There is a many-
versed ballad popular in country districts. Often I have heard it
sung in shrill, piping voice at harvest supper or barn dance. The
chorus runs -
A man's work 'tis till set of sun,
But a woman's work is never done!
"My housekeeper came to me a few months ago," said the Woman of the
World, "to tell me that my cook had given notice. 'I am sorry to
hear it,' I answered; 'has she found a better place?' 'I am not so
sure about that,' answered Markham; 'she's going as general
servant.' 'As general servant!' I exclaimed. 'To old Hudson, at
the coal wharf,' answered Markham. 'His wife died last year, if you
remember. He's got seven children, poor man, and no one to look
after them.' 'I suppose you mean,' I said, 'that she's marrying
him.' 'Well, that's the way she puts it,' laughed Markham. 'What I
tell her is, she's giving up a good home and fifty pounds a year, to
be a general servant on nothing a week. But they never see it.'"
"I recollect her," answered the Minor Poet, "a somewhat depressing
lady. Let me take another case. You possess a remarkably pretty
housemaid--Edith, if I have it rightly.
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