A PROGRESSIVE WOMAN.
WE are inclined to think Danbury has made a stride in the matter of woman's
rights that will astonish everybody, and edify many. We have a woman who
butchers. We might have worked around to this declaration in an elaborate
and interesting introduction; but the fact is so amazing, that we could not
write with any calmness, or think with any precision, with it staring at
us. This young lady is about to marry; that is, she is engaged: and a woman
in Redding is weaving her a rag carpet. As nothing more confirmatory than
this can be produced, we feel safe in affirming that she is about to marry.
The object of her choice is a farmer. The farmer does his own killing, as
all well-informed farmers do. The young lady is
aware of this fact; and,
in her strong devotion to the farmer, she is learning to butcher. Every Friday
afternoon, she accompanies one of our butchers, a personal friend, to the
slaughter. Here, with her dress pinned up, her sleeves rolled, and her hat
very much on one side of her head, she flits about in the midst of the thrilling
gore, and unimpassioned tallow, and so forth. She has already killed four
lambs, cutting their throats so artistically as to charm the burly butcher
beyond all description, and to fill every well-balanced mind with reverential
admiration. Next Friday she tries her maiden hand on a small calf, and expects
to extract the vital spark from its body in a way that will win its eternal
gratitude. In dressing bullocks—or rather in undressing them—she is becoming
quite an adept; and already excels the butcher's boy, who has been in the
business for nearly a year. But she particularly shines when the animal's
throat is cut, and with the animal's tail in her hand, and her neatly gaitered
foot on the animal's side, she pumps the life-current out of the dying body.
The butcher says she looks like an angel then; and we can readily understand
how she does. In a week or two she will try her hand at knocking down a bullock,
and will be successful, without doubt. But we hope, and we are unselfish
in the expression of it, that the laurels she is winning will not turn her
head, and fill her with aspirations above her station.
It will be a sad day
for the farmer if success thus affects her: it will be a worse day for her.
Better that she had never known the delicious sensation of prodding a lamb's
throat, or the wondrous power of pumping gore. But we envy the young farmer
the mellow Sunday evenings in her society, the beaming of her slaughter-house
eyes, and her tender discourse upon hides, leaf-lard, tripe, plucks, and
other bits of scenery. To press the lips which have caressed a gory knife,
and to clasp the delicate fingers which have ploughed through the steaming
contents of a defunct animal, is an ecstasy that no one can calmly
contemplate—on a full stomach.
