Hepsey Burke. Frank Nash Westcott

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СКАЧАТЬ don’t always find parish calls the joy of your life.”

      “It’s so difficult to find subjects of conversation that they are interested in. I simply couldn’t draw out Mrs. Snodgrass, for instance.”

      “Well, when you’ve lived in the country as long as I have, you’ll find that the one unfailin’ subject of interest is symptoms—mostly dyspepsy and liver complaint. If you had known enough to have started right with Elmira Snodgrass, she would have thawed out at once. Elmira is always lookin’ for trouble as the sparks fly upwards, or thereabouts. She’d crawl through a barbed wire fence if she couldn’t get at it any other way. She always chews a pill on principle, and then she calls it a dispensation of Providence, and wonders why she was ever born to be tormented.”

      “In that case,” laughed Maxwell, “I’d better get some medical books and read up on symptoms. By the by, is there any particular program for this missionary meeting, Mrs. Burke?”

      “Yes, Virginia Bascom’s goin’ to read a paper called ‘The Christian Mother as a Missionary in her own Household.’ To be sure, Ginty’s no Christian 74 Mother, or any other kind of a mother; but she’s as full of enthusiasm as a shad is of bones. She’d bring up any child while you wait, and not charge a cent. There goes the bell, so please excuse me.”

      The guests were received by Mrs. Burke. Miss Bascom entered the parlor with a portentous bundle of manuscript under her arm, and greeted Donald with a radiant smile. Pulling a pansy from a bunch in her dress, she adjusted it in his buttonhole with the happy shyness of a young kitten chasing its tail. After the others had assembled, they formed a circle to inspect the clothing which had been sent in. There was a general buzz of conversation.

      As they were busily going through the garments, Virginia remarked, “Are all these things to go to the missionaries at Tien Tsin?” and she adjusted her lorgnette to inspect the heap.

      “Yes,” Mrs. Burke responded wearily, “and I hope they’ll get what comfort they can out of ’em.”

      “You don’t seem to be very appreciative, Mrs. Burke,” Virginia reproved.

      “Well, I suppose I ought to be satisfied,” Hepsey replied. “But it does seem as if most people give to the Lord what they can’t use for themselves any longer—as they would to a poor relation that’s worthy, but not to be coddled by too much charity.” 75

      “I think these things are quite nice enough for the missionaries,” Virginia retorted. “They are thankful for anything.”

      “Yes, I know,” Mrs. Burke replied calmly. “Missionaries and their families have no business to have any feelings that can’t be satisfied with second-hand clothes, and no end of good advice on how to spend five cents freely but not extravagantly.”

      “But don’t you believe in sending them useful things?” Virginia asked loftily.

      “So I do; but I’d hate that word ‘useful’ if I was a missionary’s wife.”

      “Might I inquire,” asked Miss Bascom meekly, “what you would send?”

      “Certainly! I’d send a twenty-five-cent scent bag, made of silk and filled with patchouli-powder,” said Hepsey, squarely.

      “Well,” Virginia added devoutly, “satchet bags may be well enough in their place; but they won’t feed missionaries, or clothe them, or save souls, you know, Mrs. Burke.”

      “Did anybody say they would?” Mrs. Burke inquired. “I shouldn’t particularly care to see missionaries clothed in sachet bags myself; the smell might drive the heathen to desperation. But do we always limit our spending money to necessary clothes and 76 food? The truth is, we all of us spend anything we like as long as it goes on our backs, or down our throats; but the moment it comes to supportin’ missionaries we think ’em worldly and graspin’ if they show any ambition beyond second-hand clothes.”

      “Do you live up to your preachin’, Mrs. Burke?” a little sallow-faced woman inquired from a dark corner of the room.

      “Oh, no; it hits me just as hard as anybody else, as Martin Luther said. But I’ve got a proposition to make: if you’ll take these things you brought, back with you, and wear ’em for a week just as they are, and play you’re the missionaries, I’ll take back all I’ve said.”

      As, however, there was no response to this challenge, the box was packed, and the cover nailed down.

      (It is perhaps no proper part of this story to add, that its opening on the other side of the world was attended by the welcome and surprising fragrance of patchouli, emanating from a little silk sachet secreted among the more workaday gifts.)

      The ladies then adjourned to the front piazza, where the supper was served.

      When the dishes had been cleared away, the guests adjusted their chairs and assumed attitudes of expectant 77 attention while Virginia stood up and shyly unrolled her manuscript, with a placid, self-conscious smile on her countenance. She apologized for her youth and inexperience, with a moving glance towards her pastor, and then got down to business. She began with the original and striking remark that it was the chief glory and function of woman to be a home-maker. She continued with something to the effect that the woman who forms the character of her children in the sanctity of the home-life rules the destinies of the world. Then she made a fetching allusion to the “Mother of the Gracchi,” and said something about jewels. Nobody knew who the “Gracchi” were, but they supposed that they must be some relatives of Virginia’s who lived in Boston.

      She asserted that the modern methods of bringing up children were all wrong. She drew a striking picture of the ideal home in which children always stood modestly and reverently by their parents’ chairs, consumed with anxiety to be of some service to their elders. They were always to be immaculately neat in their attire, and gentle in their ways. The use of slang was quite beneath them.

      These ideal children were always to spend their evenings at home in the perusal of instructive books, and the pursuit of useful knowledge. Then, when 78 half-past seven arrived, they were to rise spontaneously and promptly, and bid their parents an affectionate good-night, and retire to their rooms, where, having said their prayers and recited the golden text, they were to get into bed.

      Portions of Virginia’s essay were quite moving. Speaking of the rewards which good mothers reap, in the virtues and graces of their dutiful offspring, she said:

      “What mother does not feel a thrill of exquisite rapture as she fondly gazes into the depths of her baby’s eyes and sees there the budding promise of glorious womanhood. What mother does not watch the development of her little son with wondering pride, as she notes his manly, simple ways, his gentle reverence, his tender, modest behavior. What mother–”

      Here Virginia came to an abrupt stop, for there was a terrible racket somewhere overhead on the piazza roof; a rope was suddenly dropped over the edge of the eaves, and almost immediately a pair of very immodestly bare legs were lowered into view, followed by the rest of Nickey Burke’s person, attired in his nightshirt. It was the work of a moment for the nimble boy to slide down the rope onto the ground. But, as he landed on his feet, finding himself 79 in the august presence of the missionary circle, he remarked “Gee Whitaker bee’s wax!” and prudently took to his heels, and sped around the house as if he had been shot out of a gun.

      Several segments of the circle giggled violently. The essayist, though very red, made a brave effort to ignore the highly indecorous interruption, and so continued with trembling tones:

      “What more beautiful СКАЧАТЬ