“I began that for papa’s birthday, but I did not like the pattern—so I bought the others,” explained Jennie, as it came to light.
“Those were mats for mamma’s cologne bottles: but I lost my crochet needle, and could not finish them,” she continued, as a crimson worsted mat, minus the border, appeared.
“That was a purse I was knitting for Mrs. Hill: but just look at the silk—it is one knot; so I had to give it up.
“That was a drawing I promised to do for Dr. Sprague; but I got so tired of all that shading—and I don’t care to finish that embroidery—it is out of fashion, you know.
“That is a story I commenced; but I spilt ink on the last pages, and it soaked through the bottom of my drawer, and stained my white dress till it is totally ruined. Here it is. I can never wear it again. Wasn’t it provoking?”
After much work the drawers were reduced to order, the gloves matched, excepting two which remained unmated, the work-box righted, and all soiled, rumpled articles removed. Jennie surveyed the whole with much pleasure, and felt as if nothing could induce her to allow chaos to prevail again.
“All you have to do now, Jennie, is to remember that, after using a thing, you must put it into the place from which you took it, and then it is always there.” Touching the pile of things on the chair, she continued: “Here you have a lesson. I don’t know that I need say anything. You see all that begun and never ended. Is your life to be incomplete, full of plans given up almost as soon as formed,—like that, with all the threads broken, tangled—no harmony in it—no use in it—no work in it? Are you going to fritter away all your energy in devotion to an object for an hour or a day, only to lay it aside after the first novelty has passed, and a new interest takes its place? Are you going to fade away from the world without having done anything in it? Did you ever finish one thing?”
Jennie could think of nothing—not one thing. Drawing, music, French, German, Italian, all sorts of fancy work, visiting the poor, being constant in her attendance at church, zealous in good works, had all been tried successively, and dropped before anything had been accomplished, any habit formed, so that Jennie, with excellent opportunities, was really not so well-informed as many girls of her age.
In her desultory reading, she had gathered a mixture of facts and fiction, till her brain was in as much confusion as her bureau. She could not converse five minutes in French without a mistake, though she could skim over a French story and manage to get the substance of its contents in a very short time indeed. Though passionately devoted to music she could scarcely play a single piece through correctly. When the drudgery came, Jennie’s interest flagged. She exhibited much taste and talent in drawing, but her lack of application had prevented her from making any progress, and half-finished sketches littered her table and writing desk.
Her teacher’s words awoke her thoughts. She saw herself as she was, dreaming, impractical, useless, with her mind undisciplined, full of weeds like a neglected garden, which, no matter how beautiful in the beginning, cannot thrive without care and cultivation. She recalled her mother’s many warnings against this her besetting sin, which she had allowed to pass unheeded, because it had never been shown to her clearly before; but there lay the proofs of her folly and wrong-doing, and on her soul were wrecks of broken promises and resolutions, duties forgotten, prayers hurriedly said or omitted altogether.