Jasper Republican, Volume 2, Number 5, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 15 October 1875 — TAKING A SITUATION. [ARTICLE]

TAKING A SITUATION.

“ Well, girls,” said my Uncle Barnabas, “and now what do you propose to do about it?” We sat around the fire in a disconsolate semi-circle, that - dreary, drizzling May night, when the rain pattered against the window panes and the poor little daffodils in the borders shook and shivered as if they would fain hide their golden heads once more in the mother-soil. My mother, Eleanor and I. The first, pale, and pretty, and silver-haired, with the widow’s cap and her dress of black bombazine and crape; the sweetest-looking old lady, I think, that I ever saw. Eleanor sat beside her, looking, as she always did, like a princess, with large, dark eyes, Diana-like features, and hair twisted in a sort of coronal around her queenly head. While I, plain, homespun Susannah—commonly called, “for short,” Susy—crouched upon a footstool in the corner, my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hands. Uncle Barnabas Berkelin sat in the middle of the circle, erect, stiff and rather grim. He was stout and short, with a grizzled mustache, a little, round bald spot on the crown of his head, and two glittering black eyes that were always sending their dusky lightnings in the direction least expected. Uncle Barnabas was rich and we were poor. Uncle Barnabas was wise in the ways of the world, and we were inexperienced. Uncle Barnabas was prosperous in all he did; while, if there was a bad bargain to be made, we were pretty Sure to be the ones to make it Consequently, and as a matter of course, we looked up to Uncle Barnabas, and reverenced his opinions. “What do we propose to do about it?” Eleanor slowly repeated, lifting her beautiful jetty brows. “Yes, that’s exactly it,” said my mother, nervously; “because, Brother Barnabas, we don’t pretend to be business women, and it’s certain that we cannot live comfortably on our present income Something has got to be done.” And then my mother leaned back in her chair with a troubled face. “Yes,” said Uncle Barnabas, “something has got to be done! But who’s to do it?” And another dead silence succeeded. “I suppose your girls are educated?” said Uncle Barnabas. “ I know I found enough old school-bills when I was looking over my brother’s papers.” “ Of course,” said my mother, with evident pride; “their education has-been most expensive. Music, drawing, use of the globes ” “ Yes, yes, of course,” interrupted Uncle Barnabas. “ But is it practical? Can they teach?”

Eleanor looked dubious. I was quite certain that I could not. Mme. Lenoir, among all her list of accomplishments, had not included the art of practical tuition. “Humph!” grunted Uncle Barnabas. “ Queer thing, this modern idea of education. Well, if you can’t teach you can surely do something! What do you say, Eleanor, to a situation?” “ A situation?” The color fluttered in Eleanor’s cheeks ike pink and white apple blossoms. “ I spoke plain enough, didn’t I?” said Uncle Barnabas, dryly. “Yes, a situation!" “ What sort of a situation, Uncle Barnabas?” “ Well, I can hardly say. Part servant, part companion to an elderly lady!” explained the old gentleman. “ Oh, Uncle Barnabas, I couldn’t do that.” “ Not do it? And why not ?” “ It’s too much—too much!” whispered Eleanor, losing her regal dignity in the pressure of the emergency; “like going out to service.” “And that is precisely what it is!" retorted Uncle Barnabas, nodding his head. “ Service! Why, we’re all out at service, in one way or another, in this world!”

“ Oh, yes, I know,” faltered poor Eleanor, who, between her distaste for the proposed plan and her anxiety not to offend Uncle Barnaba* Berkelin, didn’t quite know what to say. “ But I—l’ve always been educated to be a lady.” “Soyou won’t take the situation, eh?” said Uncle Barnabas, staring up ak a wishy-washy little water-color drawing of Cupid and Psyche, an “ exhibition piece” of poor Eleanor’s, which hung above the chimney-piece. “I couldn’t, indeed, sir.” “ Wages twenty-five dollars a month,” mechanically repeated Uncle Barnabas, as if he were saying off a lesson. “ Drive out every day in the carriage with the missus, cat and canary to take care of, modern house with all the improvements, Sunday afternoons to yourself, and two weeks, spring and fall, to visit your mother.” “ No, Uncle Barnabas, no,” said Eleanor, with a little shudder. “lam a true Berkelin, and I cannot stoop to menial duties.” Uncle Barnabas gave such a prolonged sniff as to suggest the idea of a very bad cold in his head indeed. “ Sorry,” said he. “ Heaven helps those who help themselves, and you can’t expect me to be any more liberal-minded than heaven. Sister Rachel,” to my mother, “ what do you say?” My mother drew her pretty little figure up a trifle more erect than usual. “ I think my daughter Eleanor is quite right,” said she. “ The Berkelins have always been ladies.” I had sat quite silent, still with my chin in my hands, during all this family discussion; but now I rose up and came creeping to Uncle Barnabas’ side. “ Well, little Susie,” said the old gentleman, laying his hand kindly on my wrist, “what is it?” “If you please, Uncle Barnabas,” said I, with a rapidly-throbbing heart, “I would like to take the situation.” . “ Bravo!” cried Uncle Barnabas. “My dear child!” exclaimed my mother.

“ uttered Eleanor, in accents by no means laudatory. “ Yes,” said I. “ Twenty-five dollars a month is a great deal of money, and I was never afraid of work. I think I will go to the old lady, Uncle Barnabas. I’m sure I could send home at least twenty dollars a month to mother and Eleanor, and then the two weeks, spring and fall, would be so nice! Please, Uncle Barnabas, I’ll go back with you when you go. What is the old lady’s name?” “Her name?” said Uncle Barnabas. “ Didn’t I tell you ? It’s Prudence—Mrs. Prudence!” “ What a nice name,” said I. “ I know I shall like her.” “Well, I think you will,” said Uncle Barnabas, looking kindly at me. “ And I think she will like you. Is it a bargain for the nine o’clock train to-morrow morning?” * “ Yes,” I answered, stoutly, taking care not to look in the direction of my mother and Eleanor. “ You’re the most sensible of the lot,” said Uncle Barnabas, approvingly. But after he had gone to bed in the best chamber, where the ruffled pillowcases were, and the chintz-cushioned easychair, the full strength of the family tongue broke on my devoted head. “ I can’t help it,” quoth I, holding valiantly to my colors. “We can’t starve. Some of us must do. something. And you can live very nicely, mother, darling, on twenty dollars a month.” “ That is true,” sighed my mother from behind her black-bordered pocket-hand-kerchief. “ But I never thought to see a daughter of mine going out to —to service!”

“ And Uncle Barnabas isn’tgoing to do anything for us, after all,” cried out Eleanor, indignantly. “ Stingy old fellow; I should think he might at least adopt one of us! He’s as rich as Croesus, and never a chick nor a child.” “ He may do as he likes about that,” I answered independently. “I prefer to earn my own money.” So the next morning I set out for the unknown bourne of New York life. “ Uncle Barnabas," said I, as the train reached the city, “ how shall I find where Mrs. Prudence lives?” “ Oh, I’ll go there with you,” said he. “Are you well acquainted with her?” I ventured to ask. “Oh, very well indeed!” answered Uncle Barnabas, nodding his head sagely. We took a hack at the depot and drove through so many streets that my head spun around and around like a teetotum before we stopped at a pretty brown-stone mansion—it looked like a palace to my unaccustomed eyes—and Uncle Barnabas helped me out. “ Here is where Mrs. Prudence lives,” said he, with a chuckle. A neat little maid, with a frilled white apron and rose-colored ribbons in her hair, opened the door with a courtesy, and I was conducted into an elegant apartment, all gilding, exotics and blue-satin damask, when a plump old lady, dressed in black silk, with the loveliest Valenciennes lace at her throat and wrists, came smilingly forward, like a sixty-year-old sunbeam. “So you’ve come back, Barnabas, have you,” said she. “ And brought one of the dear girls with you. Come and kiss me, my dear.” “ Yes, Susy, kiss your aunt,” said Uncle Barnabas, fingering his hat one way and his gloves another, as he sat complacently down on the sofa. “My aunt ?” I echoed. “ Why, iff course,” said the plump old lady. “Don’t you know? I’m your Aunt Prudence.” | ? “But I thought,” gasped I, in bewilderment, “ that I WW coming to $ situation!”

“Well, so you are,” retorted Uncle Barnabas. “The situation of adopted daughter in my family. Twenty-fivq dollars a month pocket money—the care of Aunt Prudence’s cat and canary! And to make yourself generally useful!” “Oh! uncle,” cried I, “ Eleanor would have been so glad to come if she had known it!” “Fiddlestrings and little fishes!” illogically responded my Uncle Barnabas. “ I’ve no patience with a girl that’s too fine to work. Eleanor had the situation offered her and she chose to decline. You decided to come, and here you stay! Ring the bell, Prue, and order tea, for I’m as hungry as a hunter, and I dare say little Susy-here would relish a cup of tea!” And this was the way I drifted, into my luxurious home. Eleanor in the country cottage envies me bitterly, for she has all the tastes which wealth and a metropolitan home can gratify. But Uncle Barnabas will not hear of my exchanging with her. “ No, no!” says he. “ The girl I’ve got is the girl I mean to keep. Miss Eleanor is too fine a lady to suit me!” But he lets me send them liberal presents every month, and so I am happy,