Farmer Henryer Meant Well, but He Didn't Deserve a Good Wife

1895

Old Ripley Henryer is a well to do farmer with skinflint tendencies whose life has been passed without an emotion except what may have been engendered in getting money together and holding fast to it.

When his father died a quarter of a century ago, his mother concluded she could not get along without him, so she quickly followed the same way, and Ripley, coming into possession of the homestead, felt the necessity for a good cook and washerwoman. Then he prevailed upon Hetty Mercer, an affectionate and pretty girl of the neighborhood, to assume those duties, first making her his wife.

It is possible he said nothing to her of the obligations attendant upon the wifely relations, but that made no difference as to results. Ripley was strong as an ox, and, a hard worker himself, he had no use for lazy people and no excuses for those who were weaker than himself.

As time passed little Henryers, one, two, three, five in all, came into the family fold, each one adding to the wife's cares, and meantime Ripley added to his acres.

The number of hired men increased, but in all the years it never occurred to him that the mother of his children might need help in her department. Hired girls were "scarce and awful high," as he put it when one of the neighbors reminded him of his remissness.

Hetty bore her yoke in silence and might have been contented even but for the man's utter lack of sentiment or affection. She had never felt the gentle pressure of his hand in soft caress, and he had never kissed her in his life. She grew old fast, faded and drooped, and finally even the stolid, sordid husband saw the necessity of calling in a doctor.

When the latter was leaving the house, he called Ripley aside and said:

"Suppose you show your wife a little kindness. I think a bit of affection will do her more good than medicine. She's in a bad way and may die."

The selfish fellow was frightened at the prospect of losing his cook and faithful housekeeper, and after some deliberation he entered her bedchamber and awkwardly approached her side, then stooped over and kissed her pale, cold brow.

The poor woman, who for 25 years had been dying for sympathy and love, was so startled at this exhibition of feeling on the part of her husband that tears of thankfulness gathered in her eyes and then rolled down her cheeks.

The lubberly fellow started back at sight of this evidence of weakness and blurted out:

"Gosh! Hetty, you needn't mind it. I didn't mean nothing by it. Doc, he said it mebbe'd make you feel better."

Then the tears dried quickly enough, and the woman turned her pallid face toward the wall.

When Ripley came back an hour later, all the kisses in the world could not have brought moisture to her eyes. The office of cook and laundress was vacant in his house. — Chicago Tribune.

Birds and Human Nature

1878

What is that legend of Mrs. Piatt's poem about the bird in the brain? Birds are perhaps the most human of creatures, and I should not be surprised if told we all carry more or less of them in our hearts and brains.

I have seen the hawk looking out of the human face many a time, and I think I have seen the eagle; I credit those who say they have seen the owl. Are not the buzzards and unclean birds terribly suggestive? The song-birds were surely all brooded and hatched in the human heart. They are typical of its highest aspirations, and nearly the whole gamut of human passion and emotion is expressed more or less in their varied songs.

Among our own birds there is the song of the hermit-thrush for devoutness and religious serenity, that of the wood-thrush for the musing, melodious thoughts of twilight, the song-sparrow's for simple faith and trust, the bobolink's for hilarity and glee, the mourning-dove's for hopeless sorrow, the vireo's for all-day and every-day contentment, and the nocturne of the mocking-bird for love. Then there are the plaintive singers, the soaring, ecstatic singers, the confident singers, the gushing and voluble singers, and the half-voiced, inarticulate singers. The note of the pewee is a human sigh, the piping of the chickadee unspeakable tenderness and fidelity. There is pride in the song of the tanager, and vanity in that of the cat-bird.

There is something distinctly human about the robin; his is the note of boyhood. I have thoughts that follow the migrating fowls northward and southward, and that go with the sea-birds into the desert of the ocean, lonely and tireless as they. I sympathize with the watchful crow perched yonder on that tree, or walking about the fields. I hurry outdoors when I hear the clarion of the wild gander; his comrade in my heart sends back the call. — John Burroughs, in Scribner's Magazine.

Beauty – Calling a Woman "Pretty" is Merely Conventional

1877

Pretty women are spoken of as if they, of all others, were the elect; as if woman's sole claim to admiration rested on her possession of fine eyes or luxuriant hair. "Is she pretty?" is the first question asked concerning a new acquaintance, as though that embraced the whole subject.

If a man likes a woman he generally considers her "pretty," for the term is merely conventional. A pretty woman, in the private lexicon of masculinity, signifies a woman interesting from whatever cause. Who has not known women to be called pretty that could hardly boast of a single handsome feature? Who has not been acquainted with those enjoying a wide reputation for prettiness that had almost any other than a physical charm? She who has a distinctly graceful manner, or an elegant air, or fine tact, or a talent for conversation, or quick sympathies, or cordial ways, or a heart of listening well, albeit plain in face and of ordinary figure, is frequently styled pretty, and the adjective is repeated until it is fastened upon and constantly associated with her.

Merely pretty women do not rule society — never did and never will. When beauty is allied to pleasant manners, or accomplishments, tact, quick wit, then, indeed, it is all-powerful; otherwise a really plain woman who had conspicuous graces of mind and manner will prove more than a match for her beautiful, insipid sisters.



Jonah and the Whale

A naturalist walks boldly to the front and announces that the preservation of Jonah in the whale's belly was not a miracle. The throat of the whale is large, and is provided with a bag or intestine, so considerable in size that the whales frequently take into it two of their young ones when weak, and especially during a tempest. As this receptacle is furnished with two vents that serve for inspiration, it is claimed that Jonah could have lived there comfortably and, with reasonable amount of furniture, many years, provided he could obtain food and drink.



Emotions of a Mother's Heart

A mother may never find words in which to express the emotions which surge through her heart on finding her babe, just dressed in its Sunday best, stirring the contents of a bottle of ink into the coal ashes with the hair-brush but she will try to, and try with all her might.