"Mrs Willet can tackle a hundred jobs, without having been specifically taught any of them. She can salt pork or beef, make jams, jellies, wines, chutneys and pickles; she can bake pies--with all manner of pastries--cakes, tarts and her own bread, which is particularly delicious. She makes rugs, curtains, and her own clothes. She can help a neighbour in childbirth and--at the other end of life's span--compose a corpse's limbs for decent burial. She is as good a gardener as her husband, can distemper a room, mend a fuse, and sings in the choir.
She is, in fact, typical of most countrywomen, and with them she shares that self-reliance which is the heritage of those who have had to face tackling daily jobs of varied kinds.
Mrs Willet is small and pale and yet she is 'always on the go,' as she herself will tell you. The fact that she can do so many things, and takes enormous pride in doing them well, is, I think the secret of this apparently inexhaustible energy. There are so many different activities to engage her, that when she tires of one, there is another to which she can turn and get refreshment. From turning her heavy old mangle in the wash-house, she will come in and sit down to stitch a new skirt. She will prepare a stew, and while it simmers on the hob, filling the little house with its fragrance, she will practise her part in Mr Annett's new anthem, ready for the next church festival. And--this perhaps is the most important thing--she sees a satisfying result from her labours. The clothes blow on the line, the skirt is folded and put away in the drawer ready for next Sunday; Mr Willet will come in 'sharp-set' and praise her bubbling stew; and, with any luck, Mr Annett will congratulate her on her grasp of that difficult passage just before the basses come in.
It is a creative life. There is something worth while to show for energy expended which engenders the desire to accomplish more. Small wonder that the Mrs Willets of this world are happy, and deserve to be so."
Village Diary by Miss Read
A house without a woman and firelight is like a body without soul or sprite.~~Poor Richard's Almanack (1733)
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