IN WANT OF A SERVANT.

Characters:

Scene I.—The breakfast-room of Mr. and Mrs. Marshall. Mr. Marshall enjoying the morning paper with his heels on the mantel.

Mrs. Marshall (in a complaining tone.)

Oh, dear, Charles, how sick and tired I am of housework! I do envy people who are able to keep help. Here I am tied up to the little hot kitchen morning till night—stewing, and baking, and frying, and scrubbing, and washing floors, till I am ready to sink! One thing over and over again. I wonder why Hood, when he wrote the “Song of the Shirt,” had not kept on and written the “Song of the Basement Story.”

Mr. M. Is it so very bad, Lily? Why, I always thought it must be nice work to cook—and washing dishes is the easiest thing in the world. All you have to do is to pour a little hot water over ’em and give ’em a flirt over with a towel.

Mrs. M. That’s all you men know about it; it is the hardest work in the world! I always hated it. I remember, when I was a little girl, I always used to be taken with a headache when mother wanted me to wash the dishes. And then she’d dose me with rhubarb. Ugh! how bitter it was; but not half so bitter as washing dishes in boiling water in a hot kitchen in the middle of August!

Mr. M. (meditatively taking his feet from the mantel.) I made a lucky sale this morning, and saved a cool three hundred. I had intended giving you a new silk, but I’ll do better—I’ll hire you a girl. How will that suit?

Mrs. M. Oh, what a darling! I would kiss you if you hadn’t been smoking, and my collar weren’t quite so fresh. I am afraid I shall muss it. But you are a good soul, Charlie; and I shall be so happy. Do you really mean it?

Mr. M. To be sure.

Mrs. M. Won’t Mrs. Fitzjones die of envy? She puts her washing out, and she’s always flinging that in my face. I guess the boot will be on the other foot now! I wonder what she’ll say when she runs in of a morning to see what I’m cooking, and finds me in the parlor hem-stitching a handkerchief, and my maid attending to things in the kitchen? But where is a girl to be had? Will you go to the intelligence office?

Mr. M. No; I don’t approve of intelligence offices. I will advertise. Bring me a pen and ink, Lily.

Mrs. M. (bringing the articles.) You won’t say that to me any more, Charles. It will be, “Biddy, my good girl, bring me the writing implements.” Won’t it be nice? Just like a novel. They always have servants, you know.

Mr. M. What, the novels?

Mrs. M. No; the people in them. Are you writing the advertisement? Be sure and say that no one need apply except experienced persons. I want no green hands about my kitchen.

Mr. M. (reads from the paper what he has been writing.) “Wanted, by a quiet family, a girl to do general housework. None but those having had experience need apply. Call at No. 116 B⸺ street, between the hours of ten and two.” How will that answer?

Mrs. M. Admirably! Charles, you ought to have been an editor. You express your ideas so clearly!

Mr. M. Thank you, my dear, thank you. I believe I have some talent for expressing my meaning. But I am going down town now, and will have this advertisement inserted in the Herald, and by to-morrow you can hold yourself in readiness to receive applicants. By-bye (goes out).

Mrs. M. (alone). If it isn’t the most charming thing! Won’t the Fitzjoneses and Mrs. Smith be raving? Mrs. Smith has got a bound girl, and Mrs. Fitzjones puts out her washing; but I am to have a regular servant! I shall get a chance to practice my music now. Dear me—how red my hands are! (looks at them) I must get some cold cream for them; one’s hands show so on the white keys of a piano. I’ll go and open that piano now, and dust it. It must be dreadfully out of tune. But I’ll have it tuned as soon as ever I get that girl fairly initiated into my way of doing work (goes out).

Scene II.—Mrs. Marshall awaiting the coming of “applicants.” A furious ring at the front door bell.

Mrs. M. (peeping through the blinds). Dear me! I wonder who’s coming! A person applying for the situation of servant would not be likely to come to the front door. I can just see the edge of a blue-silk flounce, and a streamer of red ribbon on the bonnet. I’ll go and see who it is (opens the door, and a stout Irish girl, gaudily dressed, with an eye-glass, and a bonnet of enormous dimensions pushes by her, and entering the parlor, seats herself in the rocking-chair).

Mrs. M. To what am I indebted for this visit?

Irish Girl. It looks well for the like of yees to ask! It’s the leddy what’s wanting a young leddy to help in the wurrk that I’m after seeing.

Mrs. M. (with dignity). I am that person, if you please. What may I call your name?

Irish Girl. Me name’s Margaret O’Flanagan, though some people has the impudence to call me Peggy; but if ever the likes of it happens agin I’ll make the daylight shine into ’em where it never dramed of shining before. What may your name be, mum?

Mrs. M. My name is Marshall. I am in want of a servant.

Margaret. Sarvint, is it? Never a bit of a sarvint will I be for anybody! The blud of my forefathy would cry out against it. But I might have ixpected it from the appearance of yees. Shure, and I’d no other thought but ye was the chambermaid. Marshall, is it? Holy St. Patrick! why that was the name of the man that was hung in County Cork for the murthering of Dennis McMurphy, and he had a nose exactly like the one foreninst your face. (A second ring at the door. Mrs. Marshall ushers in a stolid-faced German girl, and an over-dressed colored lady. They take seats on the sofa.)

German Girl. Ish dis the place mit the woman what wants a girl in her housework that was put into de paper day pefore to-morrow.

Mrs. M. Yes, I am the woman. What is your name?

German Girl. Katrina Van Follenstein. I can do leetle of most everything. I can bake all myself, and bile, and fry; and makes sourkrout—oh, sphlendid! And I sphanks the children as well as their own mudders.

Marg. If ye’ll condescend to lave that dirty Dutchman, young leddy, I’ll be afther asking ye a few questions; and then if ye don’t shute me I can be laving. Me time is precious. Is them the best cheers in yer house?

Mrs. M. They are.

Marg. Holy Virgin! Why, mum, I’ve been used to having better cheers than them in me own room, and a sofy in me kitchen to lay me bones on when they’re took aching. Have ye got a wine cellar?

Mrs. M. (indignantly). No! We are temperance people.

Marg. Oh, botheration! Then ye’ll niver do for me, at all at all? It’s wine I must have every day to keep me stummach in tune, and if Barney O’Grath comes in of an evening I should die of mortification if I didn’t have a drop of something to trate him on. And about the peanny. It’s taking lessons I am, meself, and if it’s out of kilter, why, it must be fixed at once. I never could think of playing on a instrument that was ontuned. It might spile me voice.

Mrs. M. I want no servants in my house who are taking music lessons. I hire a girl to do my work—not to dictate to me, and sit in the parlor.

Marg. Ye don’t hire me. No mum! Not by a long walk. It’s not Margaret O’Flanagan that’ll be hosted round by an old sharp-nosed crayter like yerself, wid a mole on yer left cheek, and yer waterfall made out of other folks’ hair! The saints be blessed, me own is an illegant one—and never a dead head was robbed for to make it! ’Twas the tail of me cousin Jimmy’s red horse—rest his soul!

Mrs. M. (pointing to the door). You can leave the house, Miss O’Flanagan. You won’t suit me.

Marg. And you won’t shute me. I wouldn’t work with ye for a thousand dollars a week! It’s not low vulgar people that Margaret O’Flanagan associates with. Good-bye to ye! I pity the girl ye gets. May the saints presarve her—and not a drop of wine in the house! (Margaret goes out.)

Mrs. M. Well, Katrina, are you ready to answer a few questions?

Katrina. Yah; I is.

Mrs. M. Are you acquainted with general housework?

Kat. Nix; I never have seen that shinneral. I know Shinneral Shackson, and Shinneral Grant, but not that one to speak of!

Mrs. M. I intended to ask if you are used to doing work in the kitchen.

Kat. Yaw, I sees. Dat ish my thrade.

Mrs. M. Can you cook?

Kat. Most people, what bees shenteel, keeps a cook.

Mrs. M. I do not. I shall expect you to cook. Can you wash?

Kat. Beeples that ish in de upper-crust puts their washing out.

Mrs. M. Can you make beds, and sweep?

Kat. The dust of the fedders sthuffs up my head, what has got one leetle giutar into it. Most beeples keeps a chambermaid. Now, I wants to ask you some tings. You gits up in morning, and gits breakfast, of course? It makes mine head ache to git up early. And you’ll dust all the furnitures, and schrub the kittles, and your goot man will wash the floors and pump the water, and make the fires, and——

Mrs. M. We shall do no such thing. What an insolent wretch! You can go at once. I’ve no further use for you. You won’t suit.

Kat. (retreating). Mine krout! what a particular vomans.

Colored Lady. Wall, missis, specks here’s jest de chile for ye. What wages does you gib? and what is yer pollyticks?

Mrs. M. What is your name—what wages do you expect?

Colored Lady. My name is Snowdrop Washington, and I specks five dollars a week if I do my own washing, but if it is put out to de washerwoman’s wid de rest of de tings, den I takes off a quarter. And it’s best to have a fair understanding now, in de beginning. I’m very particular about my afternoons. Tuesdays I studies my cataplasin and can’t be ’sturbed; Wednesdays I goes to see old Aunt Sally Gumbo, what’s got de spine of de back; Thursdays I allers takes a dose of lobeely for me stummuch, and has to lay abed; and Fridays I ginerally walks out wid Mr. Sambo Snow, a fren of mine—and in none of dem cases can I be ’sturbed. And I shall spect you to find gloves for me to do de work in; don’t like to sile my hands.

Mrs. M. I want to hire a girl to work—every day—and every hour in the day.

Snowdrop. The laws-a-massy! what a missis! Why, in dat case dis chile haint no better off dan wite trash! Ketch Snowdrop Washington setting in that pew! Not dis nigger. I wish you a berry lubly morning! (goes out, and a woman clad in widow’s weeds, and a little boy enter.)

Woman (in a brisk tone). Are you the person that wants to hire help? Dear me, don’t I smell onions! I detest onions! Only vulgar people eat ’em! Have your children had the measles? Because I never could think of taking Freddie where he might be exposed to that dreadful disease! Freddie, my love, put down that vase. If you should break it, you might cut yourself with the pieces. Have you a dog about the house, marm?

Mrs. M. Yes, we have.

Woman in Black. Good gracious! he must be killed then! I shouldn’t see a bit of comfort if Freddie was where there was a dog. The last words my dear lamented husband said to me were these: “Mrs. Bunker, take care of Freddie.” Bunker’s my name, marm. Have you a cow?

Mrs. M. We have not.

Mrs. Bunker. How unfortunate! Well, I suppose you can buy one. Freddie depends so much on his new milk; and so do I. How many children have you?

Mrs. M. Three.

Mrs. B. Good gracious! what a host! I hope none of them have bad tempers, or use profane language. I wouldn’t have Freddie associate with them for the world if they did. He’s a perfect cherub in temper. My darling, don’t pull the cat’s tail! she may scratch you.

Mrs. M. You need not remain any longer, Mrs. Bunker. I do not wish to employ a maid with a child.

Mrs. B. Good heavens! (indignantly). Whoever saw such a hard-hearted wretch! Object to my darling Freddie! Did I ever expect to live to see the day when the offspring of my beloved Jeremiah would be treated in this way? I’ll not stay another moment in the house with such an unfeeling monster! Come, Freddie. (Goes out. Mrs. Marshall closes the door and locks it.)

Mrs. M. Gracious! if this is the way of having a servant, I am satisfied. I’ll do my own work till the end of the chapter! There’s another ring; but I won’t answer it—not I. I’ll make believe I’m not at home. Ring away, if it’s any satisfaction to you! It doesn’t hurt me.

Clara Augusta.