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Updated: May 1, 2025
Bel was hardly equal yet to five-minute Crambo; and besides, she was doing her best; trying to put something clearly into syllables that said itself, unsyllabled, to her. She did not hear Mrs. Scherman when she came up the stairs. She had just read over to herself the five completed stanzas of her poem. It had really come.
Scherman, "and we don't expect to light it, unless one of us is sick, or something." "Light it whenever you wish for it," Mrs. Scherman had replied. "I am perfectly willing to trust your reasonableness for that."
Scherman said she had really never had so little trouble with a baby as with this one, who had nobody especially appointed to make out her own necessity by constant "tending." Bel did not go down-stairs again. She could do better here than with Kate sitting opposite, aware of all her scratches and poetical predicaments. An hour went by.
Scherman has six shirts a week, and the children's things count up fearfully, and the ironing is nice work. I'm afraid you wouldn't think you had any time left for living. The clothes hardly ever all come up before Thursday morning." "And the cooking and all are just the same those days?" asked Kate. "Why yes, pretty nearly, except just Mondays. Monday always has to be rather awful.
Scherman caught up Sinsie into her lap, and gave her a great congratulatory hug. "Do you suppose it will last, little womanie? If it isn't all gone in the morning, what comfort we'll have in keeping house and taking care of baby!" The daughter is so soon the "little womanie" to the mother's loving anticipation!
"I'll go, Bel," she interposed. "I guess it's my place. That is, if you like, Mrs. Scherman." "I like it exceedingly," said Asenath, congratulating herself upon the happy inspiration of her answer, which was not surprise nor thanks, but cordial and pleased enough for either. "The shops are next each other, just beyond Filbert Street. Have the things charged to Mrs. Francis Scherman.
Scherman was to purchase for us. Ruth was to have plenty of music. Life was full and bright to us, this golden autumn-time, as it had never been before. The time itself was radiant; and the winter was stored beforehand with pleasures; Arctura was as glad as anybody; she hears our readings in the afternoons, when she can come up stairs, and sit mending stockings or hemming aprons.
Bel was hanging the last dish-towel upon a little folding-horse in the chimney corner, and they could hear Kate singing up-stairs to a gentle clatter of the dishes that she was putting away from the dining-room use. "It looks as a kitchen ought to," said Mr. Scherman. "As my grandmother's used to look; as if all the house-comfort came from it."
A stagnation seemed to succeed to their excitement and energy. They were thrown back into a vacuum. "There is nothing on earth to do, or to think about," said Florrie Arnall dolefully. "Just as much as there was last week," replied Josie Scherman, common-sense-ically. Frank was only her brother, and that made a difference.
A clock over the table, and a rolling-towel beside the sink; green Holland window-shades; these were the only adornments and drapery. There was a closet at each end of the room. "Will you go up to your room now, or wait till after tea?" asked Mrs. Scherman. "We might take up our things, now," said Bel, looking round at the four chairs. "They would be in the way here, perhaps."
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