resents the matter from another point of view, and was written,
it will be seen, by a man:

Talk of a washing day! What is that to a whole week of washing-days?
No, even this gives no true idea of that worst of domestic
afflictions a poor man can suffer--house-cleaning. The washing is
confined to the kitchen or wash-house, and the effect visible in the
dining-room is in cold or badly cooked meals; with a few other
matters not necessary to mention here. But in the
house-cleaning--oh, dear! Like the dove from the ark, a man finds no
place where he can rest the sole of his foot. Twice a year,
regularly, have I to pass through this trying ordeal, _willy-nilly,_
as it is said, in some strange language. To rebel is useless. To
grumble of no avail. Up come the carpets, topsyturvy goes the
furniture, and _swash!_ goes the water from garret to cellar. I
don't know how other men act on these occasions, but I find
discretion the better part of valor, and submission the wisest
expedient.

Usually it happens that my good wife works herself half to
death--loses the even balance of her mind--and, in consequence,
makes herself and all around her unhappy. To indulge in an unamiable
temper is by no means a common thing for Mrs. Sunderland, and this
makes its occurrence on these occasions so much the harder to bear.
Our last house-cleaning took place in the fall. I have been going to
write a faithful history of what was said, done, and suffered on the
occasion ever since, and now put my design into execution, even at
the risk of having my head combed with a three-legged stool by my
excellent wife, who, when she sees this in print, will be taken, in
nautical phrase, all aback. But, when a history of our own
shortcomings, mishaps, mistakes, and misadventures will do others
good, I am for giving the history and pocketing the odium, if there
be such a thing as odium attached to revelations of human weakness
and error.

"We must clean house this week," said my good wife one morning as we
sat at the breakfast-table--"every thing is in a dreadful condition.
I can't look at nor touch any thing without feeling my flesh creep."

I turned my eyes, involuntarily, around the room. I was not, before,
aware of the filthy state in which we were living. But not having so
good "an eye for dirt" as Mrs. Sunderland, I was not able, even
after having my attention called to the fact, to see "the dreadful
condition" of things. I said nothing, however, for