Work: A Story of Experience

by Louisa May Alcott

Elisha had not the slightest intention of enlisting, but Mrs. Wilkins was a loyal soul, and could not rest till she had sent a substitute, since she could not go herself. Finding that Lisha showed little enthusiasm on the subject, she tried to rouse him by patriotic appeals of various sorts. She read stirring accounts of battles, carefully omitting the dead and wounded; she turned out, baby and all if possible, to cheer every regiment that left; and was never tired of telling Wash how she wished she could add ten years to his age and send him off to fight for his country like a man.

But nothing seemed to rouse the supine Elisha, who chewed his quid like a placid beast of the field, and showed no sign of a proper spirit.

“Very well,” said Mrs. Wilkins resolutely to herself, “ef I can’t make no impression on his soul I will on his stommick, and see how that’ll work.”

Which threat she carried out with such skill and force that Lisha was effectually waked up, for he was “partial to good vittles,” and Cynthy was a capital cook. Poor rations did not suit him, and he demanded why his favorite dishes were not forthcoming.

“We can’t afford no nice vittles now when our men are sufferin’ so. I should be ashamed to cook ’em, and expect to choke tryin’ to eat ’em. Every one is sacrificin’ somethin’, and we mustn’t be slack in doin’ our part,—the Lord knows it’s precious little,—and there won’t be no stuffin’ in this house for a consid’able spell. Ef I could save up enough to send a man to do my share of the fightin’, I should be proud to do it. Anyway I shall stint the family and send them dear brave fellers every cent I can git without starvin’ the children.”

“Now, Cynthy, don’t be ferce. Things will come out all right, and it ain’t no use upsettin’ every thing and bein’ so darned uncomfortable,” answered Mr. Wilkins with unusual energy.

“Yes it is, Lisha. No one has a right to be comfortable in such times as these, and this family ain’t goin’ to be ef I can help it,” and Mrs. Wilkins set down her flat-iron with a slam which plainly told her Lisha war was declared.

He said no more but fell a thinking. He was not as unmoved as he seemed by the general excitement, and had felt sundry manly impulses to “up and at ’em,” when his comrades in the shop discussed the crisis with ireful brandishing of awls, and vengeful pounding of sole leather, as if the rebels were under the hammer. But the selfish, slothful little man could not make up his mind to brave hardship and danger, and fell back on his duty to his family as a reason for keeping safe at home.

But now that home was no longer comfortable, now that Cynthy had sharpened her tongue, and turned “ferce,” and now—hardest blow of all—that he was kept on short commons, he began to think he might as well be on the tented field, and get a little glory along with the discomfort if that was inevitable. Nature abhors a vacuum, and when food fell short patriotism had a chance to fill the aching void. Lisha had about made up his mind, for he knew the value of peace and quietness; and, though his wife was no scold, she was the ruling power, and in his secret soul he considered her a very remarkable woman. He knew what she wanted, but was not going to be hurried for anybody; so he still kept silent, and Mrs. Wilkins began to think she must give it up. An unexpected ally appeared however, and the good woman took advantage of it to strike one last blow.

Lisha sat eating a late breakfast one morning, with a small son at either elbow, waiting for stray mouthfuls and committing petty larcenies right and left, for Pa was in a brown study. Mrs. Wilkins was frying flap-jacks, and though this is not considered an heroical employment she made it so that day. This was a favorite dish of Lisha’s, and she had prepared it as a bait for this cautious fish. To say that the fish rose at once and swallowed the bait, hook and all, but feebly expresses the justice done to the cakes by that long-suffering man. Waiting till he had a tempting pile of the lightest, brownest flapjacks ever seen upon his plate, and was watching an extra big bit of butter melt luxuriously into the warm bosom of the upper one, with a face as benign as if some of the molasses he was trickling over them had been absorbed into his nature, Mrs. Wilkins seized the propitious moment to say impressively: