Page:New Peterson magazine 1859 Vol. XXXV.pdf/64

 ONE

DAY IN THE LIFE OF A SEAMSTRESS. BY BY MRS. M.A.DENISOR

Monday Morning.—-Woke up rather later than T had hoped, in consequence of being kept awake in the night with severe pain, and the emughing of a child. First thought— when will ose the sleep that knows no waking?

Get up—make a fire—bathe my head, which aches violently, in cold water, while breakfast is preparing. Take a bundle of work and open it. Fingers a little cold, but there is nothing the stitching and padding for warming the blood of the poor. Breakfast ready. Sit down to table, but find I can eat nothing, my throat is so sore and swollen. Get up from table—must work if lean't eat—no reprieve from that fist. At it I go again—stitch and wad, seam and pad. First interruption—e little girl enters, “Please, Miss, mother wants you to alter the hem of my dress; it’s too short.”

“Your mother measured it herself,” is my reply.

“I know she did, and she says she’s sorry to put you to so much trouble” Half an hour wasted—don’t dare to refuse—might lose custom and be talked about.

At my original work once more. Head aches so that I am ‘most blind. Bathe it again, and take my necdie, determined to persevere. Enter little girl number two.

“Please, Miss—mother wants to know if you will come and cut and make her new parlor car- pet to-morrow? She is sick and can’t do it her- self.” By a little adroit questioning, find out that T am not expected to say, “No,” on any account. Agree to go if I can hold my head up. To work again. Wonder if anybody else in town ean be honored with so many calls Suppose not—think it must be owing to my position.

Amuse myself with stitching and giving orders for the children just from school, to put what victuals are covked on the table for dinner.

Enter little girl number three.

“*Please, Mizs—mother wants a little twist, and says she don't know aa she’s got these right; they set kind 0’ crooked.”

I take the work; horrible! she has placed the wrong pieces together; hope she has not cut them. Send little girl over to get other parts— spend twenty-five minutes in placing, basting, and trimming in the right way. My carelessness would never have ceased to be talked about if I had not done it, although it was right when first ent, and just as carefully adjasted. Must hurry o make up for lost time.

Enter a lady—I go into my only other room us the dishes are not washed yet. Lady is an oid customer—spends half an hoor telling me how she enjoyed herself at the Springs—wants to know if I’ve any very pretty patterns. Show her all I have. How delighted at being told that Miss Hill, the new dreas-maker, has got ‘‘oceans” of the latest Parisian fashions, and fits beautifully! All this while my time is being wasted. Lady wants to know whose basque that is—a black silk one. May she try it on?—she thinks some of having one made. “Oh! certainly,” is my reply, and the clock tells an hour gone, when the basque is hung upon its nail again. Two full hours of sleep cut off. Lady goes, after beating me down on a calico dress made for her three months ago.

At my work agnin—faco flashed; blood up to ninety-eight in the shade, fingers trembling— head aching. Draw the needle through twice, when Miss Slade’s servant makea her appear- ance. Just as I expected, my heart bests omin- ously.

“Miss Slade wants to know if you won't come right over there. Her dress is too tight, and she wants you to alter it.”

“T don’t know how I possibly can; can’t Miss Slade come over here?”

“Oh! no, indeed, ma’am; she’s got a headache and is laid down, She ain't done nothing but rend all day.”

My heart swells; I have 9 headache—but ohd when enn I lay down? Even ordinary sleep is denied me. Must not forego Migs Slade’s cus- tom. :

‘But if you tell her I shall lose time, I am se busy!”

‘She can’t come on no account, mn’am, she telled me so particuler—and she won't send it, "cause she wants to see yourself and tell you jest how it is. She told me to say that she must have it by to-night, because she’s going to a party, mn’nin.”

T sigh, but J rise—throw by my work to come back to it at night, perbaps—put on my bonnet