Australian Tales - Setis

“Her be's a tidy wench, sure enough,” muttered Jonathan to himself, as
he gazed around in smiling admiration on the tokens of good
housewifery, which were everywhere apparent, “I believe her do amost
bate my dear ould mother, and sister Suke. I wish they could see this
room. They wouldn't bother me any more to send for Dolly Daysel, I'll
warrant.”
Though it is commonly reported that “love is blind,” I doubt if it would
have blinded Jonathan to the reasonable deduction, that he could have
very little domestic comfort with Phoebe for his wife — however comely
her person — had he seen evidence of slovenliness, wastefulness, and a
lack of cleanliness, which is too often seen in country homes, and in
town homes, too. Jonathan, though as shy as a wild turkey, was
nevertheless shrewd enough in his quiet way, as most Devonshire boys
are — and much as he had admired Phoebe Skimmer's neat appearance
out of doors, had he seen anything to indicate that she was a “dolly”
indoors, he would have resigned her to some lover less mindful of such
important matters, and would have tried to subdue his passion, like a
sensible man, while he looked elsewhere for a suitable wife.
An intimate friend of mine — many years ago — fell suddenly in love
with a young lady whom he had met at a picnic. She was the belle of the
party; and in her flowing riding habit and feathery hat, she looked like
Diana, or some other goddess. The first glances of her love-striking eyes
went through his susceptible heart, like silver skewers; and her lisping
tongue and sonorous laughter tickled his ears like cuckoo's feathers. For
nine days his heart was in a simmer of adoration for Miss Birdy; and all
the world seemed sad and dreary without her. On the tenth day he called
at her mother's villa, in the forenoon, and found his Dulcinea en
deshabille, lolling on the drawing-room couch, sighing over a sensational
novel, entitled the “Blighted Heart, or the Midnight Vow,” while
everything around her evidenced slovenliness, disorder, and genteel dirt.
“How are you to-day, Miss Birdy?” asked my friend, as he entered the
room, with a fluttering heart.
“I'm very poorly,” replied the young lady, languidly raising herself into
a sitting posture, and hiding the book beneath the sofa cushion; gasping
the while with the exertion, like a little gosling trying to swallow a frog:
then in a die-away drawl she began to describe the aches and pains which
she was doomed to endure, but which my friend — who was rather a
sagacious youth — at once saw were whims and fancies, produced by
want of proper exercise of body and mind. He felt inclined to
recommend her to put on her morning wrapper, and rub the dust and
candle spots off her piano, and put the otherwise untidy room to rights:
then to go into the kitchen and exercise herself with the rolling-pin and
pastry board, while she heated the oven with the “Blighted Heart,” and
scores of similar books, which littered her boudoir. He was too