Christine: Or Woman's Trials and Triumphs

1. The Farmhouse

1 ch a p ter one The Farmhouse The hands of the wooden clock pointed to half-past five. Mrs. Elliot bustled about her kitchen getting supper ready for the “men-folks,” who were out haying. The table was already set, and the whole room presented a picture of neatness and comfort . The floor was uncarpeted, but very white, for Mrs. Elliot was one of the most notable of housewives. A turned-up bed, neatly curtained by a blue and white woven quilt, occupied one corner of the room; a pine table stood between the windows, and wooden chairs were set back stiffly against the wall at regular distances, looking as prim as if they were the old maids of their race. A pole hung a few inches below the ceiling, where some cup-towels, as white as the driven snow, were deposited. The fire-place was large; a tin baker stood before it, and the tea-kettle hung from the crane. On the mantelpiece were a cluster of tall iron candlesticks, and near by them the Farmer’s Almanac hanging on a nail. This volume bore the marks of frequent usage, as well it might, for no day passed in which Farmer Elliot did not peruse its pages, although he had already more than once read its purely literary portions from the history of Farmer Thrifty, whose fences were always in good   Christine 2 repair, to that of the unfortunate Thriftless, who, not only neglected these, but whose tools were always lost, or out of order , when wanted. The anecdotes, poetry, and conundrums in the appendix had also received their due share of attention. It was a book of general reference, containing, as it did, much useful information aside from that particularly referring to the weather, and its worth was enhanced by marginal notes in Mr. Elliot’s upright handwriting, which served as chronological records of important events which had occurred on the farm, or in the household. A large basket of work stood upon a small light-stand near a window, and close by it, on a low cricket, sat a young girl whose work had fallen from her lap to the floor, reading an old newspaper. “Christine! Christine!” exclaimed her mother, suddenly pausing in one of her rapid journeys between the cellar and the kitchen, “Don’t you see the tea-kettle is boiling? Get up and put the tea to steep.” Christine rose, went to the closet, and taking a china tea-pot from the shelf, poured some tea-leaves from the canister into it; then approaching the fire-place, she leaned awkwardly over the tin baker, and began to fill the tea-pot with hot water. The tea-kettle slipped; a little hot water burnt Christine’s fingers ; she started aside; her dress caught on the baker and nearly overturned it, and in her confused attempt to set it upright again, the tea-pot slipped from her hand, fell against the tall andiron, and broke into several pieces. The pan, too, slipped out of the baker, and over went the nice cream biscuit into the ashes. “Oh, dear!” exclaimed poor Christine, horrified, standing aghast at the ruin she had wrought, and “Goodness me!” screamed the shrill voice of her mother, as she sprang to the rescue. “Christine Elliot! you are the most shiftless girl that ever was!” she exclaimed, as she snatched the biscuit from the hearth Christine 3 before they could be much injured. Then, for the first time, seeing the fragments of the tea-pot, she burst out into a fit of passion— “Are you a fool? What possessed you to take that tea-pot, to steep the tea in? Get out of my sight! You were born to be the plague of my life. Don’t open your lips to me, Miss—. To think of taking my best china tea-pot to set on the coals! Oh, you are the most provoking girl that ever was—” But Christine heard no more. She had slipped out of the room into the garden. Tears of shame and anger filled her eyes, as she threw herself at full length on the ground, burying her face in the grass, as she sobbed out, “I wish I was dead! Everybody hates me. I wish the grass grew over my grave!” Her sister Bessie, who was picking currants for supper, looked at her compassionately. She did...