'Doan't you stop if her hollers at
'ee,' said another cottage mother to her girl, just departing for
service--that is, don't stop if you don't like it; don't stop if your
mistress finds the least fault. 'Come along home if you don't like it.'
Home to what? In this instance it was a most wretched hovel, literally
built in a ditch; no convenience, no sanitation; and the father a
drunkard, who scarcely brought enough money indoors to supply bread.
You would imagine that a mother in such a position would impress upon her
children the necessity of endeavouring to do something. For the sake of
that spirit of independence in which they seem to take so much pride, one
would suppose they would desire to see their children able to support
themselves. But it is just the reverse; the poorer folk are, the less
they seem to care to try to do something. 'You come home if you don't
like it;' and stay about the hovel in slatternly idleness, tails
bedraggled and torn, thin boots out at the toes and down at the heels,
half starved on potatoes and weak tea--stay till you fall into disgrace,
and lose the only thing you possess in the world--your birthright, your
character. Strange advice it was for a mother to give.
Nor is the feeling confined to the slatternly section, but often
exhibited by very respectable cottagers indeed.
'My mother never would go out to service--she _wouldn't_ go,' said a
servant to her mistress, one day talking confidentially.
'Then what did she do?' asked the mistress, knowing they were very poor
people.
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