Wheeling Sunday register. [volume] (Wheeling, W. Va.) 1882-1934, 1892-07-31
VERY TRYING LIFE.
WOMAN'S EXISTENCE ON A SMALL FARM IS
WORST OF ALL.
No Rest, No Recreation, No Fun-An Interesting
Picture of Her Daily Routine Duhss-And
the Work is Kept Up Every Day
in the Year.
t10 York sun.

,sD ORR SUM
It was lust the kind Of rambling old
red farm house, with painted gables of
messy gray, overrun with riOtous vines
and hidden in a tangle of lilacs and
roses, that painter would have chosen
for his canvas, poet rhymed In his
sonnet, writer rejoced TO describe in
the opening chapters Of his summer
novel, and woman with common sense
would have seen was out Of repair,
damp, and unhealthy, inconvenient and
uncomfortable.
The green paper shades Of the seldom
used parlor were rolled up and tied with
white taper, the cream-white curtains
inside with their crocheted trimmings
looped back, letting the unfamiliar sun
shine into the low room, with its odor
Of damp, clean scanctlty common to
country parlOrS. There was rag car
pet on the floor, striped in gorgeous
cOlorS, a lounge in the corner with red
calico covers and husked-tilled cushion,
few freshly vanished cane-seat chairs
set stiffiy back against the wall, and
some tintype fac-similes OF relatives,
coffin plates framed in dark wood and
wreath of worsted flowers on
the wall. Beside the orderly table
where the family Bible and photo
graph album had been lifelong
companions, a woman sat sewing on
some of those fearfully and wonder
fully constructed trousers which The
"bareroot boy" OF the rural regions
fastens over his shoulder with a single
suspender made like the trousers out
of his pas" Outside whore the vine
leaves threw dancing shadows over her
fresh toilet of luxurious simplicity an
other women sat. Her hair fell in becom-
ing waves upon her forehead, her hands
were delicate and sparkling with jewels,
q bunch OF fresh clover was nodding
upon her breast, and her face
was bright with eager interest.
The woman inside wore faded
calico dress, its lily fitting waist
shrunken out of shapeliness with much
washing, her hair cOmbed tightly away
from the sallow face and twisted into
tight little knot at the back, her large,
brown hands, coarse red with heavy
work, drawing the thread through and
through the thick work with hurried,
awkward energy.
The woman with the clover in her
belt. fresh from the rush and strain OF
active city life, had wondered why the
faces of these farmers wives were so
dull and spiritesS; why in their peace
fuI environment, in which the pulse
beat of the mighty rush of modern life
scarcely stirred the mOnotonouS calm,
where hurry and reStleSsness were mer-
cifully unknown, the country woman
aged so much more rapidly than her
city sister; why her skin lost its delicacy,
her figure its suppleDesS, her hair its
lustre, and why among the women pa
tients OF insane asylums the farmer
wives constituted the majority. She
was fzding out now. She had heard
this woman's voice In the barnyard
when the birds were singing their first
drowsy dawn songs, calling out to the
cows as she MIXED. She had seen hel
lifting the pals OF foaming milk thai
! look so picturesque in paintings. She
had tried lifting herself, and knew why
the straight back was bent, the wrist:
large and bony. She bad heard hel
heavy steps walking the weary tread
mill OF the days duties through the
long mornings. There were washing
and ironing, making and mending. The
well, with its "old oaken bucket" was
far from the kitchen sink. The cisterr
had been forgotten in the construction
OF the house. The vegetable:
were in the ground, the eggs in the loft
everything in the most inconvenient
places. There were the children TO ge
off to school with their well-flled din
ner pals, the men in the lots to be pro
vided with hearty luncheons. Did you
ever see one Of these men now away
bread and hugs succulent doughnut'
fried in lard, beSnS and pie, thick coun
try pie with sod Zen crust and maple
sugar seasoning? This one woman
must keep all thd domestic machiner!
going. When TN cool shadows o
the twilight fell she went agar
into the stab where th'
''kine" Of III poets dream
waited to be milke There's no plac.
this side that preI red for the wicked