1847. 



GENESEE FARMER. 



53 



LADIES' DEPARTMENT. 



Mr. Editor : — I have noticed in the January 

 number of your paper, in the '' Ladies' De- 

 partment," a short article headed " The Wife ;" 

 and would be glad to see the following, taken 

 from an exchange paper, if it will not occupy 

 too much space, in the next number of the Gen- 

 esee Farmer. A Woman, 



Aurora, N. Y., Ja7i. 1847. 



Female Trials. 



My heart ulvvays " stirs within me" when I read selec- 

 tions made by editors of newspapers, even " christian citi- 

 zens," which are designed for its married ladies, setting 

 forth our duty with relation to making our homes happy to 

 our husbands, that we should always welcome them with 

 a cheerful smile when they come in from the cares and fa- 

 tigues of the day, and tlo all we can to make married life 

 pleasant to them, &:c. IVow this is weil I acknowledge, 

 and trust I strive daily to reduce a good theory to practice. 

 But allow me to enquire if the cares and fatigues of the 

 wife are always — I might say ever — appreciated by the 

 husband ? 



Shall 1 give a short sketch of domestic life as it is, not of 

 course describing a family as it should be, but I wish to 

 give a fair example of every day life at home. 



iMy neighbor, Mr. Benson, a lawyer by profession, is 

 what the world calls a respectable man. His income is 

 small, but he married a lady who was able to furnish their 

 small house handsomely, and they have some hopes of pros- 

 perity in reversion. Mrs. B. was educated in modern 

 times, and somewhat fashionably, so that the host of evils 

 which ignorant young housekeepers are heir to, came thick 

 and fast upon her when she started on the doubtful pilgrim- 

 age of matrimonial life. 



But she had firm principles, energy of character and de- 

 voted love for her husband — all good stimulants in the path 

 of duty. She braved like a heorine all the "tea-pot tem- 

 pests" which often come from clouds not so " big as a man's 

 hand," and in due time succeeded in making a cheerful and 

 faithful manager of their economical establishment. Mrs. 

 B. has been a wife twelve years, and a mother of five chil- 

 dren, the youngest but a babe, and tha family are as happy 

 as a large portion of families. 



It is Monday morning and this speaks "unutterable 

 things," to a INew England wife,, who has been married a 

 dozen years. Mr. Benson has had his breakfast in season — 

 has kissed the children and gone to the office where the boy 

 has a good tire — the books and papers are all in order and 

 Mr. B. sits down, to an?wer a few agreeable demands up- 

 on his time, which will eventually turn to cash. He goes 

 home to his dinner punctually and at one o'clock — it is 

 ready for him, he takes it quietly, perhaps ; frolics ten min- 

 utes with the baby, and then hurries back to the office. At 

 the hour for tea, he goes home — every thing is cheerful, 

 and to quote the simple rhyme of an old song, 



The hearth was clean, the fire was clear, 



The kettle on for tea ; 

 Benson was in his rocking chair, 

 And blessed as man could be. 



But how has it been with Mrs. Benson through the day ? 

 She has an ill-natured girl in the kitchen who will do half 

 the work only, at nine shillings per week. Monday morn- 

 ing, eight o'clock — four children must be ready for school — 

 Mrs. t>. must sponge their faces — smoothe their hair — see 

 that books, slates, paper, pencils, pocket-handkerchiefs, 

 (yes, four of them) are all in order, and now the baby is 

 crying — the fire is low — it is time Sally should begin to 

 wash, the parlor, the chambers, the breakfast things are all 

 waiting. Well, by a song to the baby, who lies kicking in 

 the cradle — a smile to smoothe ruffled Sally, and with all 

 the energy that mind and body can summon, things are 

 " straightened out," and the lofty pile of a week's rearing 

 begins to grow less; but time shortens with it — it is almost 

 dinner time — by some accident that joint of meat is frozen 

 — company cills— Mr. Benson forgot to get any eggs on 

 Saturday, Mrs. B. must do the next best way — the bell rings 

 twelve — the door opens and in rush the children from school 

 — J»hn has torn his pantaloonss — Mary must have some 



money, then, to get a thimble, she has just lost hers — Will- 

 iam has cut his finger with a piece of glass, and is calling 

 loudly for his mother. 



Poor Mrs. Benson endeavors to keep cheerful and to look 

 delighted in the hubbub; and now the dinner, by her effort.s 

 alone, is upon the table; her husband comes in and won- 

 ders the " pie is not a little better warmed," and with this 

 comment and a smile on thebahy, he is oil' till it is time for 

 tea. I forbear to finish the day, Mr. Editor, and shall only 

 say, the afternoon was made up of little trials too small to 

 mention, but large enough to try the faith and patience of 

 all the patriarchs. 



Now, sir, this wife has surely borne the burden and heat 

 of the day, her limbs are wearied — her whole energy •£ 

 mind and body exhausted, and she is exhorted "to welcome 

 her husband with a smile." She does it, for a woman's 

 love is stronger than death. I would ask, should not Mr. 

 Benson give his wife a smile ? What has he done to light- 

 en her cares through the day ? — How is it ? In nine cases 

 out of ten, after sitting an idle hour, he " wishes Mrs. B. 

 would put all those noisy children to bed— he should be 

 glad to have her tell David to go to the post office for letters 

 and papers," and at length, when halfway between sleep- 

 ing and waking, he looks at his pale exhausted help-mate, 

 and exclaims — " well, wife, you begin to look a little ex- 

 hausted." 



I cannot ask you, Mr. Editor, if my picture is not a true 

 one, for you are a stranger to the joys and cares of married 

 life; but I pray you be more just, and now and then exhort 

 husbands to do their part towards making home agreeable 

 to their wives, when the latter have, like Atlas, borne a 

 world of cares and vexations through the day. 



Recipe for makiii? Buckwheat Cakes. 



Do, dear Jane, mix up the cakes ; 



Just one quart of meal it takes ; 



Pour the water in the pot. 



Be careful that its not loo hot ; 



Sift the meal well through your hand ; 



Thicken well — don't let it stand ; 



Stir it quick — clash — clatter — 



Oh ! what light delicious batter. 



Now listen to the next command : 



On the dresser let it stand 



Just three quarters of an hour. 



To feel the gentle rising power 



Of powders melted into yeast. 



To lighten well this precious feast. 



See, now it rises to the brim — 



Quick — take the ladle, dip it in ; 



So let it rest until the fire 



The griddle heats as you desire. 



Be careful that the coals are glowing, 



No smoke around its white curls throwing. 



Apply the suet softly, lightly — 



The griddle's face shines more brightly. 



Now pour the batter on — delicious ! 



(Don't, dear Jane, think me officious,) 



But lift the tender edges slightly — 



Now turn it over quickly, sprightly. 



'Tis done — now on the white plate lay it. 



Smoking hot, with butter spread, 



'Tis quite enough to turn our head. 



Now I have eaten — thank the farmer 



That grows this luscious mealy charmer — 



Yes, thanks to all — the cook that makes 



These light, delicious buckwheat cakes, 



A Shrewd old gentleman once said to his 

 daughter : " Be sure, my dear, that you never 

 marry a poor man ; but remember, the poorest 

 man in the world is one that has money, and noth- 

 ing else." 



Children. — Speak to a child — any child — 

 in a calm, positive, clear voice, and he will be 

 sure to obey you, if you speak once, and only 

 01136. — Mrs. Sigourney. 



There is a luxury in remembering a kind act. 



