ABBEY;

OR,

TAKING IT EASY.

[BY]

[LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY.]

——————————————

PHILADELPHIA:

AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,

NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET. —————————————— NEW YORK: 599 BROADWAY.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————— Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by the AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. ————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

CONTENTS.

—————

CHAPTER

I.—THE GREEN PAIL

II.—TRYING AGAIN

III.—CONSULTATIONS

IV.—A CHANGE

V.—MRS. POWELL

VI.—KINDLING A FIRE

ABBEY;

OR,

"TAKING IT EASY."

———————

CHAPTER I.

THE GREEN PAIL.

"TAKE the green pail to carry the water up-stairs, and set the smaller one on the stove, with water in it, that I may have it hot presently," said Mrs. Ward. "Do you understand me?"

"Oh, yes, I know," answered Abbey, confidently.

Mrs. Ward closed the kitchen-door, and sat down in the shade on the back steps for a few minutes, to read the paper before going on with her day's work.

She had certainly earned a little rest. For she had been up since five o'clock, had prepared her husband's breakfast and sent him off to his work at seven o'clock, had swept and dusted her pretty little parlour and dining-room, and was presently to make bread and cakes, and a meat-pie to be eaten cold for next day's dinner. For, while she made it a rule never to do unnecessary cooking on Sunday, she "calculated," as she would have said, to provide something rather better than common for her husband's dinner on that day.

She was the wife of a hard-working, painstaking printer,—a man who never missed a day's work from idleness or a spree, but who yet had hard work enough to maintain his family at home, help support his old mother, keep his house and life insured, and make both ends of the year meet. Mrs. Ward had never kept a girl till quite lately. She had always been able to do all her own work, with the help of her daughter, who had been trained to usefulness from the time she could run alone. But Comfort Ward, though a strong and healthy girl up to the age of fourteen, had then begun to pine away and fade like a plant. The spring after her fifteenth birthday, she was laid to rest under the trees of Mount Faith Cemetery, in the sure and certain hope of a glorious immortality. Her illness was long and trying, and Mrs. Ward found herself so worn out after it was over, that her husband insisted on her having some one to help her in her household work.

So she hired Abbey Jenkins, a stout girl of fourteen, who had already lived in two or three different places, but for some reason (which no one seemed exactly to understand) had never stayed long in any one of them. Every one told Mrs. Jenkins that her Abbey could not possibly have a better place: Mrs. Ward was an excellent Christian woman, a capital housekeeper, understanding all sorts of work, and one who would do her duty by any girl who lived with her. Old Aunt Phœbe Ray added to her congratulations the remark that Mrs. Ward had a heap of patience, and could get on with Abbey if any one could; from which we may gather that Abbey was no particular favourite with the old lady.

Mrs. Ward was tired, and the shaded back steps made a very pleasant resting-place. She looked through the paper, and then sat for a few moments surveying her little garden-ground and considering how she could put in a row of Martinias and some new annual flower-seeds where every inch of room seemed already occupied,— when she perceived a smell as of burning paint.

"Somebody has got a hot fire," was her first thought. "It comes from the kitchen!" was her second.

She jumped up hastily and opened the door. There on the stove was her new, neatly-painted green water-pail, all blackened and blistered with the heat, the paint upon the bottom burned off, and filling the whole house with a most unsavory odour! She hastened to snatch it off, but the mischief was done. The pail was utterly spoiled.

Mrs. Ward was a woman who understood pretty well how to rule her own spirit. She did not utter a single hasty exclamation, but there was some sharpness in the tone with which she called "Abbey!" at the foot of the back stairs.

Abbey did not answer.

And Mrs. Ward, listening, heard a sort of rubbing and scrubbing sound, as of some one violently rubbing a carpet.

"What has she been about?" thought Mrs. Ward.

She stepped into the parlour, to lay down the paper. The first thing which caught her eye was a large and rapidly-spreading stain upon the newly whitened ceiling, from which water was falling drop by drop upon the matting below. She hurried up-stairs, and beheld a scene which explained the whole matter. The pail which Abbey had been told to set upon the stove lay on the floor, with the handle out, and Abbey was busily swabbing up the water with some large white cloth done up into a wad.

"What 'have' you been about, Abbey?" asked Mrs. Ward.

"The handle came out of the pail, and spilt the water," replied Abbey, with rather an air of injured innocence. "I didn't know it was loose."

"Didn't I tell you to set that pail on the stove and take the green one to carry up the water?" asked Mrs. Ward.

"I didn't understand," said Abbey.

"If you did not understand, it was because you did not pay attention," returned Mrs. Ward. "I told you, in perfectly plain English, to set this pail on the stove and carry the other up-stairs. And you have done exactly the contrary, and accomplished more mischief in one half-hour than your wages will be worth for a month to come. I think you had better go home to your mother. I cannot afford to keep a girl who cannot turn round without doing mischief, just because she will not attend to what is said to her. What are you rubbing the floor with? Let me see."

She took the cloth out of her hands and unfolded it, but the sight it presented did not tend to comfort her. It was an old but fine damask table-cloth, bearing the marks of careful preservation and mending, but now worn into two or three great holes by Abbey's rubbing. As Mrs. Ward looked at it, her colour rose, and the tears came into her eyes.

"My dear mother's cloth!—And the very last I had!" said she. "You had better go to bed, and stay there the rest of the day. There, at least, you will be out of mischief."

"I'm sure I didn't mean any thing—" and Abbey began her defence.

But Mrs. Ward interrupted her.

"Yes: there is exactly the trouble. You never do mean any thing, either good or bad. You don't mean any harm, perhaps, but you don't mean any good, either. You don't put your mind upon your work in the least degree, nor do you attend to any thing that is said to you. Half the mischief in the world is done by people who don't mean any thing. Another trouble is that you think you know every thing already,—instead of which you are a very ignorant little girl, deficient in almost every thing that should be known even by a girl of your age. And if you are ever going to be any thing but a real torment to every one about you, you will have to take a great deal of pains for it. Just because you would not attend to perfectly plain directions, you have done more mischief since you came into this house, only a month ago, than your work will be worth in six months if you do your very best. I don't think I can afford to keep you any longer. If I saw you improving, or taking pains to improve, I should feel differently; but you don't."

Mrs. Ward may be excused for feeling irritated. The parlour-ceiling had just been whitened, at considerable expense; the pail was a new one, and the table-cloth an heirloom which had been in her family for two or three generations. It was not Abbey's first piece of mischief, either. She had broken more cups, loosened more knife-handles and spotted more floors than Mrs. Ward had done in all her housekeeping. She had killed two or three valuable plants by throwing her dish-water upon them,—though she was expressly told what to do with it,—and broken down a Diana grape-vine, which Mr. Ward was nursing with great care, by throwing the coal-ashes upon it, instead of putting them in their proper place. In every one of these cases her excuse was that she didn't mean any thing; she didn't understand.

"What shall I do next?" asked Abbey, after Mrs. Ward had washed and hung up the unlucky table-cloth.

"You can take those towels and sit down to hem them in the kitchen, where I can see you while I am mixing my bread," replied Mrs. Ward.

"Can't I sit up in my room?" asked Abbey.

"No! Unless you are under my eye, you will hem half of them one way and half the other. And I cannot trust you to finish the work up-stairs by yourself."

"Well," said Abbey to herself, as she hunted up her thimble (which was never in its place), "I'm glad I don't worry so about every little thing. I believe in taking things easy, for my part."

It is worthy of notice that for every person who prides himself or herself on taking things easy, there is always some one else who has to take them hard in proportion. This was the case with Abbey and her friends. She had always taken things easy, ever since she was born.

As a little child, her mother had been proud of her daughter's placid disposition and had boasted that nothing ever put Abbey out. But as the child grew older, and became of an age to be helpful to her mother, Mrs. Miles did not find that Abbey lightened her cares at all. Somehow, she had a remarkable knack of "shirking,"—of slipping out of and away from every thing that she did not like to do,—of breaking and spoiling every thing she took in hand,—of being so long over her breakfast dishes that it was less trouble to her mother to wash them herself,—of getting the baby into scrapes whenever she was set to tend him,—of buying exactly the wrong thing whenever she was sent to market or to the grocer's, and never coming back till the last minute.

All this time, Abbey was as placid as possible. No scolding disturbed her temper or did her any good. She was always singing over her work. And as she had a sweet voice and sung with a good deal of taste, visitors were apt to remark how pleasant it was to have a child of such a happy disposition!

When Abbey was thirteen years old, her mother married again. Abbey's stepfather was a hard-working, energetic, well-principled man, who fully intended to do the part of a father by his wife's children. But he was what is called "short-tempered," and being, as I said, very hard-working and painstaking himself, he had not very much patience with the opposite qualities. Abbey found herself driven about and stirred up more than she had ever been before in her life.

Mrs. Jenkins felt sorry for her, but she had lately become awake to the fact that Abbey would have to earn her own living. And that, if she were ever to be good for any thing, it was quite time she began. Abbey, however, was more than a match for her stepfather. Her placidity of temper gave her a great advantage over his fretful position,—as cotton-bags are said to oppose the best resistance to cannon-balls.

But Mr. Jenkins had the advantage in one way, and at last he used it. He possessed "the power of the purse;" and he declared that he would no longer support Abbey in idleness: she should go out to work, and earn her own living in some one else's house, if not in her own home.

Abbey had been living out for four months, and she had been in three different places already. As I said, her mother was very glad when Mrs. Ward took her in hand. And Aunt Phœbe Ray, who had interested herself very much in finding places for Abbey, declared that Mrs. Ward could get on with the girl if any one could.

CHAPTER II.

TRYING AGAIN.

ABBEY took her work and went down into the kitchen, where Mrs. Ward was mixing her bread. She was not in the least ruffled by the events of the morning, and thought it very strange that any one else should be. What was the use? She made various remarks by way of beginning a conversation, to which she got very short answers, or none at all. Presently she began to sing.

"Don't sing, Abbey: attend to your work," said Mrs. Ward, shortly. "I do think one reason why you never have your mind upon what you are about is that you are always singing. The sound serves you instead of thought."

This was quite true in Abbey's case, and I have no doubt it is true of many others. The poet says of some one that,—

"He whistled as he went, for want of thought."

Abbey sung for want of thought. Being now, however, reduced to silence, she was obliged to think a little, and her reflections were not remarkably pleasant. She could not but confess to herself that it would not be very convenient to lose her place again and have to go home in disgrace for the fourth time in as many months, while her next youngest sister, who was only twelve, had been living with one lady for nearly a year, and had lately had her wages raised. She had spoiled her best frock by washing dishes in it at her last place. Her second-best was rapidly becoming shabby; and Mr. Jenkins declared that he would not buy her another,—she should earn it herself, and then she would know the value of it; nor would he allow Elvira to divide her wages with her sister.

"You think I am hard upon the girl," he said to his wife, "and I dare say other people have plenty to say about the matter. But I tell you that she will never be good for any thing till she finds out that she is dependent on her own exertions for her living."

"I believe you are right," said Mrs. Jenkins, sighing, "but I begin to be afraid she will never learn any thing. The trouble is, that she does not care. No fault-finding disturbs her in the least."

"Exactly so. But she likes to dress well and to have plenty to eat, and she 'will' care when she finds that she is to have neither food nor clothes unless she provides them for herself."

Abbey could not but admit to herself as she sat at work that if she left Mrs. Ward in disgrace, the chances of her finding another place were very small. Aunt Phœbe Ray, who got situations for half the girls in Milby, declared positively that she would never recommend her again if she failed this time. It was, no doubt, unreasonable in Mrs. Ward to be so angry at an accident (so Abbey said to herself), but it was clear that she was very much put out. Indeed, she had as good as told her that she might go home. Certainly, the prospect was not a pleasant one.

"But there is no use in worrying," said Abbey. "I dare say something will happen."

Meantime, Mrs. Ward had in some degree recovered her composure. She did not regret the scolding she had given Abbey,—she knew very well that hardly any thing would rouse her from her indifference. But she began to think whether she had not better try her a little longer. She knew how poor the family really were, and how hard both father and mother worked to keep themselves out of debt and their children comfortable and respectable, and to provide comforts and luxuries for the oldest boy,—a poor little humpbacked cripple of ten years, who had never been able to walk, and probably never would be. She remembered how glad Mrs. Jenkins had been to procure the place for Abbey. And she finally made up her mind to try the girl a little longer.

"After all, I suppose I may as well have patience with her as any one else," said she to herself. "If Comfort had been obliged to live out, I should have wanted people to have patience with her."

"Now, Abbey, I want you to attend, what I say," said Mrs. Ward, as she finally took her sewing and sat down. "Don't let your mind wander to the ends of the earth,—nor out of the window, either," she added, with some sharpness, as she saw Abbey beginning in a dreamy manner to contemplate some cows upon the common. "Listen to me."

Abbey had a habit, whenever any one began to reprove her,—or "lecture her," as she said,—of at once beginning to think of something else. Just at this time she had a perception that such a course would not be very wise: so she brought in her eyes from the common, and her mind from the day-dream she was just beginning, and prepared to give some attention to what was said to her.

"Do you want to keep your place, Abbey?" asked Mrs. Ward.

"If I can suit you," said Abbey.

"Suppose you go away from here: what do you expect to do?"

"Go home, I suppose, and stay till I get another place," replied Abbey.

"It may not be so easy for you to find another place," said Mrs. Ward. "Which of the ladies you have lived with during the last few months, do you think, would recommend you?"

Abbey was silent.

"And, meantime, you will be at home, where you are not wanted, and be a burden upon hands which are already more than full."

"I don't see how I can help it," said Abbey. "And I don't think it is fair to twit me with it. I am sure you could tell any one that I was neat and honest, and—"

"Look under that table, Abbey, and see the dust upon the legs," interrupted Mrs. Ward. "Look out of the window, and see those coal-ashes. As for honesty, there are more ways of being dishonest than merely stealing."

"I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Ward," said Abbey, now really colouring and showing some signs of feeling.

"Well, Abbey, I will tell you what I mean. I give you good wages,—very good for a girl of your age,—which I pay you every Saturday out of my own and my husband's hard earnings. Do you take pains to earn those wages? When I go to a store and lay out five dollars, I expect to get the worth of my money. And if the tradesman gives me short measure or an inferior article, I call him a dishonest man. If I pay a girl good wages for doing my work, and she neglects it, or does it badly and in such a manner as to bring loss upon me, I call her a dishonest girl, whether she steals the value of a penny from me or not."

"I don't think I have done any thing so very bad," said Abbey. "Every one makes mistakes sometimes."

"Listen, Abbey," replied Mrs. Ward, taking a paper from her work-basket. "I have been making a little calculation as to what you have cost me since you came here, a little more than four weeks ago. I will read it to you:—

"Two cups broken, at 25c. each..........................$0.50 Tin basin forgotten and left on the stove to burn up.... .30 Diana grape-vine spoiled................................1.00 Fine rose-bushes spoiled................................1.00 Towel burned up......................................... .25 New water-pail spoiled..................................1.50 Parlour-ceiling spoiled.................................2.00 ————— $6.55

"There are six dollars and fifty-five cents, at the lowest calculation, a dead loss; and all from the sheerest carelessness and indifference on your part. Not one of these accidents was necessary. I say nothing of the table-cloth, for no money will pay for that. And I have put down the rose-bushes at just what I gave for them,—though I would not have taken ten dollars apiece for them. The very last thing my daughter did in the garden was to set out those two rose-bushes, which you destroyed just because you would not pay attention and did not care whether you did right or wrong."

For once, Abbey did not seem to have any thing to say for herself. She was not used to be treated in this way. She had often been scolded and fretted at, and she had intrenched herself in indifference and inattention. But it was something new to have somebody sit down and calmly compel her attention to a straightforward, business-like account of her misdeeds.