University of Virginia Library

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

IT is Saturday night,—the dear close of a tossing, struggling, restless week. To-morrow is the sabbath, when all labor and care are held in abeyance. Saturday night stands like a rock before the day of rest, and says to toil and worry, "Thus far shalt thou come, and no farther." Blessed Saturday night! The wearied husband and father approaches his home. He looks ahead, and sees the light streaming in cheerful radiance from the windows, and wonders if that boy has got in the kindlings. He steps up on the stoop, and opens the door. His faithful wife meets him at the entrance, and greets him with, "Why on earth don't you clean your feet, and not lug the house full of mud? Don't you know I've been scrubbing all day?" And thus he steps into the bosom of his family, grateful for the mercies he has received, and thankful that he has a home to come to when the worry and care and toil of the week are done. Yes, he is home now, and has set his dinner-pail on one chair, and laid his hat and coat on another and, with his eyes full of soap from the wash, is shouting impetuously for the towel. Saturday night in the household! What a beautiful sight!—the bright light, the cheerful figured carpet, the radiant stove, the neatly laid table with the steaming teapot, the pictures on the walls, the spotless

curtains, the purring cat, and the bright-eyed children, rubbing the plates with their fingers, and looking hungrily at the canned cherries. Even the wearied wife is visibly affected: and, as she steps to a closet with his hat and coat, she unconsciously observes to her husband,—

"Will you never learn to hang your things up? or do you think I've got nothin' else to do but chase after you all the while you are in the house?"

He makes no reply; but, as he drops into his seat at the table with a sigh of relief, he says,—

"What's the matter with that infernal lamp? Is the oil all out? or ain't the chimney been cleaned? It don't give no more light than a fire-bug."

"Turn it up, then," she retorts. "It was right enough when I put it on the table; but I suppose the children have been fooling with it. They never can keep their hands out of mischief for an instant."

"I'll fool 'em," he growls, "if they don't keep their fingers off'n things!"

After this sally, a silence reigns, broken only by a subdued rustle of plates and cutlery. Then comes a whisper from one of the children, which is promptly met in a loud key by the mother.

"Not another mouthful, I tell you. You have had one dish already, and that's enough. I ain't going to be up all night wrastling around with you, young woman; and, the quicker you straighten that face, the better it'll be for you."

The offender looks with abashed inquiry into the faces of her brothers and sisters, and gradually steals a glance into the face of her father, but, finding no sympathy there, falls to making surreptitious grimaces at the mother, to the relief of herself, and the intense edification of the other children.

The tea is finally over,—that delightful Saturday night's meal; and as the appeased father stretches back in his chair, and looks dreamily at the flame dancing in the stove, he says to his first-born,—

"Is them kindlings cut, young man?"

Of course they have not been; and the youth replies,—

"I'm going right out to do it now," and steps about lively for his hat.

"You'd better; and if I come home again, and find them kindlings not cut, I won't leave a whole bone in your body. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, pa."

"Well, then, start your boots."

They are started; and the relieved father comes back with his eyes to the glad flame, and watches it abstractedly, while his thoughts are busy with the bright anticipations of the coming day of rest.

"Ain't you going down street? or are you goin' to set there all night?" asks his wife. He turns around and looks at her. It's a sort of mechanical movement, without any apparent expression. "There's got to be something got for dinner to-

morrow; and I want you to go to Adams's, an' see if my hat is done; an' Thomas must have a pair of shoes; an' there ain't a bit of blacking in the house," resumes the mother. "You can tell Burroughs, that that last butter he sent up ain't fit for a hog to eat; an', if he ain't got any thing better than that, we don't want it. You'd better get a small piece of pork while you are down; an' if you see Parks, ask him when he's coming here to fix that wall. He has got the plaster off, an' there it stands; an' there's no use of trying to put the room to rights until the wall is fixed. I don't see what the old fool is thinking of to leave a room like that."

Hereupon the head of the house gets up on his feet, takes a brief, longing glance at the pleasant stove, and wants to know where in thunder his coat and hat are, and if nothing can be left where it is put. Then she tells him, that, if he looks where he ought to, he'd find the things fast enough. He does find them, and then goes into the kitchen, and a moment later re-appears with a very red face, and passionately asks if a basket can be kept in that house for five minutes at a time, and moodily follows his wife to where the basket is, and looks still more moody when he is brought face to face with it, and sarcastically asked if he could see a barn if it was in front of his nose. Thus primed with the invigorating utterances of the home-circle, he takes up his basket, and goes down street, leaving his

faithful wife to stand as a wall of granite between the children and the canned cherries, and to finish up the work. As he reaches the gate, the door opens; and she shouts after him,—

"Remember to get some matches; there ain't one in the house: and don't be all night, for I'm tired, an' want to get to bed at a decent hour, if possible."

"Go to bed, then, an' shut up your mouth;" and, with this parting injunction, he strides gloomily out into the darkness. It is not exactly known what he is thinking of as he moves along; but it is doubtless of the near approach of the sabbath. As he comes into the light of the stores, it is evident that bright influences, and tender memories, and glad anticipations, are weaving themselves in his heart; for he meets Parks with a smile, and, after a pleasant chat about the winter's prospect, they part, laughing. Only twice in the trip does his face fall; and that's when he goes in after her hat, and when he gets the shoes. A half-hour later he is in the grocery, sitting on a barrel while his goods are being put up, and carrying on an animated discussion with the grocer and several acquaintances. At nine o'clock he starts for home. He has several receipted bills in his pocket, each of which is in excess, of course, of what his wife had estimated before he left home; and as he struggles along with an aching arm, and stumbles against various obstructions,

he remembers it is Saturday night, the end of the week of toil, and tries to recall bits of verses and sentences of beautiful sentiment appropriate to the hour. He don't believe in grumbling at everybody; and so he reserves his trouble with the grocery-bill, his indignation at the milliner, and the various annoyances he has been subjected to, until he gets home; and then he hurls his thunder at all these people and objects through the head of his wife. And she, the dear companion of his life, having got the children from back of the stove and to bed by the hair, and discovered that he has forgotten the matches, and got more bone than meat in the steak, is fully prepared to tell him just what she thinks of him.

And while they talk, the flame in the stove dances happily, the lamp sheds a rich, soft glow over the room, and the colors in the carpet and in the pictures, and the reflective surfaces of the mantle ornaments, blend into a scene of quiet beauty. It is the night before the sabbath,—the calm, restful sabbath; and, as the two workers prepare to seek their well-earned repose, she says, that, if she has got to be harassed like this, she'll be in her grave before the winter is over; and he is confident, that, if the bills keep mounting up as they are doing, the whole family will be in the poor-house the first thing they know.