BESSIE AND HER MOTHER.
Bessie was very fond of reading. Well, I think I hear some of you say, I hope you are not going to find fault with that. Oh, but I am, though; because as wise old Solomon said thousands of years ago, there is a time for every thing. Bessie did not believe this; she thought that time was never made to sew; she thought that time was never made to dust, or sweep, or keep herself tidy, or attend to visitors, or go of errands, or do any thing, in fact, but read, read, read, from Monday till Saturday, and Saturday till Monday. She would sit down with a story-book in her hand, the first thing after breakfast, the sun shining in through the closed windows upon an un-made bed, which needed airing, upon dresses, shoes, and stockings, which needed putting away, upon her own unsmoothed locks, unbrushed teeth, uncleansed finger-nails, and torn morning-dress; what do you think of that? Then her mother would call, “Bessie!” and Bessie would answer “Yes,” without stirring or raising her eyes from the story-book; then her mother would call again, “Bessie!” louder than before, and then Bessie would begin to move slowly across the room, still reading, to see what was wanted; then her mother would tell her to “go down and tell the cook to make apple dumplings for dinner;” then Bessie, with her mind still on the book, would go down and tell Sally “not to make apple dumplings for dinner;” then her mother would tell her to “shut the front entry-door, where the hot sun was beating in;” then Bessie would go and shut the china-closet door instead; then her mother would say, “Bessie, have you mended your stockings this week?” and Bessie would answer, without knowing what she was talking about, “Yes, mother;” and then that afternoon, Bessie’s mother would tell her to “get ready to go out with her;” and then Bessie would say, “I have no stockings mended to wear;” and then her mother would remind her of what she said about it, and Bessie would look at her as bewildered as if she had been dreaming, for she did not know when she told her so what she was saying. Was it right for Bessie to do so? and was it wrong in Bessie’s mother, who knew how necessary it is for girls to be tidy, and orderly, and neat, to tell Bessie that she must only read so much a day, and that, not before she had attended to all these things which I have said she was in the habit of neglecting? Was it wrong for Bessie’s mother to insist upon her going into the kitchen sometimes, and learning how to clean silver, and how to cook and make pies and cakes? was it wrong for her to oblige her to keep her thimble and scissors in her work-basket, instead of on the piazza-floor, and her shawl in the drawer instead of under the bed? was it wrong for her to make her lace up her gaiters neatly, instead of letting the strings tangle round her feet? It would have been much less trouble to Bessie’s mother had she allowed her to take her own way about these things, instead of trotting up-stairs and down to see what she was about, and how things looked in her room; but Bessie’s mother knew that a woman is always disgusting, no matter how much she knows, or has read, unless she is neat and tidy in her habits, and that she is not worthy the name of a woman, if she can not take proper care of her house, or is too indolent, or slovenly to do it; she loved her daughter better than she did her own ease, and she knew, spite of Bessie’s tears, that it were cruel kindness to heed them; she knew that many a man has become a drunkard because he never found any thing fit to eat on his table, or his house in decent order when he came home; it is quite as necessary for a woman to know how to make wholesome bread and puddings, as it is that she should read, and study, and be able to talk about books, or even to write them herself; yes, though she may be able to have cooks and chambermaids to do her work. Suppose she wants a pudding for dinner; suppose she has a cook who does not like to work any better than her mistress if she can help it; and suppose the cook not caring to take trouble to make the pudding, tells her ignorant mistress, that “there is not time now to make and boil it before dinner.” Such things have been done, and many a fine lady, I can tell you, has been obliged to go without her pudding, because she did not know enough to tell the cook that what she said was not true.
Beside, suppose this lady who knows so much about books, should get into difficulty with her servants, and they should all go off and leave her; must her husband go without his dinner because she can not, at a moment’s notice, get more servants to cook for her? how helpless such a woman is—how ashamed she must feel, as her husband puts on his hat and goes to an eating-house to get his dinner. Bessie did not think of all this, but her mother did. By-and-by when Bessie grew up, and was married, and had a nice pretty house, she knew how to mend her husband’s clothes and get him a good dinner, as well as she did how to talk with him about books, and other things in which he was interested; and when, looking round his comfortable home, he kissed his wife, and said, “Bessie you are my treasure,” Bessie would point to the little grave-yard within sight of her window and as her tears fell fast she would say, “Oh, if I could but thank my mother now for all she did for me when I was so naughty and wayward.”
Think of this, dear children, when you pout to lay down an interesting story-book, when your mother calls you to do some necessary work; and don’t wait till the tombstone lies heavy on her breast before you believe that she knows better than you what is best for you.