the breakers and quicksands, which by patience and

self-control could have been avoided, how much more comforting would

be the view they might take, in after years, of the “backward track”!

No doubt it is well, for many reasons, that we cannot read the future.

Trials and sorrows, which no skill or forethought could have turned

aside, would have been doubled by anticipation and foreknowledge. And

yet we doubt if there are many who, looking back from the “half-way

house,” would not willingly endure all the additional pain if they

might have possessed the power to foresee the inevitable results of

certain courses, and, profiting by this foreknowledge, have avoided the

danger or the sin.

Brother, sister, “if you knew” that soon “those little baby fingers”

would “never trouble you again,” would you be impatient or cross to

your little playmates for their childish, willful ways?

Two little boys were playing together. Both wanted the rocking-chair

for a horse. Full of health and animal spirits, their dispute ran high,

and ended in a blow. Only a few days passed, and the baby hands of the

younger were folded in “snowy grace” upon the cold and quiet heart,

and laid in the grave. A short time after, hearing bitter sobs in the

garden, the mother found the lonely brother--himself but just past

babyhood--lying under the peach-trees, watching with eager eyes some

birds flying over his head, and calling, between his sobs: “O birdies!

little birdies! Fly up! fly higher! and tell Jesus if he will only let

little brother come down to me, he shall have the rocking-chair all the

time, and I never, never will strike him again! O, _never, never_!”

Ah! how many brothers and sisters look back upon little disputes and

sharp, childish quarrels, that would hardly have been remembered had

both been spared to grow up together; but one having been taken away,

that dispute, or the wrong done, remains through life a sore spot in

the heart of the survivor.

Father, be not harsh with your son. He disobeyed your commands, has

done wrong, and for his own good deserves rebuke; but remember he is

“only a little one.” Let your censure be tempered with gentleness. It

was but the overflow of exuberant life, not willful disobedience. If

you could look forward to what soon may be, how leniently would you

judge, how tenderly chide, and by your gentleness secure obedience much

more effectually!

Ah, poor, tired mother! you are very weary and wellnigh sick. Your eyes

are heavy for want of sleep, and your head throbbing with the noise

and shouts and wild frolics of your little ones. It is often very hard

to bear; but it is health and strength and life overflowing in their

yet untried, undisciplined hearts. Be patient! If soon, with hot and

tearless eyes, you watch by the little crib where fever may conquer

that life but late so joyous and full of activity, can you endure

what God may see best to bring upon you, if, by impatience, you have

“scattered thorns, not roses, for your reaping by and by”?

“I have asked you twenty times to mend this coat, and it is not done

yet. ‘No time’! How long would it have taken, I should like to know?

But--well--I can go ragged, I suppose. You give little heed to my

wishes or comfort. You must take your own time and way, without regard

to my convenience, or you will not be satisfied.”

Husband! why do you say such ugly, biting things? You love your

wife. You would be indignant if a looker-on should hint that you

misjudged her or were exacting. Your heart--or that silent monitor,

your conscience--tells you that she did not intend to disregard

your wishes or advice. She was tired, overtaxed with many cares and

frequent interruptions, or perhaps sickness is creeping upon her

unawares. Whatever the reason, the offense was but a “little thing.”

Or even if she was self-willed or irritable, be patient with her.

You are fully aware that one mode of speaking makes her indignant,

and stirs up all the offensive, opposing elements in her character;

while, on the contrary, a certain tone of your voice, a love-look from

your eye, would have brought her to your side in an instant, sorry,

self-upbraiding, loving and honoring you with all her heart. Ah, “_if

you knew_”! These first morose, fault-finding words are, perhaps,

“leaving on her heart a shadow, leaving on your heart a stain,” which

may be the beginning of coldness, mistrust, and defiance, or perhaps a

darker sin, when but for them you could have secured joy and gladness

in your house, growing sweeter and purer day by day. Deal gently. You,

her husband, can make her happy, loving, and good, or you can make her

irritable, unloving, and evil, thereby destroying your own happiness

as well as hers. You are the _house-bond_ or _home-bond_. See that you

sever it not by your own folly.

“John, why do you always _wait_, and _wait_, and hinder me so? You can

come at once, just as well as to keep me waiting, if you only choose

to!”

Wife, it is just such little, impatient, waspish words that will

tempt your husband to seek quiet, comfort, and appreciation away from

your side. No matter if _he_ does “speak just as impatiently as you

have done, fifty times a day,” show him a better way. Why retort, or

increase the “little shadows,” which you can by gentleness dispel?

Yield a little; it is not hard, and you will reap a glorious reward. Is

not your husband’s love and confidence worth keeping, by the exercise

of a little patience and forbearance? But if not for present joy, to

ward off future misery at least, “set a guard over the door of your

mouth, that you sin not with your lips”; and so tread life’s pathway

with him to whom you have vowed a wife’s fealty that, if called to

sit in the desolation of widowhood, there shall not be added to that

sorrow the anguish of self-upbraiding for little services impatiently

rendered, or love requited by coldness or irritability.

When we have passed through all the labors and trials of early life,

and in full maturity or just on the decline pause a moment to recall

the friends of our youth now gone, and the sweet family ties now

broken, how the heart aches with the memory of hasty words or actions,

and vainly yearns for one more opportunity for the better performance

of our whole duty, in all love, fidelity, and patience! But

“God ... pity us all

Who vainly the dreams of youth recall;

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,

The saddest are these: _It might have been!_”

LXXX.

IN SUCH AN HOUR AS YE THINK NOT.

WHEN a young girl is called by the death of her mother to assume the

management of the family before her home education has been completed,

we know of very few cases which draw so largely on our sympathy. Grief

and depression for the loss of a mother is hard enough for the young

heart to endure; and added to this, it is no easy thing to accept the

responsibility of providing for the comforts of those thus thrown

upon her care. All the economical arrangements of the household, the

oversight of cooking, even when the labor is done by the hands of a

servant; the daily watchings to prevent miscalculations in marketing;

the neatness and regularity to be secured in every department,--may

seem light to an experienced matron, but are heavy burdens to be laid

upon a slight young girl. Yet all this is but a drop, compared with the

thought and anxiety she must feel in administering to the health and

happiness of her father and of the children, even younger than herself,

who will now turn to her for the care once so efficiently and promptly

given by the mother. And most likely, until trials came to her, the

daughter had never had cares or duties that demanded the exercise of

her independent judgment,--her mother being always near to direct and

decide.

A daughter may be ever so thoroughly instructed in all womanly

employments, yet if her mother retains the entire charge of every

portion of the household labor,--the child simply following as she is

bid,--there can be little opportunity for the development and exercise

of her individual judgment. She naturally prefers to lean on one ever

ready to relieve her from distasteful duties. This is, no doubt,

pleasant for both,--the mother is happy in shielding, the child happy

in freedom from care. But we doubt if it is wise or right, for often

“in such an hour as ye think not” all this must be changed. Frequently,

without a moment’s warning or time for preparation, the mother is taken

from her family. Ought she not to have furnished her child, by her

teachings, with that experience which, like a lamp trimmed and burning,

would guide her footsteps, enabling her, when this unlooked-for trial

came, to assume these responsibilities with comparative ease? We

believe that even at an early age it is best that some particular duty

should be committed to the care of every child, thus teaching them

self-reliance from the beginning of life, and accustoming even the

little ones to feel responsible for a certain amount of daily labor.

Of course, the mother will quietly watch that these small duties are

properly performed, but not openly, so that her child loses the sense

of real accountability, by knowing that “mother will see that it is

all right, even if I should neglect or make mistakes.” The mother must

_point out_ mistakes, but the child should always be made to _rectify_

them. The knowledge that doing work hastily or carelessly will only

be the cause of punishment by compelling her to do the work over and

over again, until it is right, is a great safeguard against contracting

careless habits. Lessons thus enforced do not often need repeating.

Little by little, as the child grows toward womanhood, let the mother

throw off some portion of her cares, teaching her daughters to

oversee or perform them correctly, and by so doing not only lighten

her own labors, but make such duties easy for her children in after

years, or if they should be called prematurely to the entire charge.

When daughters are old enough to become their mother’s companions,

they should also become joint partners in home and household

responsibilities. When out of school, divide the work so that every

other week the mother shall be entirely free from all care,--a guest

in the family; or if that is at first too great a tax on the young

partner, “take turns” in dividing the work,--the daughter one week

having the charge of the cooking, marketing, and arranging for each

meal entirely herself; the next week, of the dairy, if on a farm, or

the laundry or chamber- work. When each week is ended, the mother can

point out the failures, or recommend a better or easier way of doing

some particular thing; but unless advice or directions are asked, it is

far better that the young housekeeper should be left to her own skill

and judgment. For a few times this may not prove the best economy, but

in the end “it pays,” and with good interest. Of course, before this

plan can be carried into execution to any extent, the young lady has

served an apprenticeship, so far as to know, herself, that part of the

work which comes under her jurisdiction each week; and when practice

shall have made perfect, and the term of apprenticeship expires, it is

excellent discipline for a daughter to assume the reins entirely, for

a shorter or longer time, as health or pleasure may determine, subject

to such suggestions as may be deemed advisable. This arrangement gives

rest and liberty, if all her children are grown up, for the mother to

read, travel, or enjoy social life; as she could not do when they were

young and needing the mother’s care,--which should never be delegated

to another, unless compelled by ill health. This is a most valuable

training, by which the young housekeeper is prepared for a useful life,

or a happy home of her own some day.

We cannot but feel that of late years too large a proportion of care

and thought is bestowed by parents in educating their daughters to

shine in fashionable life,--in giving them an ornamental rather than a

solid, practical, or intellectual education. They dislike to keep their

children at close study, lest they should spoil their figures or their

eyes, and allow them to discard housework for fear their hands will

not be small and delicate enough to show to advantage at the piano, or

in a party. Music, painting, and dancing are all well enough in their

way,--some of them very important,--but should not be sought after to

the exclusion of the practical, and by no means the least important

part of a young girl’s education, and preparation for an active, useful

life. Many young ladies will not willingly accept these views; but it

is for the most part because mothers, out of mistaken fondness, do not

care to have them; or, as is too often the case, because they do not

like the drudgery, as they term it, of teaching the lessons in domestic

economy, so necessary to their future welfare,--an indolent or selfish

mode of setting aside heaven-ordained duties, for which a severe

reckoning may one day be demanded.

LXXXI.

GRUMBLING.

IT must be that a certain class of people find pleasure in

fault-finding and grumbling, or they would not search so industriously

for an opportunity to exercise their talents in this direction; or,

failing to secure a legitimate occasion, willfully manufacture one.

In the family, this habit is, unfortunately, often carried to a great

extent, even among those who are, undoubtedly, sincerely attached

to each other. The first word in the morning is usually a querulous

inquiry or complaint about some trivial thing which they merely

_suspect_ has been neglected or unsatisfactorily performed. They do

not take the trouble to inquire if their suspicions are well founded.

Such inquiry might deprive them of the luxury of grumbling. If it

were not so sad to hear the early morning hours thus desecrated, it

might furnish much amusement for a looker-on to notice how often these

unfortunates are caught in their own trap, and the fact made evident

to all that the foolish words were but the ebullition of arrogance and

irritability, having no foundation.

“My dear!” (you will notice that a _gentleman_ grumbler begins a

complaint with a strongly emphasized term of endearment,)--“my dear!

why could you not heed my request that our breakfast might be one

half-hour later this morning? I told you I was very tired, and needed a

little more rest. But it is useless for me to imagine you would deviate

from your rules one minute just for my comfort.”

“Why, Tom! how unreasonable you are! You are so in the habit of finding

fault, that you never stop to learn certainly if there is any cause

for dissatisfaction. Your breakfast is just three quarters of an hour

later than usual. I delayed it just as long as I could, expressly for

your comfort.”

“I said _half_ an hour, _not three quarters_. That was every minute I

could spare. Now, I shall be too late for some very important business.

But you are always interfering, as if I didn’t understand my own

business best!”

But when the grumbler has had a good cup of coffee or tea, and the

“inner man” is suitably refreshed by an abundant breakfast, he seems

to be in no great haste to attend to that important business; but has

leisure to look over the papers, play a moment with the children, and

can really speak gently to the one so rudely censured in the morning,

before his appetite was appeased.

“Now, I call this real cruel, John. I must go to market right off after

breakfast, because you forgot to bring home the marketing last night.

And I asked you so particularly; as we have company to dinner, I have

hardly time to get ready. But I might have known if I wanted anything

in season, tired or sick, I must always do it myself. It is really too

bad!”

“My dear! if I might slip in a word, I would like to inform you that I

_did_ bring home the marketing according to orders, and gave it to the

cook. You will doubtless find it in the store-closet.”

“O John! that’s just like you. Why couldn’t you have told me last

night? It wouldn’t have hurt you to have taken that trouble, I’m sure.”

“You had company, you recollect, when I came home. I had an errand to

do after tea, and you were fast asleep when I returned. What chance had

I to tell you?”

“You couldn’t have told me quietly, even if we had company, I suppose?”

“Why, child! how eager you are to find fault!”

“O, yes! of course I am the only one to blame.”

It is not necessary to multiply examples, though, we are sorry to

say, they could be brought from every class and position. But such

things are not pleasant to hear, and certainly do not look well on

paper. It is to be feared that we all have some germs of this same

malady,--enough, at least, to understand the symptoms, and warn us

to vigorous efforts to eradicate them. If allowed to take root, they

deface our own characters, and disturb, if not destroy, the comfort of

home. When parents indulge in this sin of grumbling, they cannot wonder

if their children follow their example, and even go beyond it. A whole

family of grumblers! what can be more wretched?

Another class, whose behavior at home is unexceptionable, spare their

families, reserving their grumbling for business hours, giving their

servants or clerks the discomfort that the first class lay by for home

consumption. There is hope for those. By and by some high-spirited

sufferer from their waspishness and fault-finding, having endured their

wearisome grumbling till patience is no longer a virtue, may teach

them a lesson, through their self-interest, that will perhaps prove

effectual.

But we have a few words to say of another class,--_grumbling

travelers_. At some of our hotel tables, where travelers “most do

congregate,” one can read a chapter of absurd and ridiculous weakness

to be found nowhere else. We have known people to sit down to a table

where we could find no occasion for complaint, and grumble loudly at

every individual article. Coffee, “horrid”; tea, “an insult to set

such stuff before any one”; soup, “too thick,” or “too thin”; and so

on through the whole bill of fare. Nothing set before them that was

not made a subject of criticism or rude comparison between the hotel

fare and the wonderful perfections of their own table. This habit of

fault-finding is, by a certain class, considered a certificate of

superiority which cannot fail to convince the public that they are

persons of wealth and high-standing at home. A mistaken idea. Even the

waiters at public tables, who, in consequence of the variety of guests

to whom they are called, are usually good judges of character, are not

deceived by this vain pretense; but many sly glances, that can only be

interpreted as contemptuous, may be detected; and as these complainers

leave the table, the waiters whisper to each other, as they pass to and

fro, “Shoddy,” with looks that cannot be misunderstood.

This class of travelers leave their homes, not for information and

improvement, but for the opportunity of grumbling, on a new and more

extensive scale than can be attained in their own families. They leave

home in search of some yet untried cause for grumbling, and by a long

stretch of conscience and imagination they contrive to find it, and

return with a large store of freshly gathered material, over which to

expatiate for some weeks, quite to the relief of their families.

All this kind of grumbling appears to us most unreasonable and

ridiculous; but if not inclined to find fault in any of the ways

mentioned, we are beginning to fear that every one meets some point in

life where he imagines dissatisfaction and complaint to be perfectly

justifiable. Something in their surroundings is out of joint. Their

most carefully laid plans and well-grounded expectations fail;

friends grow cold; where lies the fault? Is none of it with you? The

foundations of our worldly prosperity seem built on solid rock, but

they slide from under us. We take to our hearts one dearer than our own

life, and in an hour when we think not the bond is severed. Time and

again the cradle is left empty; or a sweet and loving spirit emerges

from it, and step by step grows toward clear companionship, when, as in

a moment, God calls, and we are left in sackcloth and ashes. We murmur

and repine,--God’s dealings appear so unequally distributed. In the

same vicinity one family grows up unbroken, from babyhood into vigorous

manhood, while another home is left desolate, and they cry out in their

anguish, “I do well to be angry.” They forget that God deals with his

children as they deal with the rich but uncultivated lands committed

to their care. What is more beautiful to the eye than a large grove of

wild orange-trees?--but how useless if left unimproved! Who complains

when their beauty, for the present, is destroyed, the trees cut back

and pruned till they stand bare and unsightly? But the buds and grafts

which have been introduced will soon start into new life, the branches

begin to shoot upward, and the sweet, pure blossoms and golden fruit

will clothe the tree, which a grumbler would have thought wholly

destroyed, with new beauty. The old beauty was defaced only that the

tree should, in the end, become fruitful, and thereby more gloriously

perfect than at first.

Yet we murmur when our wild orange groves are cut back, pruned, and

grafted, and the “seedlings” from our nurseries transplanted. We forget

that

“Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood

Stand dressed in living green,”

which are made more gloriously beautiful by every rare and precious

plant that our Father transplants from this beautiful but stormy earth

to his garden,

“Where everlasting spring abides,

And never withering flowers.”

LXXXII.

LITTLE FOXES SPOILING THE BELOVED VINE.

“A MOTHER” desires to know if she fails in discipline, or if her

children are more troublesome and difficult to manage than other

people’s. She has coaxed, reasoned, whipped; shut up in solitude, fed

them on bread and water, or confined them in a dark room; but all

appears to be ineffectual. They do nothing really _wicked_, in the

strict sense of that term; but they forget or disregard all rules or

commands, are mischievous and careless; boisterous and full of frolic

one day, to the neglect of every duty, and the next, quarrelsome,

irritable, and in every respect uncertain. This mother feels her

responsibility deeply, and with all her heart desires to bring her

children up in the right way, but is more and more conscious that she

fails in her efforts, and now feels disheartened and discouraged.

We judge the great trouble here is over-anxiety. Her children are

_governed too much_. It is not easy to lead young, conscientious

mothers to see this; but the grandmothers, profiting by their own

mistakes, see in these boisterous, careless, impressible children that

which, if not too closely pruned, will mature into strong, healthy men

and women; and in their irritability and disobedience they recognize

the effect of over-restraint, and too great repression of youthful,

exuberant, animal spirit, which, if slightly modified and gently led,

will be an invaluable assistance to these little ones in after life,

giving them strength and force of character to act well their part when

they enter in earnest on their life’s work. No doubt quiet, demure,

proper children would be the most desirable, just for the present

comfort of mothers or friends. Overtasked bodies and aching heads find

such children less troublesome. But it is not for present ease that

good mothers live. They look for their reward in the future usefulness

of their children, and “for the joy that is set before them” they

endure the cross like good soldiers.

Yet while striving, in all patience, self-sacrifice, and love, to make

your children happy in the formatory state, and at the same time teach

them better ways, you must also be on the watch for the foes without

and the foes within,--the “little foxes” that seek to destroy

“The beloved vine

Trusted to your tending

By the One Divine.”

In no case be easy and lenient to that which is _sin_,--not merely

childish sport or thoughtlessness. Root up the smallest germ from

which mean, low, or wicked habits will spring, with a kind but

uncompromising firmness. You cannot guard your charge too closely

here; but be most scrupulously careful that you are not overhasty

in judging of the character of their faults, but have rightfully

distinguished between deliberate, intentional wrong-doing and childish

folly. Let your children feel that for the first you accept no excuse;

for the latter you are lenient, full of loving-kindness and tender

mercy. For disobedience that springs from stubbornness and a willful

determination to do that which is forbidden at all hazards, be not

cruel and harsh, but firm, and so severe that the child will have no

doubt of your resolution to destroy the evil by meeting each act with

quick retribution. Yet when compelled to punish, be so careful of your

own heart that your erring one cannot but see that you are severe from

no one emotion of anger, or because you are made uncomfortable, but

because God has committed them to your care, and will demand a strict

account of your stewardship. Be sure, in your dealings with your

children, that they have no difficulty in seeing that you recognize

a wide difference between overt sins and wrong done through childish

thoughtlessness and ignorance; and while you gently point out the

inconvenience and mischief apparent in consequence of their careless

acts, seek to make it plain to them that you restrain because you do

not like them to seek their sports and amusements selfishly, and at

the expense of others’ comfort. Before you decide that any act of your

children is really sinful and deserving punishment, examine and hear

all that can be said in excuse or palliation.

Then as to the mode of punishment, when it really becomes necessary,

we think the parents’ judgment ought to be the surest guide, as they

should better understand the characters they have to deal with. Some

children, when they find that punishment is sure to follow wrong-doing,

submit easily; others are resolute or defiant, and these traits should

decide the nature of such infliction as the parent finds unavoidable.

There are times with certain children when we think a sound whipping

the most curative process; while to others it would be so humiliating

as to irreparably injure the child’s character; but a whipping is

not needed once, where some young, inexperienced, but conscientious

parents employ it twenty times. Where it must be resorted to, let it be

sufficiently severe to make a repetition a thing to be dreaded; but, if

brutal, it is simply barbarity, not justice.

Never, under any circumstances, _strike a child on the head_ or _box

the ears_. That is the act of anger, and in general is practiced only

when the judgment is overruled by passion. Do not attempt to turn a

child from the “error of his ways” by any such heathenish means. No one

can judge at the time of the force of a blow dealt in anger; and though

done thoughtlessly, in a moment of irritation, it may bring life-long

suffering and sorrow. So, shutting up a child in a dark room, though

it may not appear at the time so barbarous, has often resulted in

the most painful, if not fatal injuries. Neither do we approve of

attempting to convert a child through its appetite; a dark room, a cup

of water, and a crust of bread savors too much of the inquisition or

the convict’s cell for Christian parents to imitate.

After all, each one must be a law unto himself. Another cannot give

special rules for any one; but there is one thing that it may be well

for every parent to bear in mind always, namely, that probably a large

proportion of the evil we find in our children is but the continuation

or increase of our own faults, unheeded while they were our own.

And this should teach us great caution, great love and gentleness

in governing our little imitators. Mrs. Mary Crann, some years ago,

published some pretty verses on “The Little Foxes,” which spoil our

“beloved vines.” They are very touching, because so true, and mothers

cannot fail to read them with deep feeling, and with full hearts

thank the author who in these lines gives utterance to the sorrow and

self-condemnation which so often oppress them, when their own faults

and failings look at them through their little ones. We think we cannot

do better than to finish by giving our readers the whole poem:--

“Little foxes, spoiling

The beloved vine

Trusted to my tending

By the One Divine.

Little foxes, wherefore

Have ye entrance found

To the vine so precious

Growing in my ground?

“Have ye leaped the fences?

Have ye climbed the wall?

Were there tiny openings?

Ye are very small,

And ye can creep slyly

Through a tiny space;

But I thought I closed up

Every open place.

“And I watched by daytime,

And I watched by night,

For the vine you’re spoiling

Is my heart’s delight!

I have kept the earth-worm

From its precious root;

I have trimmed its branches,

But they bear no fruit.

“For the little foxes

Have assailed the vine,

Trusted to my tending

By the One Divine;

And though I’ve been faithful

Since its birthday morn,

They were in the garden

When the babe was born.

“For they are the failings

That I would not see

When they were _my_ failings,

When they dwelt in me;

Little faults unheeded,

That I now despise;

For my baby took them

With my hair and eyes.

“And I chide her often,

For I know I must.

But I do it always

Bowed down to the dust,

With a face all crimsoned

With a burning blush,

And an inward whisper

That I cannot hush.

“And sometimes it seemeth

Like the voice of God,

And it says, ‘Poor coward,

Using now the rod

On a child’s frail body,

Till I hear it moan,

And see its soft flesh quiver

For a sin thine own.’

“O my Father, pity,

Pity and forgive;

Slay the little foxes

I allowed to live

Till they left the larger

For the smaller vine,

Till they touched the dear life,

Dearer far than mine.

“O my Father, hear me,

Make my darling thine,

Though I am so human,

Make her all divine!

Slay the little foxes,

That both vines may be

Laden with fruit worthy

To be offered thee!”

LXXXIII.

WASTE NOT--WANT NOT.

MANY, particularly among the young, associate economy and frugality

with meanness, ungenerousness, and a churlish, disobliging disposition.

“There would be no pleasure or comfort in living,” said a young

lady, when a friend was endeavoring to show her the desirableness

of “counting cost,” before entering upon any extravagant

expenditures,--“there would be no comfort in living, if I must stop

and consider the price,--adding up at every step, and deliberating

upon the sum total before I dared to make a purchase; to say every

minute, ‘Can I afford this?’ or, ‘Can I manage to do without that?’ To

compel myself to study how I could alter over an old garment, how to

change the trimmings so as to hide such piecing as must be done, before

I could bring the article into usable shape, and at the same time

preserve a genteel appearance; to pick up pins and needles, buttons

and strings, keeping before my mind all the time the idea of economy

and saving, in everything, small as well as great! Pshaw! I should

feel so mean. I should despise myself, and think all my acquaintances

would despise me also. I’d sooner spend what I have in a free-and-easy

manner, taking what pleasure I could in it, as long as it lasted, and,

when all was gone, go to the poorhouse or die! I do really think so.”

A change of cars took them away, and we do not know what reply was

made to this speech; but from it we thought one could, without

uncharitableness, form a pretty correct estimate of the speaker’s

character and probable future. She may not end in the poorhouse, though

that would not be the most unlikely thing that could happen; but if she

marries, the heart of her husband cannot safely trust in her, and her

children will not rise up and call her blessed. Waste and extravagance

go hand in hand, and happiness and comfort do not walk with them. Those

whom they beguile become selfish, seeking their own gratification,

regardless of the interests of others.

It is possible that parents often err in their mode of inculcating

economy, and, while striving to enforce its practice, render the whole

subject, and every idea connected with it, distasteful by overmuch

teaching. However that may be, for some reason the young appear to

look upon it as something to be shunned, feeling that they would “lose

caste,” if they even spoke of it, and to attempt to practice it would

shut them out from certain acquaintances as something quite inferior.

So, if compelled to economize, they do it secretly, while they think

of it as an evil to be deplored. All their little devices to “keep up

appearances,” and bring their surroundings into harmony with their more

wealthy neighbors, they shrink from having known, as from real disgrace

or guilt; whereas the ingenuity displayed is something often worthy

of much praise, if used openly, without regard to foolish criticisms.

Those who have the _gift_ to practice a judicious economy, to save

carefully, because it is _right_, and not from a niggardly, miserly

desire to hoard,--in household affairs, in dress, or in anything that

comes under their care,--are endowed with a talent for which they may

well be proud, and which is recognized by all sensible people as most

desirable, even by those who are placed in circumstances where the

closest watchfulness and care may not be a necessity.

But it is not merely as matter of necessity that we wish to direct

the attention of all good housekeepers to the duty of thrift and

carefulness in the management of their affairs. We do not think the

poor, or those merely in moderate circumstances, should be allowed to

monopolize all the pleasure which, if rightly viewed, can be secured

by a frugal use and proper economy of the good things of this world

that may be placed at our disposal. The rich have an equal right with

the poor to share in this pleasure. A proper education, presenting

this subject in the true light, will show conclusively that the more

abundant the riches, the greater will be the satisfaction derived from

proper discretion and judgment in the use and distribution of them. The

good one can do, the large amount of personal happiness to be secured

by the good done, would be sufficient motives, even if there were no

higher, for strict watchfulness against waste, even in the smallest

item. If one has the means, and recognizes the greater convenience

of making purchases in large quantities, there is no degradation in

doing it _because_ it is also the better economy. But because they

have bought by the wholesale, and filled their store-rooms with large

and generous supplies, they must not feel that they have nothing to

do but fold their hands and allow others to scatter their stores

recklessly and without judgment. Making the purchases and seeing them

carefully put in place is by no means the end of their duty. They are

but stewards of God’s bounties, and a steward may not relax his care.

If a lady can afford to keep a housekeeper, and is willing to submit

to the rule and tyranny of one, rather than burden herself with the

entire charge of a house, we can only say, “There is no accounting for

tastes,” and will not presume to doubt her right to do so; but even

then, after having thrown off the supervision of the household, and all

the details connected with its care, we believe every one should still

retain sufficient responsibility to be sure that the housekeeper is

faithful, capable, and willing at all times to render a satisfactory

account of her stewardship; and the mistress should be able to know,

also, by these accounts, if she is true to her trust. If this was

generally understood to be the rule with all, there would be less

unfaithful stewardship, less defalcation in the household certainly, if

not everywhere else.

But the injury done to subordinates by extravagance is one of the

worst features of this evil. Our servants are quick imitators, and if

the mistress is easy and careless in her expenditures, the maid soon

learns to follow her example, and so will waste the material put into

her hands. It does not take long to teach one of the improvident class,

from which our servants usually come, a lesson which not only leads her

to be careless of the property of others, even when she has no thought

or intention of being dishonest, but wholly unfits her for saving her

own earnings or managing a home of her own. Hence we see all around us

those who have lived in wealthy families marrying, with no knowledge

of providing for a family, or of using the little they have with

economy. So they sink down, year after year, into deeper poverty and

wretchedness; ending, perhaps, in the poorhouse; when if the lessons

learned in their employer’s house had been those of true economy, they

might now be living in neat and comfortable homes.

LXXXIV.

MAKING CAKE AND PASTRY.

ONE of our young friends, speaking of her troubles, says:--

“I must have cake in the house, but shrink from the attempt to make

it; and in my brief experience in housekeeping have, so far, depended

on the bake-shops; for I know nothing about such work, and won’t let

my girl see me trying it, lest she find out what a novice her mistress

is. If I should put all the materials for my cake together, in the most

careful manner, and when it is taken from the oven find that it was not

good, _I_ should not know if the failure arose from my want of skill in

preparing it, or from my girl’s carelessness in baking it; but _she_

would doubtless know whose the fault was, and I am dreadfully afraid it

would prove to have been my own. I don’t understand much about cooking,

and still less, I fear, how to judge of the quality of the materials I

must use in cooking.”

In the first place, bear in mind always, in purchasing, that it is

cheaper in the end to buy _the best_, and in no one article is this

so manifest as in flour. Get the best in market, even if you pay an

extra price, and notice the _brand_. Try the flour faithfully, and if

it proves satisfactory, “make a note of it,” and continue to furnish

yourself with that kind, unless, after a few times, you find it

deteriorates.

Good flour will adhere, slightly pressed together in the hand; and when

you unclasp your hand, the _lines_ in the palm will be plainly seen on

the flour you have held so tightly. Dough from good flour will not be

a clear, blue white, but yellowish, and, when well kneaded, will not

stick to the hand.

We should have said, in the first place, by inquiries and observation

secure a good, honest, reliable grocer,--one who will truly endeavor

to serve you with the best; having satisfied yourself that you can

trust him, you will find his judgment will assist you out of many

uncertainties, until you have, by experience, learned to trust your own.

The same rule for buying holds good of all groceries. _Buy the best._

You will save money and insure comfort by it. There is no more economy

in buying cheap sugar than cheap flour. A barrel of pure, clear,

granulated sugar will last longer, and in the end be cheaper, than any

of the coffee or brown sugars.

Before collecting your materials for making cake or pies, see that your

stove or range is in good order; the grate shaken free from ashes; all

the fuel needed for the cooking added and burning clear. Be careful

that no doors or windows are opened, so that the air will blow across

the stove. No oven can bake well if this is not prevented, or if the

sun shines across it. We all know that if this happens, the coal will

soon look whitish, instead of burning clear and lively.

Having the fire and oven in a proper condition, you can now prepare for

making bread, cake, or pastry. Of course you will have a large, clean

apron, and _fold, not push_, your sleeves back above the elbow. A sack

apron, with high neck and short sleeves, made long and full enough to

cover the dress, is a great convenience, for if suddenly called from

your work you can throw it off easily, leaving your dress in a neat,

presentable condition. A close net cap drawn over the head will prevent

loose hairs falling into your work, and should be more used than is

common. A basin of water and a clean towel close by are necessary, so

that you need not be obliged to stop in the midst of your work to get

it in case of any mishap. Put everything you will need on the table.

Be sure that all utensils are always put away clean, so that, when

they are next wanted, you will not be hindered to do more than wipe

them free from the dust which may have gathered upon them. Scrupulous

neatness about all your cooking-utensils should never be forgotten.

If iron, tin, wood, or earthen vessels are set aside without being

scrubbed perfectly clean and wiped dry, you will waste much time when

next they are needed, aside from risking a moldy or rusty taste in your

food.

A good-sized bread or molding-board, white and clean, perfectly dry

and smooth, should be placed on the table. It keeps the flour, sugar,

etc. that may fall, from the table, and is readily lifted, with all the

soiled dishes on it, to the sink for washing,--thus saving much litter

and many steps. Learn to cook without gathering a large number of

things about; after a little practice, you will be surprised to see how

few things are really needed, and how much confusion and how many steps

can be avoided by a little management.

In making cake, dry and sift the flour, roll the sugar, if at all lumpy

(granulated sugar will not lump), and put it in separate bowls or pans.

Wash the butter, for cake or pastry, and put it into ice-water; weigh

or measure the sugar and milk needed. Raisins should be stoned, the

citron cut in thin slices, and currants washed and picked over, covered

closely, and put away in a cool place the night before they are needed.

These materials all collected, butter the pans. If for cake, line them

with clean white paper, well buttered. Use butter, instead of lard or

drippings, as they may give an unpleasant taste to the under crust.

Cake baked in butter-lined pans does not burn so readily on the bottom.

If the cake does not require long baking, unbuttered paper will answer,

as it will peel off readily when the cake is cool. Have some clean

paper at hand to cover the top of the cake, if it begins to scorch.

The white paper used to print our newspapers on is as good for

buttering and lining cake pans as the more expensive letter-paper,

and is also very nice to cover shelves with, or lay in the bottoms of

drawers. Two or three dozen sheets will last a good while, be of little

expense, and very convenient for many purposes.

Eggs that are to be used in cake should be put into cold water in

summer, while you are making your preparations, until ready to use

them. Then break each one separately into a cup, to see if it is good;

but by breaking all into the dish you beat them in, you risk ruining

the whole by one bad egg. If good, turn it into the dish, and proceed

the same way with the others. Have your nutmegs grated, and all other

spices ready.

These preliminaries attended to, (and it takes but a few minutes to

have all in readiness when you have done it rightly and methodically,)

begin to put the materials together. First beat the butter and sugar

together, till white and creamy; then beat the eggs,--the yelks and

whites separately always, as whites require longer beating than yelks.

Strain the yelks after beating, and add to them well-beaten butter and

sugar; then the spices; stir in the flour gradually, before using the

sweet or sour milk needed. If you use soda and cream of tartar, the

latter should be sifted with the flour, and the soda, dissolved in cool

milk or water,--never in hot water,--should be added after the milk.

If _prepared flour_ is used, no soda or cream of tartar can be put in

at all. Beat the batter very light, flour the currants and raisins and

stir in; then add the whites, beaten stiff, the last thing. After they

are added, the batter must not be beaten hard,--only enough to have it

thoroughly incorporated with the dough. In beating the whites, do not

stop after you begin till quite stiff, else they will “go back,” and

then they will not come up light again.

In raised cake, put in the fruit, rolled in flour, just before you put

the cake into the oven. Spread it over the top lightly, and press it in

but a little way, else it will all sink to the bottom and be worthless.

Only practice and watchfulness can teach you how to judge correctly

when cake, bread, etc., are done. If ever so perfectly made, it will

be heavy if taken from the oven before being thoroughly baked. When

obliged to turn pans round in the oven, do not move them roughly, and

never, if possible, take cake, bread, or biscuit out of the oven to

turn. The air striking on them will make them heavy and solid.

Cake made with sour milk or buttermilk should be put into the oven the

moment it is put together, unless, like cookies or hard gingerbread, it

is to be molded or rolled. In that case it is quite as good to be kept

overnight or for some hours before baking.

In making pastry use the best butter you can find. Poor butter is bad

enough anywhere, but nowhere so detestable as in pastry. If made with

lard it looks nicer, but is by no means so good, and certainly much

more hurtful than when shortened with two thirds more butter than lard.

Use the hands as little as possible in making pastry; either rub in the

shortening quickly, or chop it into the flour, so as not to heat it by

your hands, particularly in warm weather. Wet always with cold water,

and in summer with ice-cold water. Don’t touch it with your hands after

you are ready to put in the water, but stir together with a knife

quickly and lightly, turning it at once upon the board and roll out.

Molding will make it tough. Bake in a moderately hot oven to a delicate

brown. If scorched or hard baked, it will be bitter and disagreeable.

If your oven does not bake so well at the bottom as at the top, the

bottom crust will be very heavy and unhealthy.

Before rolling out, let your pastry stand on the ice, or in a cold

place for an hour, as it makes it much more flaky.

In making puddings, some advise beating both whites and yelks together

and then straining them. We prefer to beat separately, straining the

yelks. The milk for most pies should be boiled, in which case the eggs

must be added the last thing, and after the milk has become cool.

In batter puddings, only a little milk should be added to the flour

at a time, and all the lumps beaten out smoothly before adding more,

if you would have a light batter. When berries of any kind are put

into batter pudding, they should be rolled in flour and added to the

batter the last thing, or they will not mix well, and will settle to

the bottom and be heavy. One third more flour is requisite for a batter

pudding with fruit than when plain, except with cherries. They need

only a little more.

If you have no tin pudding-boiler, a bowl, with a thick cloth tied

tightly over, answers very well, or a thick tow or “butcher’s linen”

square cloth. If a cloth is used, wring it out of cold water, and

then sprinkle or spread flour over. Tie the cloth or bag very tight,

but allow room to swell; plunge at once into a pot of boiling water,

which must be kept constantly boiling until the pudding is done, or

it will be poor and watery. Replenish the water as it wastes, by

pouring boiling water from the teakettle into the pot. If there is

fruit in the pudding, it should be turned over four or five times the

first half-hour; if plain batter, turn it over when it has boiled ten

minutes, or the flour will settle.

When done, a boiled pudding must be plunged into cold water a moment,

to make it separate from the cloth easily. In cutting a boiled pudding,

dip the knife in hot water for a minute, or lay it on the sides of the

pudding till warm, and you can cut it without making it heavy.

Old housekeepers will think these hints quite needless, but letters

daily received show them to be very much needed by the young, with whom

in a short time we intend to have another quiet talk, from which the

old folks may retire.

LXXXV.

AS THY DAY SO SHALL THY STRENGTH BE.

FROM those who seek counsel or consolation we receive many letters

which we would gladly excuse ourselves from answering, by the plea that

such topics come not under our supervision. But we cannot feel that

words for “The Household” mean only information about the washing,

cooking, and house-cleaning,--simply those things which belong to the

temporal state and bodily comfort. We are compelled to attach a broader

meaning to that word _household_. All the joys and sorrows, the hopes

and fears, all the perplexities and anxieties which the _mother_, even

more than the _mistress_, must accept when she assumes her position

as the head of the home circle, cluster around the word and rise

before her each hour of the day, if she conscientiously tries to do

her duty. Not alone the health and bodily comfort of those who compose

her kingdom, but their life-long usefulness and eternal happiness, are

committed to her watchful care, and may be wrecked by one false step,

one unguarded act, one ill-tempered word or unjust suspicion. Ah, to

attempt to trace her responsibility through all the life that lies

before her is overwhelming if she has not learned to feel that “as her

day so shall her strength be”!

At times the mother’s life is full of brightness and joyousness;

again, she sinks to the depths of despondency, or trembles with wild

forebodings as her multiplying duties rise up before her, and she

realizes how many conflicting characters and dispositions are depending

on her for guidance. Nowhere does she feel this so keenly as in the

care of her children. The consciousness of ignorance or inability to

judge correctly, to act judiciously, so as to meet the wants of each

child and be just to all, oppresses her. If all were alike, so that one

code of laws, one well-digested line of action, would be as appropriate

to the whole as to each individual case, the responsibility of rearing

a family would be far less oppressive.

But there are no two the same. Each differs so widely in taste,

disposition, and habits, that it necessitates as many modes of

management as there are children in the family. One is loving and

gentle. The parents need but express a wish, and, through the

affections, the child finds its greatest pleasure in yielding its own

wishes to secure theirs. Another is timid and sensitive to the last

degree. A sharp “word at random spoken,” or ill-advised censure, may

have “eternal power through life to wound,” because this very timidity

induces a habit of reticence and concealment; the child preferring to

endure the pain, rather than go through the ordeal of an explanation or

justification; and the next one may be too proud to attempt it, both

coming to the same results through widely different peculiarities.

One is bold and outspoken; another carelessly, recklessly happy,

forgetting or neglecting all the rules of home in the overflowing

joyousness of living; another is so under the influence of

approbativeness, that to please and be approved, crowd independent,

manly action out of sight; and the mother is too happy, if the power of

this peculiarity does not too often draw the child beyond the bounds of

strict honor and truthfulness.

And so through a large family you may look in vain for two so similar

in character that, by taking that course which proves best for one, you

may safely guide the other by it.

A mother of eight children, whose faith is wellnigh exhausted, who is

cast down and wholly discouraged, thinks she would gladly die to escape

the great responsibility of managing them; and this responsibility

is growing greater and greater each year, as her boys and girls are

leaving babyhood behind, and rapidly springing up toward manhood and

womanhood. While they were little she enjoyed every moment, never

feeling the care a burden. By and by one was taken from her, and for a

while she refused to be comforted, till the Saviour spake and drew her

to him.

But while she has evidently learned to _believe_ in Jesus, we think she

has not yet learned to _trust_. After her conversion, the sense of her

obligations to lead her children by the strait and narrow road has, we

think, pressed very heavily upon her, and she is in danger, not only of

hedging the path so closely as to render it distasteful, and to drive

them from it, but is also depriving herself of all the joy she might

possess by their true and loving companionship. She becomes alarmed at

every act which teaches her that her children are but mortal, and sees

in it evidence conclusive that they are rapidly going to destruction.

She comes to us for counsel and asks, “Is it because I am so sinful or

so incompetent, that I do not succeed better in teaching my dear ones

to forsake the evil and choose only the good? They are loving and kind;

but if their hearts are not entirely astray from God, why do they so

constantly forget all I try to teach them, and do those things which

they know I think wrong? Did you ever feel discouraged and almost

hopeless?”

Yes, O yes! And voluntarily threw away half the comfort every mother

is entitled to when her children are young and ever with her. Anxious

mothers never fully remember the days of their own youth, or realize

that half of what they call sin is but the overflow of bright, young

spirits, ready to effervesce and sparkle a little beyond the strict

lines that the mother, in her more sedate years, has marked out as the

proper bounds. Then mothers are so full of apprehension, so easily

alarmed! “The evils of this life appear like rocky precipices,--rugged

and barren when seen at a distance”; and they are sure their children

will stumble and fall, and be destroyed by them. But wait and _trust_.

When the great pressure of present care is somewhat lifted, and the

children, one by one, go out from your immediate influence, and little

grandchildren rise up about you,--for whom, though you dearly love

them, you do not feel the full responsibility,--you will find on a

nearer approach to these “rocky precipices” which so frightened you,

“that there are many fruitful spots and refreshing springs mixed with

the harshness and deformities of nature.” And remember, above all

things, that it is folly to add all the possible cares and burdens of

the _future_ to those which can come to you only day by day.

“Does each day upon the wing

Its allotted burden bring?

Load it not besides with sorrow

Which belongeth to the morrow.

Strength is promised, strength is given,

When the heart by God is riven;

But _foredate_ the day of woe,

And _alone_ thou bear’st the blow.

“One thing only claims thy care:

Seek thou first, by faith and prayer,

That all-glorious world above,--

Scene of righteousness and love;

And, whate’er thou need’st below,

He thou trustest will bestow.”

LXXXVI.

WHAT WE KNOW NOT NOW WE SHALL KNOW HEREAFTER.

STRANGE how natural it is for each individual to feel that there are

no troubles, no sorrows, so severe as his own! How ready we are to

feel that if the lessons our Father is teaching us were such as others

around us were learning, we could surely bear them with fortitude!

The mother whom we spoke of in the last article, like many more who

fully understand her difficulties,--for they are passing over the same

rough road,--felt her trust and faith failing; yea, would “gladly

lie down and die,” before half her threescore years and ten were

accomplished, might she escape the responsibility of teaching her

children, and using her best faculties (no one is asked to do any more)

to train them up into noble men and women. The task appeared so hard,

the way so long, and her faith so weak!

Now another mother claims, at least, our fullest sympathy,--a Rachel,

“mourning for her children, and refusing to be comforted, because they

are not.” One after another has been taken from her, and each one at

“the most interesting age.”

When is this “most interesting” age? Can a mother draw the line? In

early babyhood the precious gift nestles in her bosom, and lives

entirely through her life,--so dependent on her for every care and

comfort, that no one else can attempt to supply her place. Utterly

helpless as the babe is, when the mother realizes how necessary to its

life is her ceaseless watchfulness, can there be any period when it

will be so interesting, so dear to her heart, as now, in this state of

complete dependence?

But slowly it emerges from this helpless condition. Its first

recognition, its first smiles and playfulness, are all bewitching. What

can be more lovely? A few weeks pass, and it can sit alone; then it

begins to creep; now, with what absorbing interest the first steps are

watched, and commented upon with a pride and earnestness as if no child

ever did all these things before. The mother’s heart is overflowing

with love and tenderness; but God calls, and the lovely babe is forever

hid from her sight.

How can she bear it? Whose sorrow was ever like unto hers? Why is

it that God has sent this trial? What lesson can be taught by it,

that will do half the good which that child’s presence would have

accomplished? What is there in the care, the anxieties of watching over

its maturing, which can be thought a hardship? How joyfully would this

mother bear all this, if the life of her child might have been spared!

She longs to lie down and die, not because of the responsibility which

she knows would have increased with every added year,--she could have

trusted her Father to give her strength sufficient for those duties.

Her faith and trust fail, because God took her child from her, and in

her anguish she cries, “Why am I thus bereaved?” In answer to these

sad questions we can only say, “What ye know not now ye shall know

hereafter.” In the first bitterness of this grief, there is nothing

more to be said.

Another little one is given to soothe the mother. She watches it with

trembling heart, through all the stages that her first-born had passed.

Every unusual motion, every cry the child utters, fills her heart with

alarm; some fresh cause for fear is found daily. But the little one

thrives, has reached and passed all the points of deep interest which

once before the mother watched with such pride. Now it begins to lisp

her name, and shortly its cunning prattle is the theme of constant

thought and conversation. When she rises in the morning,--at the table,

by the fireside,--it is again and again repeated, a many-times-told

tale, but always fresh, always new and beautiful. The mother has

nothing else with which to entertain the friends who call, and truly

believes that nothing could be told so new or so pleasing. In her

absorbing delight over each new grace and beauty that is day by day

developing, has she always remembered the Giver of her treasure? or,

has her love become idolatry?

Again death enters, and just as the mother has begun to feel secure,

her darling is snatched away from her. In this hour of anguish, what

can comfort? Her heart rises up in rebellion, and she sees only cruelty

in this second stroke. In her despair she accuses God wrongfully. She

demands the reason why, “What evil have I done, that I am bereaved of

my children?” And friends can only weep with her, saying, “What ye know

not now ye shall know hereafter!”

We grieve with you, poor stricken mother. We know every step of the

thorny road you are crossing; but do not allow these trials to make

your heart grow cold and bitter. You say, “I see nothing but injustice

in these dispensations which have left my home so desolate. Another

child has been given us, but I am trying to steel my heart against it,

for anything I love is taken from me.”

This is all wrong. You say that your husband is kind, and bearing his

own sorrow for the loss of the little one silently, that he may comfort

you. Should you not remember that he has been equally bereaved, and may

need your sympathy? “Bear ye one another’s burdens,” and by so doing

will you not find strength to rise above this affliction, so far that

you can perform your duties with comfort, if not with cheerfulness?

You say you have no pleasure in the little one still left you. May

it not have been sent as a ministering spirit, to awaken in your

heart a deeper love and gratitude for the mercies that still surround

you, and bring you nearer to the Father, who often “wounds to heal,

afflicts to save”? There are trials harder to bear than those which

seem to have so nearly crushed you. When, instead of the prattle and

frolic of babyhood, the child becomes old enough to be taught how to

assist the mother in various ways,--begins to read and study, showing

a mind rapidly maturing, giving promise of no common strength of

character,--do you not see that it must become even more precious with

each new development? Yet when incurable disease fastens upon it, and

the parents see their bright and joyous child slowly but surely fading

from their home, is not this a heavier calamity than when our little

ones are taken from their cradles after only a few days of suffering?

We have seen a mother for months hold back her tears, and minister to

the wants of the sufferer; and, hardest of all, sit by the bedside and

listen to the child’s anxious questionings,--soothing its fears, when

knowing that it is just entering the dark valley; singing of the peace

and joys that lie beyond; step by step, as death came nearer, leading

this child of her love down even to the banks of the “river that flows

close by the throne of God,” that when its timid feet touch the waters

she may herself almost lay the child into the Saviour’s arms, who is

waiting to receive and bless it. In this, cannot you imagine that there

is a depth of anguish which you have not yet fathomed? As our children

grow toward manhood and womanhood with promise of rich maturity,

does not our love grow with their growth, and strengthen with their

strength? When their education is just completed, and they are almost

ready to begin life’s work, if taken from us, is not the loss greater,

the desolation more appalling, than that which you have known?

But your sorrow, though yet unsanctified, must be, to us, held sacred

from severe judgment. Nature will rule for a time, and may compel

utterance for which you can hardly be held responsible. We only

fear that your grief may become morbid and your heart refuse to see

the silver lining which may be discerned in every cloud. Why these

afflictions have been sent we cannot tell. Our Father sees when our

hearts have turned from their allegiance, and knows best what sharp

lessons will be necessary to bring us back to him. He may see that your

love has blinded you to the solemn duties that rest upon you, and to

save the children from the effects of injudicious indulgence, may have

taken them to himself, and by their loss design to draw you nearer.

Some lines, sent us by Mrs. Crann, the author of “Little Foxes,” will

show you more clearly what we would convey than any words of ours:--

“We sat within a lighted room,

My baby boy and I;

But empty were my loving arms,

Where he was wont to lie

And look up fondly in my face,

For pretty toys were near;

And, though I called him lovingly,

The darling would not hear.

“I yearned to clasp him to my heart,

But wooed him all in vain;

To leave his play and come to me

Would give him too much pain.

I took the candle in my hand,

And, with a breath of air,

Extinguished its soft, cheerful light,

And made all darkness there.

“And soon I heard a sweet-toned voice,

To which I love to hark,

Cry, ‘Mother, take me in your arms!

I’m frightened in the dark!’

And then I caught the sweet boy up,

And felt him clasp me tight,

And knew that I was needed then,

Because there was no light.

“And as my darling grew in years,

The brightness of my joy

Made me adore our Father less

Than I adored my boy.

He called me in a tender tone,--

His voice is always mild,--

But I refused to go to Him,

And played on with my child.

“And then He blew my candle out

By stopping Harry’s breath;

And in the anguish of that grief,

The darkness of that death,

I cried out in a trembling voice,

And with an aching brow,

‘I’m coming to thee, O my God!

For my heart needs thee now.’”

LXXXVII.

UNTIL DEATH DO US PART.

“A WIFE” writes that she has three children; has been married eight

years, and thinks it would be pleasant to be relieved from all

home cares, and travel for a few months. Her mother would take her

children home, so that she could feel perfectly at ease about them,

but her husband objects. He cannot possibly go with her, and though

it would be much pleasanter to have him accompany her, yet she could

go with friends, who would give her every attention. Her husband is

abundantly able to afford her this pleasure, but objects to her leaving

him,--“having his home broken up, and his children separated from him”

(sensible man!). “He endeavors to persuade her to be contented at home

until by and by he can take wife and children on this pleasure trip.”

Now she declares that she has no faith in these _by and byes_, with

which husbands seek to keep their wives from enjoying the present,

by promises for the future. She thinks him unreasonably selfish, and

feels that she would be justified in cutting loose from such bondage

occasionally, and taking her pleasure, as she constantly sees so many

other ladies doing.

We are pained with the whole tone of this letter, of which we give

but a few lines. Notwithstanding her complaints and fault-finding,

the writer cannot hide the fact that, from her own showing, she has a

pleasant home, an indulgent husband, and wealth sufficient to obviate

any necessity for labor or care, more than is required to superintend

her domestic affairs, and look after her children, as every mother and

housekeeper pledges herself to do when she enters the marriage state.

It is natural that her husband should object to her leaving him for

months, deprive him of his children, and disorganize his home, for her

own gratification.

“_Until death do us part_,” the promise reads: not simply for a few

years, at the end of which time the whole domestic economy may become

deranged simply for personal pleasure, apart from the family.

We see nothing that this dissatisfied woman has to complain of, but

are inclined to think she has been infected with those pernicious

doctrines which have led to loud complaints about women,--defrauded

of her _rights_, woman’s cruel subjugation,--doctrines with which we

have less and less patience, because we see more and more clearly the

mistakes and mischief which have sprung and will continue to spring

from them, unless the “plague is stayed.” No doubt many a woman is

oppressed and treated unkindly, often cruelly, and made to feel that

she is placed by her husband in a subordinate position, instead of

reigning _with_ him over their home,--his other self with equal rights

and power, as is only meet,--having charge of one department, while

he takes another for which his stronger organization and peculiar

masculine abilities are better adapted. The husband to superintend the

outside, severer duties: the wife as God prepared her to be, the mother

watching over infancy, and through those duties made less physically

strong, but giving grace and refinement to the home, which, without

her,--under masculine supervision,--would degenerate into coarseness

and inelegance.

We know there are many overtaxed, broken-down women who by kindness and

just appreciation might have been saved, and remained altogether lovely

and refined, making their homes like Paradise before the fall.

There are also many broken-down men, dispirited, uneasy of life, ruined

by the frivolity, irritability, and extravagance of their wives, whom

a refined, sensible, loving woman, would have redeemed and made happy,

noble, and godlike.

We imagine the rights and the wrongs are about equally divided on

either side. The deceitfulness of the human heart, the natural

depravity, unsubdued, left to run wild and ungoverned, seeking

not the peace and happiness of the chosen partner, but their own

selfish gratification, has changed many a noble man into a reckless,

uncomfortable, unprincipled husband, or an arbitrary and harsh domestic

tyrant. And the same selfish indulgence and unregulated passions have

also changed many a woman, capable of shining in her appropriate

sphere as mother, or home refiner, into an irritable, unsatisfied

fireside torment.

But this is wandering from the main point, through a train of thoughts

very naturally evoked by the perusal of the letter referred to. We

believe many homes are injured and much dissatisfaction and unhappiness

occasioned by the greatly increased disposition to travel; roaming

each year away from home, and too frequently without the companionship

which should naturally be secured. A man is often compelled by business

to be absent from home for weeks, or even months, to go abroad, and

frequently when it would be impossible for him to take his wife with

him. Often one _must_ go for health, while it is important that the

other should remain at home to look after their common interests.

These are misfortunes which cannot be avoided, and must be borne from

necessity, not from choice.

But when we see either _desiring_ to roam, “to go a pleasuring” alone,

when both cannot go, we wonder at the folly which is laying the

foundation for bitter regret in later years. The marriage ceremony

is but a mockery, if the two who exchange vows are not expecting to

find their chief earthly joys in each other’s society. But when they

can bring their minds to a separation of weeks or months, just for

pleasure, we think they little dream of the heartaches they are laying

up in store for one another.

Keep together while you can. Death will sever the bond, all too soon,

or sickness compel absence, full of fear and sad forebodings. It is

impossible for a husband and wife to be absent from each other often,

even for a few weeks at a time, without finding little changes on their

return. Every one has some peculiarities of character and disposition

which are not exactly congenial; but if married young, before habits

or traits are fixed past change, all these little infelicities are

softened or lost sight of in daily communion, and man and wife

assimilate, and grow more and more of one heart and one mind, if

happily mated. But let these separations, even of short duration, once

begin, and they soon grow apart. The natural traits and dissimilarities

which constant association have held dormant wake up, and are less and

less easily lulled to sleep after each separation.

We think women are more injured by this roving than men. The latter

are seldom long absent, except on business, with no leisure for

pleasure-seeking while away; and in their necessarily rapid traveling,

the hurry, the annoyance, the loss of creature comforts, which are

found in greater perfection at home, are more felt, and usually the

comforts and luxuries of their own fireside are more fully appreciated

on their return. In the whirl of business while absent, they have

little temptation to take up any unusual line of thought or action. But

a woman, unless she _must_ go for her health, more frequently travels

to have a “good time,” throwing aside all cares, instead of taking them

with her as her husband does. In this freedom, she at once enters upon

a mode of life altogether different from that which a wife, mother,

or housekeeper can have at home. Her love of nicety and order is less

disturbed when she has only herself to care for; and a selfish habit,

a feeling of entire independence, is easily established, so that when

she returns home she finds it difficult to take up again what was once

a pleasure, but now seems more like the “burden of life.” The noise

and confusion of children or much company, for the care of which she

feels responsible, are far more irksome than before her “pleasure

trip.” She does not find the yoke so easy or the burden so light. The

habit of being interested in or sharing one another’s cares, reporting

little items of daily news when together, is destroyed, and without

any intentional unkindness they have learned to turn to others for the

amusement or the social intercourse which was once a part of their

life.

These are not intentional _slights_, but the changes which repeated

absence most naturally brings. A woman sees the changes much sooner

than a man,--sees, grieves over them, and is made unhappy by them, if

she loves her husband, though often too proud to let it be known. If

_pleasure trips_ are frequent or of long duration, these changes are

more marked. Husbands and wives, who were once made uncomfortable and

restless if one meal passed unshared, learn after a while, by frequent

separations, to let many pass with but little regret. Separation has

lost its former importance in their eyes. Why should it not be so? If

_death_ divides them, however true the sorrow, time after a while must

bring healing; and the heart, although there will always be a niche

which no one else can occupy, must, after many days, turn for comfort

and companionship to other, if not better friends. Sometimes, perhaps,

in a younger and fairer, the old love is entirely lost sight of.

Let this discontented wife, who, after eight years of married life and

the care of home and three children, feels that she should be indulged

in a vacation and freedom from these responsibilities, ponder well the

probable consequences of the steps she desires to take in opposition

to her husband’s wishes. To secure the short-lived pleasure of a few

months’ travel, can she afford to risk the many changes she may expect

on her return? Will she be willing to see that her husband has less

confidence in her, less desire for her society, than formerly; that

he has learned that there are many comforts and pleasures to be found

outside his home? Is the gratification worth the price she may be

called to pay for it?

We have not put this subject in as clear and strong a light as we

desired; but if what we have said may have sufficient weight to lead

this “wife,” and others who are showing indications of having been

infected with the same restless, dissatisfied spirit, to think long and

soberly before they decide, we shall be thankful. We do not believe a

true-hearted, sensible wife would willingly desert her post or seek any

enjoyment in which her family cannot share.

Keep your families unbroken; together share each other’s joys and

sorrows, so far as possible, until death severs the bond. That is the

wisest, happiest way of living. When death compels separations, you

will have enough to regret, without mourning for the days needlessly

spent apart.

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