The Caldwell tribune. [volume] (Caldwell, Idaho Territory [Idaho]) 1883-1928, 1889-09-14
Making Things Tidy.


is perfect godsend to the community
in which he lives. Example does an
immense deal of good or evil, as the
case may be, in this world, and there
are great many things besides the
measles that are catching.
When the tidy man begins to clean
up his grounds, and dispose of the
rubbish in his door-yard. all the
neighbors watch him and note how he
does it, and before long all the people
on that street will be picking up and
putting on their best outdoor looks.
1t is curious to note how the exam
pie of one man will affect so many
others, and how Mr.. Smith, and Mr..
Jones, and Mr.. Brown will clean up
their premises, simply because Mr..
Robinson has put his place in order.
Paint one house on a street yellow,
and in the course of a year two thirds
of the houses in that vicinity will
come out in yellow attire. Different
shades, and variety of trimmings,
perhaps, but still plainly showing that
the first yellow house influenced the
complexion of all the other houses.
The man who is cleaning up gener-
ally likes to have his wife out with
him to offer suggestions, and to tell
him how nice it all looks. He will
ask her to step out to the shed and
hand him the garden rake, just as If
his life depended on the haste be made
gathering up the dead leaves, and old
boots, and the bones the dog had
brought up to gnaw at his leisure;
and by the time she brings the rake
he wants the hoe, and soon after the
trowel. and so the wife makes herself
generally useful. And the next morn
ing her husband will tell his next
neighbor that he cleaned that door
yard all up himself in less than two
hours,
You connot clean up your grounds
without a goou many tools. You
want a rake, and hoe, and a shovel,
and a broom, and d wheelbarrow, and
baskeO, and some old gloves, and a
bunch of matches, and all the kind
lings you can spare, for of course the
thing cannot be properly done with
out fire to consume the rubbish.
And all creation will smell of burnt
leather, and old rubbers, and bones,
and your hair and clothing will be full
of smoke, and your arms will ache,
and your back will feel as If it had
been taken apart and put together by
a man who had never learned his
trade; and your finger nails will be
torn down, and the skin will be off
your knuckles, and the toes of your
boots will be stubbed out, and the
whole town will go past while you are
about it; and your wife will run be-
hind the wood-shed so that her &C
quaintances cannot see the old dress
she has on; and if the minister does
not call while you are about it you may
consider yourself fortunate.
1t is dirty job to clean up the
premises in the spring; but every
right-minded person enjoys doing it.
There is something exhilarating in
singing the old tomato cans, and the
battered sardine boxes into the ash bar
rel; and there is sweet and soothing
sense of victory in seeing the flames
consums the old oil-cloth that has
tripped you so many times in the back
hall; and the worn out kindling bas-
ket, out of which every morning all
winter the shaviugs have sifted on to
the carpet, and the temper OF the
housekeeper has risen to fever heat in
consequence.
And when the rubbish is scraped
away, the fresh green grass shows
itself new and courageous after its long
rest under the snow, and the dande-
lions suggest green's, and the tiger
lilies in the sunny corner of the fence
send up their pointed spikes, and the
family cat purs ecstatically around the
fragrant .tnip root; and the hens, led
by the dignifed rooster, come to in
vestigate the ground for worms, and
turn up to the air and sun the three
dollars dozen tulip bulbs you planted
last fall.
Your wife discovers pansy in
them: and you are gratified to find that
the wisteria by the porch is struggling
back into the world; a socially inclined
and adventurous mosquito buzzes mus.
ically around your nose, and amiably
tells you that he is ready for business
when you are.
And by and by the night falls, and
you sleep sweetly in the consciousness
of duty done. Kate Thorn, in New
York Weekly.