“Yet I am sure there are many things there which can’t possibly have, mother. That patent washing machine, for example, that is as big as a dining-room table, and Mammy ‘pintedly scorns,’” laughed Eleanor.
“And Jean’s baby carriage. And the old cider-press, and that Noah’s ark of a sideboard that we never can use,” added Constance.
“And my express-wagon. I’ll never play with that again you know; I’m far too old,” concluded Jean with much self-importance.
“I dare say there are a hundred things there we will never use again, and which would better be sold than kept. Come down to the place with us to-morrow afternoon, Mumsey, and we will have a grand rummage,” said Eleanor. And so the confab ended.
The following afternoon was given over to the undertaking, and as is invariably the case, they wondered more than once why so many perfectly useless articles had been so long and so carefully cherished.
Among them, however, were many which held very dear memories for Mrs. Carruth, and with which she was reluctant to part. Among these was a small box of garden-tools, which had belonged to her husband, and with which he had spent many happy hours at work among his beloved flower beds. Also a reading lamp which they had bought when they were first married, and beneath whose rays many tender dreams had taken form and in many instances become realities. To be sure the lamp had not been used for more than ten years, as it had long since ceased to be regarded as either useful or ornamental, and neither it nor the garden tools were worth a dollar.
But wives and mothers are strange creatures and recognize values which no one else can see. The girls appreciated their mother’s love for every object which their father’s hands had sanctified, and urged her to put aside the things she so valued, arguing that the proceeds could not possibly materially increase the sum they might receive for the general collection. But Mrs. Carruth insisted that if one thing was sold all should be, and that her personal feelings must not influence or enter into the matter. So in time all was definitely arranged; the auctioneer was engaged and the sale duly advertised for a certain Saturday morning. No sooner were the posters in evidence than Miss Jerusha Pike, likewise, became so. She swept in upon Mrs. Carruth one morning when the latter was endeavoring to complete a much-needed frock for Jean, as that young lady’s elbows were as self-assertive as herself, and had a trick of appearing in public when it was most inconvenient to have them do so. Between letting down skirts and putting in new sleeves Mrs. Carruth’s hands were usually kept well occupied.
“Morning, Mammy,” piped Miss Pike’s high-pitched voice, as Mammy answered her ring at the front door. “What’s the meaning of these signs I see about town. You don’t mean to tell me you are going to sell out? I couldn’t believe my own eyes, so I came right straight here to find out. Where is that dear, dear woman?”
“She up in her room busy wid some sewin’,” stated Mammy, with considerable emphasis upon the last word as a hint to the visitor.
“Well, tell her not to mind me; I’m an old friend, you know. I’ll go right up to her room; I wouldn’t have her come down for the world.”