THE SCHOOLMASTER’S TRUNK.I.THE SLAVES OF THE ROLLING-PIN.
THE SCHOOLMASTER’S TRUNK.
PIES again! Always pies! One, two, three, four, this is the fifth time, within, say, ten days or a fortnight, that, to my knowledge, pies have stood in the way of better things.
First, my hostess, Mrs. Fennel, could not leave to take a ride with me a few mornings ago, because “we are entirely out of—pies.” Mrs. Fennel, poor woman, is far from well, and what with husband, grown-up boys, and two small children, not to mention myself as boarder, she has a large family to cook for, and only her daughter Martha to help do the work. That breezy morning-ride would have raised her spirits; it would have put new life into her: but—pies. (This is one time.) Then Miss Martha, who is fond of reading, declined the loanof my library-book the other day on account of having to help her mother make—pies. (Two times.) Last evening she could not run up on the hill to see the sun set, because they were trying to get the meat and apple ready over night for—pies. (Three times.) When poor Mrs. Fennel was taken off her work the other day by one of her frequent ill-turns, Mrs. Melendy came in with offers of assistance.
“Now I can stay just two hours by the clock,” said Mrs. Melendy in her sprightly way; “and what shall I take hold of first? Shall I tidy up the room, read to you, bathe your head, make you some good gruel? Or, else, shall I take hold of the mending, or see to the dinner, or what?”
Mrs. Fennel raised her languid lids, and faintly murmured, “Out of pies.”
“Dear me!” cried breezy Mrs. Melendy, “I know what that feeling is well enough; and ’tis a dreadful feeling! Why, I should no more dare to set out a meal’s victuals without pie than I should dare to fly! For my husband, he must have his piece o’ pie to top off with, whatever’s on the table.” And the sympathizing sister bared her willing arms, and wrestled womanfully with the rolling-pin, I know not how long.
The fifth time was this morning. While sitting in the room adjoining the kitchen, the doors being open between, I heard Martha ask her mother why they could not take a magazine. “I do long for something to read!” said she; “and all we have is just one newspaper a week.”
“Oh! we couldn’t get much reading-time,” said Mrs. Fennel. “If ’tisn’t one thing, ’tis another, and sometimes both. There’s your father, now, coming with the raisins. These pies will take about all the forenoon.” Miss Martha afterward spoke to her father about the magazine.
“We can’t afford to spend money on readin’,” he answered, in his usual drawling monotone: “costs a sight to live. Now, if we didn’t raiseour own pork, we should be hard pushed to git short’nin’ for our pies.”
Such constant reiteration had made me desperate. I strode to the doorway. “And whymustwe havepies?” I demanded in tones of smothered indignation. “Why not bread and butter, with fruits or sauce, instead? Why not drop pies out of the work altogether? Yes, drop them out of the world.” Miss Martha was the first to recover from the shock of this startling proposition. “Our men-folks couldn’t get along without pies, Mr. McKimber,” she said.
“Pie-crust does make a slave of a woman, though,” said Mrs. Fennel. “There’s nothin’ harder than standin’ on your feet all the forenoon, rollin’ of it out.”
“Denno ’bout doin’ without pie,” drawled Mr. Fennel. “’Pears if bread’n sarse’d be a mighty poor show for somethin’ to eat.”
“’Twould take off the heft of the cookin’,” said Mrs. Fennel thoughtfully; “but” (with a sigh) “you couldn’t satisfy the men-folks.”
I rushed to my chamber in despair. Pie, then, is one of the household gods in Tweenit. But what can I do about it? Something must be done. Suppose I write an “Appeal to Women,” and readit at the sewing-circle, pretending it was taken from a newspaper published in—well, in Alaska, or Australia, or the Orkney Islands. We gentlemen are expected to help along the entertainment in some way.
Hark, now, to the music of the rolling-pin sounding from below! That music shall inspire my
“APPEAL.
“My dear friends, this is an age of inquiry. Can any one tell who first imprisoned our luscious fruits in a paste of grease and flour, baptized the thing with fire, and named it pie? And why is this pie a necessity? That is what confounds me. Mothers of families, hard pressed with work, consume time and strength in endless struggles with the rolling-pin. Fathers of families lengthen their bills to shorten their pies. And all this is to what end? The destruction of health. Every stroke on the board demands strength which is worse than thrown away. Every flake of pastry is so much food which were better left uneaten. And as for the time consumed in this kind of labor, who shall count the hours which are daily rolled away, and chiefly by overburdened women, who complain of ‘no time’ and ‘no constitution’?“One Saturday forenoon I stood on the hill which commands a view of the village. It was ‘baking-day.’ Being a clairvoyant, I looked through the roofs of the houses, and saw in every kitchen a weary woman, ‘standin’ on her feet,’ rolling, rolling, rolling. Close around some stood their own little children, tugging at their skirts, pleading for that time and attention which rightfully belonged to them. One frail, delicate woman was actually obliged to lie down and rest twice before her task was ended. Another, the mother of an infant not many months old, accomplished hers with one foot on the cradle-rocker.“We read of despotic countries where galley-slaves were chained to the oar. They, however, after serving their time, went free. Alas for poor woman chained to the rolling-pin! Her sentence is for life.“We read, too, in ancient story of powerfulgenii, whose control over their slaves was absolute; but this terriblegeniusof the household exacts from its slaves an equally prompt obedience. Is there one among them who dares assert her freedom?“No: their doom is inevitable. Woman is foreordained to roll her life away. Is there no escape? No escape. The rolling-board is planted squarelyin the path of every little daughter; and sooner or later, if her life be spared, she will walk up to it. May we not call it an altar upon which human sacrifices are performed daily?“I observed, on the morning just mentioned, that, in the intervals of pastry-making, thegenius of the long-handled spoontook control, demanding its customary tribute of eggs, sugar, fat, spices, &c., demanding, also, the usual outlay of time and strength which goes to the compounding of cakes; and thus, with rolling, beating, and stirring, the forenoon wore away, leaving in each house its accumulation of unwholesome food.“Youdoknow, madam, that plain living is better for your children? Youwouldlike more time to devote to them, or for books, or for recreation? Then, pray, why not change all this? Is palate forever to rank above brain? Change your creed. Say, ‘I believe in health, in books, in out-doors.’ Why don’t yourise, slaves? Now is your time. Now, when slaves everywhere are demanding their freedom, demand yours.“Company?Thanks for teaching me that word. The kind hospitality of this social little village of Tweenit enables me to be ‘company’ myself very frequently. And I am aware that much timeis spent in the preparation of viands to set before me, which, for variety and richness, could not be excelled. Shall I add, that whenever, at the bountifully-spread tea-tables, I have attempted to start a rational conversation, the attempt usually has been a failure? Books, public men, public measures, new ideas, new inventions, new discoveries, what is doing for the elevation of women,—on none of these subjects had my entertainers a word to offer. Their talk was, almost without exception, trivial, not to say gossipy.“Therefore, as a member of that institution, which, as everybody says, ‘makes a sight of work,’ namely, ‘company,’ I protest. I petition for less variety in food, and more culture. And your petitioner further prays, that some of the spices and good things be left out in cooking, and put into the conversation.”“But the ‘men-folks’? Ah, to be sure! Perhaps, after all, it is they who need an appeal.”
“My dear friends, this is an age of inquiry. Can any one tell who first imprisoned our luscious fruits in a paste of grease and flour, baptized the thing with fire, and named it pie? And why is this pie a necessity? That is what confounds me. Mothers of families, hard pressed with work, consume time and strength in endless struggles with the rolling-pin. Fathers of families lengthen their bills to shorten their pies. And all this is to what end? The destruction of health. Every stroke on the board demands strength which is worse than thrown away. Every flake of pastry is so much food which were better left uneaten. And as for the time consumed in this kind of labor, who shall count the hours which are daily rolled away, and chiefly by overburdened women, who complain of ‘no time’ and ‘no constitution’?
“One Saturday forenoon I stood on the hill which commands a view of the village. It was ‘baking-day.’ Being a clairvoyant, I looked through the roofs of the houses, and saw in every kitchen a weary woman, ‘standin’ on her feet,’ rolling, rolling, rolling. Close around some stood their own little children, tugging at their skirts, pleading for that time and attention which rightfully belonged to them. One frail, delicate woman was actually obliged to lie down and rest twice before her task was ended. Another, the mother of an infant not many months old, accomplished hers with one foot on the cradle-rocker.
“We read of despotic countries where galley-slaves were chained to the oar. They, however, after serving their time, went free. Alas for poor woman chained to the rolling-pin! Her sentence is for life.
“We read, too, in ancient story of powerfulgenii, whose control over their slaves was absolute; but this terriblegeniusof the household exacts from its slaves an equally prompt obedience. Is there one among them who dares assert her freedom?
“No: their doom is inevitable. Woman is foreordained to roll her life away. Is there no escape? No escape. The rolling-board is planted squarelyin the path of every little daughter; and sooner or later, if her life be spared, she will walk up to it. May we not call it an altar upon which human sacrifices are performed daily?
“I observed, on the morning just mentioned, that, in the intervals of pastry-making, thegenius of the long-handled spoontook control, demanding its customary tribute of eggs, sugar, fat, spices, &c., demanding, also, the usual outlay of time and strength which goes to the compounding of cakes; and thus, with rolling, beating, and stirring, the forenoon wore away, leaving in each house its accumulation of unwholesome food.
“Youdoknow, madam, that plain living is better for your children? Youwouldlike more time to devote to them, or for books, or for recreation? Then, pray, why not change all this? Is palate forever to rank above brain? Change your creed. Say, ‘I believe in health, in books, in out-doors.’ Why don’t yourise, slaves? Now is your time. Now, when slaves everywhere are demanding their freedom, demand yours.
“Company?Thanks for teaching me that word. The kind hospitality of this social little village of Tweenit enables me to be ‘company’ myself very frequently. And I am aware that much timeis spent in the preparation of viands to set before me, which, for variety and richness, could not be excelled. Shall I add, that whenever, at the bountifully-spread tea-tables, I have attempted to start a rational conversation, the attempt usually has been a failure? Books, public men, public measures, new ideas, new inventions, new discoveries, what is doing for the elevation of women,—on none of these subjects had my entertainers a word to offer. Their talk was, almost without exception, trivial, not to say gossipy.
“Therefore, as a member of that institution, which, as everybody says, ‘makes a sight of work,’ namely, ‘company,’ I protest. I petition for less variety in food, and more culture. And your petitioner further prays, that some of the spices and good things be left out in cooking, and put into the conversation.”
“But the ‘men-folks’? Ah, to be sure! Perhaps, after all, it is they who need an appeal.”