DON'T WORRY.

Auckland Star, Volume LVIII, Issue 208, 3 September 1927, Page 24

DON'T WORRY.

A DAY OF CALM. j THE WOMAN'S OUTLOOK. (By FARMER'S WIFE.) Whenever I venture to express my feelings on the troubles which beset a housewife my husband says: "Why make all the fuss ? Everything would be all right if only you woirid stop worrying?" Only last night he said it again. "Don't worry." I pondered over this long after he went to sleep and I made a firm resolution to take his advice— never again would I let anything worry me. So this morning I awoke full of joy and with expectations of a really blissful day. Of course he was right! | He must be. The first few hours proved! that, when for the first time for months I was able, with perfect calmness, to wave farewell to the children as they left for school. True, just as Mary was passing through the gateway a protruding nail tore a large jagged hole in her only clean dress (and her teacher is so dreadfully fussy about neatness). Still by putting on an apron—one with a bib back and front—the hole was hidden and if only Mary remembers not to fidget about, it should remain so. A Crash and a Scream.

After bathing and dressing the baby without any mishaps—all of course because I was determined not to let anything worry me—l left him peacefully enjoying his bottle in his pram on the back porch, and set about the usual daily duties. I had just emptied the last of the hot water into the washingup dish and whirled the soapholder into it, when—a crash and a scream from the porch. Baby had let his bottle fall and it lay in minute fragments on the floor—milk everywhere, of course. Still, no need to worry—lll get that medicine bottle. Jim used the last of the mixture for his cold yesterday. It hasn't been washed out yet, and oh! there is no hot water and babies' utensils must be sterilised —else think of the germs! I do wish baby would stop crying—l'm being as quick as I can. IH pop on a kettle of water and put plenty of wood on—it won't take a minute to heat. No wood. Oh yes, I remember, I used the last for heating baby's bath water. I told Reggie yesterday to be sure to cut some more, and as usual he has gone off to school and completely forgotten my woodbox. No matter, I'll cut some myself. Oh! why won't baby be quiet a minute longer? Where is that axe? It should be stuck in the chopping block —he always keep it there unless it is wanted for something else. I must keep calm. It can't be far away, no, I thought not, there it is by the fowlrun where Jim left it after hammering in those loose nails he spoke of yesterday. Wood at least —now for a good fire. Baby still yells and yells —he doesn't seem able to understand that I'm doing my best to hurry—l can't make the blessed water boil, if it doesn't want to. The Last of the Milk. Of course I'm not going to let his crying worry me. There it boils, all because I kept calm. 11l just heat up the rest of his milk while I wash out the bottle. I notice Jim has forgotten to bring up the house milk this morning, too, so it is lucky for me that there is just enough of yesterday's supply of baby's food to make another bottle full. Now the bottle is clean and no harm can come to the darling from the horrid old germs. Oh heavens! what is that —the milk has all boiled over—on my nice clean stove, too —but worse still, it is the laßt of the milk. Oh, for goodness sake stop crying—mother is hurrying,-pet, can't you see I am. I'll just have to *un right down to the cowshed for more milk. Now don't cry any more—mother wont be long. Where is that jug? I never realised before how senseless it is to have the shed so far from the house. Why can't it be close, then I wouldn't have to run all the way, and now if I'm not careful I'll spill the lot. Just hear baby's yells. He'll bring over all the neighbours. There, there, poor little man. Gracious it makes me nervous to hear his screams. I wonder if hell burst anything. Perhaps he has already. I daren't leave the milk to examine him. Shall I ring for a doctor ? Oh, why doesn't Jim come home —it's ages since he left for the factory, and I suppose he is up there still yarning away to old Dave Billings over his "superfine." Oh, dear, what shall I do? Something will happen, I'm sure—baby will die, I know he will, and what will Jim say then? Oh, hurrah! Thank goodness he is coming at last —I hear the wagon coming down the road. The milk is ready, too, bottle filled and peace at last from the occupant of the pram.

"Why, old girl," exclaims Jim, "what's the matter You look as if you'd been crying—nothing wrong, surely? You're not letting little things worry you again, are you?" With a huge gulp and a queer sort of smile I answer, "Oh no, Jim dear, I never let anything worry me now and I find the work goes on ever so much smoother." I