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A Lesson Of Patience
by [?]

I WAS very unhappy, from a variety of causes, definable and undefinable. My chambermaid had been cross for a week, and, by talking to my cook, had made her dissatisfied with her place. The mother of five little children, I felt that I had a weight of care and responsibility greater than I could support. I was unequal to the task. My spirits fell under its bare contemplation. Then I had been disappointed in a seamstress, and my children were, as the saying is, “in rags.” While brooding over these and other disheartening circumstances, Netty, my chambermaid, opened the door of the room where I was sitting, (it was Monday morning,) and said–

“Harriet has just sent word that she is sick, and can’t come to-day.”

“Then you and Agnes will have to do the washing,” I replied, in a fretful voice; this new source of trouble completely breaking me down.

“Indeed, ma’am,” replied Netty, tossing her head and speaking with some pertness, “I can’t do the washing. I didn’t engage for any thing but chamber-work.”

And so saying she left me to my own reflections. I must own to feeling exceedingly angry, and rose to ring the bell for Netty to return, in order to tell her that she could go to washing or leave the house, as best suited her fancy. But the sudden recollection of a somewhat similar collision with a former chambermaid, in which I was worsted, and compelled to do my own chamber-work for a week, caused me to hesitate, and, finally, to sit down and indulge in a hearty fit of crying.

When my husband came home at dinnertime, things did not seem very pleasant for him, I must own. I had on a long, a very long face–much longer than it was when he went away in the morning.

“Still in trouble, I see, Jane,” said he. “I wish you would try and take things a little more cheerfully. To be unhappy about what is not exactly agreeable doesn’t help the matter any, but really makes it worse.”

“If you had to contend with what I have to contend with, you wouldn’t talk about things being exactly agreeable,” I replied to this. “It is easy enough to talk. I only wish you had a little of my trouble; you wouldn’t think so lightly of it.”

“What is the great trouble now, Jane?” said my husband, without being at all fretted with my unamiable temper. “Let us hear. Perhaps I can suggest a remedy.”

“If you will get me a washerwoman, you will exceedingly oblige me,” said I.

“Where is Harriet?” he asked.

“She is sick, or pretends to be, I don’t know which.”

“Perhaps she will be well enough to do your washing to-morrow,” suggested my husband.

“Perhaps is a poor dependence.”

I said this with a tartness that ill repaid my husband’s effort to comfort me. I saw that he felt the unkindness of my manner, in the slight shade that passed over his face.

“Can’t you get some one else to do your washing this week?”

I made no reply. The question was easily asked. After that, my husband was silent,–silent in that peculiar way that I understood, too well, as the effect of my words, or tones, or state of mind. Here was another cause for unhappiness, in the reflection that I had disturbed my husband’s peace.

I am sure that I did not much look like a loving wife and mother as I presided at the dinner table that day. The children never seemed so restless and hard to manage; and I could not help speaking to them, every now and then, “as if I would take their heads off;” but to little good effect.

After my husband went away on finishing his dinner, I went to bed, and cried for more than half the afternoon. Oh! how wretched I felt! Life seemed an almost intolerable burden.