LIVING AT A CONVENIENT DISTANCE.
THERE are few of us who do not feel, at some time in life, the
desire for change. Indeed, change of place corresponding, as it
does, in outward nature, to change of state in the mind, it is not
at all surprising that we should, now and then, feel a strong desire
to remove from the old, and get into new locations, and amid
different external associations. Thus, we find, in many families, an
ever recurring tendency to removal. Indeed, I have some housekeeping
friends who are rarely to be found in the same house, or in the same
part of the city, in any two consecutive years. Three moves,
Franklin used to say, were equal to a fire. There are some to whom I
could point, who have been, if this holds true, as good as burned
out, three or four times in the last ten years.
But, I must not write too long a preface to my present story. Mr.
Smith and myself cannot boast of larger organs of Inhabitativeness—I
believe, that is the word used by phrenologists—than many of
our neighbors. Occasionally we have felt dissatisfied with the
state of things around us, and become possessed of the demon of
change. We have moved quite frequently, sometimes attaining superior
comfort, and some times, getting rather the worst of, it for
“the change.”
A few years ago, in the early spring-time, Mr. Smith said to me, one
day:
“I noticed, in riding out yesterday, a very pleasant country house
on the Frankford Road, to let, and it struck me that it would be a
fine thing for us, both as to health and comfort, to rent it for the
summer season. What do you think of it?”
“I always, loved the country, you know,” was my response.
My heart had leaped at the proposition.
“It is such a convenient distance from the city,” said Mr. Smith.
“How far?”
“About four miles.”
“Do the stages pass frequently?”
“Every half hour; and the fare is only twelve and a half cents.”
“So low! That is certainly an inducement.”
“Yes, it is. Suppose we go out and look at the house?”
“Very well,” said I. And then we talked over the pleasures and
advantage that would result from a residence in the country, at such
a convenient distance from the city.
On the next day we went to look at the place, and found much, both
in the house and grounds, to attract us. There was a fine shaded
lawn, and garden with a stock of small and large fruit.
“What a delightful place for the children,” I exclaimed.
“And at such a convenient distance from the city,” said my husband.
“I can go in and out to business, and scarcely miss the time. But do
you think you would like the country?”
“O, yes. I’ve always loved the country.”
“We can move back into the city when the summer closes,” said Mr.
Smith.
“Why not remain here permanently? It will be too expensive to keep
both a city and country house,” I returned.
“It will be too dreary through the winter.”
“I don’t think so. I always feel cheerful in the country. And, then,
you know, the house is at such a convenient distance, and the stages
pass the door at every half hour. You can get to business as easily
as if we resided in the city.”
I was in the mood for a change, and so it happened was Mr. Smith.
The more we thought and talked about the matters, the more inclined
were we to break up in the city, and go permanently to the country.
And, finally, we resolved to try the experiment.
So the pleasant country house was taken, and the town house given
up, and, in due time, we took our flight to where nature had just
carpeted the earth in freshest green, and caused the buds to expand,
and the trees of the forest to clothe themselves in verdure.
How pleasant was every thing. A gardener had been employed to put
the garden and lawn in order, and soon we were delighted to see the
first shoots from seeds that had been planted, making their way
through the ground. To me, all was delightful. I felt almost as
light-hearted as a child, and never tired of expressing my pleasure
at the change.
“Come and see us,” said I, to one city friend and another, on
meeting them. “We’re in a most delightful place, and at such a
convenient distance from the city. Just get into the Frankford
omnibus, which starts from Hall’s, in Second street above Market,
every half hour, and you will come to our very door. And I shall be
so delighted to have a visit from you.”
In moving from the city, I took with me two good domestics, who had
lived in my family for over a year. Each had expressed herself as
delighted at the prospect of getting into the country, and I was
delighted to think they were so well satisfied, for I had feared
lest they would be disinclined to accompany us.
About a month after our removal, one of them, who had looked
dissatisfied about something, came to me and said:
“I want to go back to the city, Mrs. Smith; I don’t like living in
the country.”
“Very well,” I replied. “You must do as you please. But I thought
you preferred this to the city?”
“I thought I would like it, but I don’t. It’s too lonesome.”
I did not persuade her to stay. That error I had once or twice, ere
this, fallen into, and learned to avoid it in future. So she went
back to the city, and I was left with but a single girl. Three days
only elapsed before this one announced her intended departure.
“But you will stay,” said I, “until I can get some one in your
place.”
“My week will be up on Saturday,” was replied. “Can you get a girl
by that time?”
“That leaves me only two days, Mary; I’m afraid not.”
Mary looked unamiable enough at this answer. We said no more to each
other. In the afternoon I went to the city to find a new domestic,
if possible, but returned unsuccessful.
Saturday came, and to my surprise and trouble, Mary persisted in
going away. So I was left, with my family of six persons, without
any domestic at all.
Sunday proved to me any thing but a day of rest. After washing and
dressing the children, preparing breakfast, clearing away the table,
making the beds, and putting the house to order, I set about getting
dinner. This meal furnished and eaten, and the dishes washed and put
away, I found myself not only completely tired out, but suffering
from a most dreadful headache. I was lying down, about four o’clock,
in a half-waking and sleeping state, with my head a little easier,
when my husband, who was sitting by the window, exclaimed:
“If there isn’t Mr. and Mrs. Peters and their three children,
getting out of the stage!”
“Not coming here!” said I, starting up in bed, while, at the same
moment, my headache returned with a throbbing intensity that almost
blinded me.
“Yes, coming here,” replied Mr. Smith.
“How unfortunate!” came from my lips, as I clasped my hands to my
temples.
Now, Mr. and Mrs. Peters were people for whom we had no particular
friendship. We visited each other scarcely once a year, and had
never reciprocated an evening to tea. True, I had, on the occasion
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