Ten Days in a Mad-House | Page 4

boiled beef, beans, potatoes, coffee or tea?"
"Beef, potatoes, coffee and bread," I responded.
"Bread goes in," she explained, as she made her way to the kitchen,
which was in the rear. It was not very long before she returned with
what I had ordered on a large, badly battered tray, which she banged
down before me. I began my simple meal. It was not very enticing, so
while making a feint of eating I watched the others.
I have often moralized on the repulsive form charity always assumes!
Here was a home for deserving women and yet what a mockery the
name was. The floor was bare, and the little wooden tables were

sublimely ignorant of such modern beautifiers as varnish, polish and
table-covers. It is useless to talk about the cheapness of linen and its
effect on civilization. Yet these honest workers, the most deserving of
women, are asked to call this spot of bareness--home.
When the meal was finished each woman went to the desk in the corner,
where Mrs. Stanard sat, and paid her bill. I was given a much-used, and
abused, red check, by the original piece of humanity in shape of my
waitress. My bill was about thirty cents.
After dinner I went up-stairs and resumed my former place in the back
parlor. I was quite cold and uncomfortable, and had fully made up my
mind that I could not endure that sort of business long, so the sooner I
assumed my insane points the sooner I would be released from
enforced idleness. Ah! that was indeed the longest day I had ever lived.
I listlessly watched the women in the front parlor, where all sat except
myself.
One did nothing but read and scratch her head and occasionally call out
mildly, "Georgie," without lifting her eyes from her book. "Georgie"
was her over-frisky boy, who had more noise in him than any child I
ever saw before. He did everything that was rude and unmannerly, I
thought, and the mother never said a word unless she heard some one
else yell at him. Another woman always kept going to sleep and
waking herself up with her own snoring. I really felt wickedly thankful
it was only herself she awakened. The majority of the women sat there
doing nothing, but there were a few who made lace and knitted
unceasingly. The enormous door-bell seemed to be going all the time,
and so did the short-haired girl. The latter was, besides, one of those
girls who sing all the time snatches of all the songs and hymns that
have been composed for the last fifty years. There is such a thing as
martyrdom in these days. The ringing of the bell brought more people
who wanted shelter for the night. Excepting one woman, who was from
the country on a day's shopping expedition, they were working women,
some of them with children.
As it drew toward evening Mrs. Stanard came to me and said:

"What is wrong with you? Have you some sorrow or trouble?"
"No," I said, almost stunned at the suggestion. "Why?"
"Oh, because," she said, womanlike, "I can see it in your face. It tells
the story of a great trouble."
"Yes, everything is so sad," I said, in a haphazard way, which I had
intended to reflect my craziness.
"But you must not allow that to worry you. We all have our troubles,
but we get over them in good time. What kind of work are you trying to
get?"
"I do not know; it's all so sad," I replied.
"Would you like to be a nurse for children and wear a nice white cap
and apron?" she asked.
I put my handkerchief up to my face to hide a smile, and replied in a
muffled tone, "I never worked; I don't know how."
"But you must learn," she urged; "all these women here work."
"Do they?" I said, in a low, thrilling whisper. "Why, they look horrible
to me; just like crazy women. I am so afraid of them."
"They don't look very nice," she answered, assentingly, "but they are
good, honest working women. We do not keep crazy people here."
I again used my handkerchief to hide a smile, as I thought that before
morning she would at least think she had one crazy person among her
flock.
"They all look crazy," I asserted again, "and I am afraid of them. There
are so many crazy people about, and one can never tell what they will
do. Then there are so many murders committed, and the police never
catch the murderers," and I finished with a sob that would have broken
up an audience of blase critics. She gave a sudden and convulsive start,

and I knew my first stroke had gone