St. Johnsbury Caledonian. [volume] (St. Johnsbury, Vt.) 1867-1919, 1896-11-20
rlrs. Hatherton's Bad Day.
Written by George c. Sutton of New York
for the st. Jobnsbury CALIFORNIAN.

!
Written by George c. Sutton of New York
for the st. Jobnsbury CALIFORNIAN.
With regularity which might have
been measured by weeks or even by days,
the conviction would come to Mrs. Hath
erton that lifeis given Tor noble purposes,
and that although her lie was slipping
away, she was scarcely living up to its
high demands. When this conclusion
began to dawn upon her, she always
recognized the symptoms OF familiar
disease and greeted it with whimsical
smile. Then, as the thought grew upon
her that time is fleeing and opportuni-
ties few, life took on so serious an aspect
that she forgot she had ever before con-
templated it with good resolutions for
the future, and sat herself down in her
easy chair to think it all out Now
thinking is an art 1t is not simply to
allow confused tumble of impressions
to wander vaguely through the mind,
but it is to sum up facts clearly and dis
pose OF them methodically. 1t is an art
few have mastered. Mrs. Hatherton's
thinking was apt to be discursve, and
usually it left her at the finish far from
the point of beginning
Still, this morning, as she sat in her
quiet parlor, she settled herself to think
out her situation. What vast? Where
was the point of friction? Here she sat,
in as cosy fiat as one need wish for,
with the windows of the parlor looking
out on pretty public square, filled with
trees and flowers. Shehad a lovely baby
girl just beginning to talk, and pretty
good husband, as husbands go. Why
should she not be happy? She habitu-
ally forgot, in the interest OF her many
duties, thar she was not so; but some
times, when work was done and the
maid had taken the baby out for an air
ing force that to dust, to clean and beau
tify the house, to concoct dainty dishes
and to talk sweet nonsense even to the
baby of babies, would not suffice. These
duties, stretching out in endless routine,
appalled, her.
Ii was useless to tell herself the story
OF the pendulum and the clock; that each
day had its duties and responsibilities
was no consolation, but rather an addi-
ton to the unsatisfactory condition Of
mundane things.
True, she might take up the woman's
rights question, but that had little at.
traction for her She wasn't suppressed
She had all the rights she cared about,
and had no desire to go upon the plat
form to wrangle for those she wanted
not. And then, Mrs. Hatherton was
pardonably fond OF pretty clothes, and
that is one of the frivolities which the
strong minded regard with contempt
But clothes could not fill all her life, so
what was she to do? 1t all came back
to that.
OF course there was Geof, and the
baby; but Geof was rather fond of his
evening or two week out, and even
when Geof was at home, and busy with
his books, there was ample time on her
hands.
&c. after all, what was it all worth
To get up each morning, to eat, tidy the
house, eat again, go out for walk, back
again, cat, and to bed, to sleep, and to-
morrow resume the tiresome round!
She looked at herself in the glass as she
prepared to go out What if the hat
was tasty and becoming? Geof forgot
that she was pretty, just as he forgot the
flowers on the table and the dish pre-
pared especially for him. Something
dimmed her eyes and filled her throat as
she went down the long stairs and out
into the street. But for baby, she would
not care how soon it might end.
She shook her head at the gripman on
the cable car, and took her way slowly
down the avenue. She passed through
the little park, and saw the nurse and
baby basking in the sunshine.
II am going down town, Lucy" she
said. Don't go out OF the park with the
baby"
"Yes'm, sure" responded the maid,
with obedient interest
"If l were only Mrs. Hatherton," she
thought, $50 pretty, so stylish, such a
good husband and such a home"
But Mrs. Hatherton, unconscious of
the woman's envious thoughts, passed
on. What was the use of being a little
above the average woman in taste and
intelligence? No one cared. No one ever
does. She had never hoped to be a
woman of mark, but if there were only
something to fill ones life. Carlyle had