"We all hope for a home of our own, and we can only learn from those that we serve; and if only more interest and consideration were shown us, I am sure, we would all do much better work, as we all like to please and we do our best when we are happy and appreciated.

"Unequal wages are a source of discontent, but if we could be taught how to secure the value for our money, to spend with better judgment, even less money would go farther.

"Then, again, if our amusements could be arranged so that we could get something decent between nine and ten o'clock at night; but everything is half over, or shut, by that time, and we've nothing to do but walk the streets, sit in the park, drink soda water, or look at moving pictures, until you hate them all, and when Monday morning comes you've spent your money and had nothing. It's a deadly life, and we all look forward to getting out of it soon. Never a minute to call one's own, not often a room or bed to one's self, at the beck and call of somebody night and day, and in many places not even trusted with the things to work with, if there are any."

*

Would you like a tiny book of poetry—real poetry, made by one of our strong writers?

He makes not only the poems, but the book; prints it, binds it, sends it to you himself.

It is a dainty thing, five and a half by four inches; but it has in it both thought and feeling, and beauty of expression.

"A Ship of Souls" is the title, and the first stanza carries the main idea—touched and re-touched throughout.

"My soul is not one; 'tis a ship of souls, And I am the vessel in which they ride. Some handle the ropes and manage the sails, And one at the helm stands firm to guide. Some board me for pleasure, and some for gain, And some make journeys to distant goals, And my life is steered through the sun and rain, For I am not a soul, but a ship of souls."

A Ship of Souls.—Being a group of poems written and printed by Harvey White. The Maverick Press; Woodstock, New York, 1910. 50c.



PERSONAL PROBLEMS

I.

Question.—"An aged widow would like to live with her married daughter, but their dispositions are incompatible. The mother is very fond of the daughter, but the daughter finds it impossible to respond or feel affectionate, and is so irritated and critical because of the mother's old-fashioned ways, etc., that continued close association becomes very unpleasant.

"Who is to blame, and what can the mother do to improve the situation?

"Mutual Wellwisher."

Answer.—There is no "blame" in the problem as stated. Incompatibility of disposition is not a crime. If, however, the daughter allows her irritation and critical attitude to result in actual discussion and expressed disapproval of her mother's "old-fashioned ways," then she is certainly to blame; whether her mother is a guest or a boarder, she is not her daughter's pupil.

Again, if the mother allows herself to interfere with the daughter's "ways," she is to blame for that; her period of tutoring is past. Ex-parents should not presume on their unavoidable relationship to give instruction to ex-children.

The real answer is a long way back, being to this effect:

The aged widow, when a young woman, should have had such large practical interest in life, over and above her family, that she would not be reduced to the position of "living with a married daughter; or, if she did live with her, would have enough else to occupy her to keep her "old-fashioned ways" in the background. Further, if she had kept up with human progress in some business, her ways wouldn't be so old-fashioned.

The Practical Answer to the Practical Question, "What can the mother do to improve the situation?" is not difficult. She can (a) alter her ways; (b) live somewhere else; (c) if neither of these is possible, she can put it clearly to the daughter, "as man to man," that she has to live with her, that she cannot learn new ways, and that they must use mutual politeness in accommodating one an other as far as possible.

It is a very carefully worded problem, this. If the daughter is healthy and otherwise contented, she ought to furnish the patience, as doubtless the mother did in her time. But it may be that the mother always irritated the daughter, in her youth, and has never never learned better.

If I were the aged widow I would live somewhere else!

II

Question.—A friend writes to ask—

"How about flies its the central kitchen?" (This being apropos of "The Kitchen and the Fly," in the August number of this magazine.)

Answer.—One kitchen, though large, is more easily protected than a hundred kitchens, though small. There will be less "garbage," in proportion, and it can be better handled. The officers of such a kitchen will be of a higher grade than the present class of servants, and capable of maintaining a higher grade of cleanliness; as, for instance, in the Franco-American soup factory, where there is exquisite cleanliness and care.

Further, in such a kitchen there will be no laundry or other extraneous work done; no running in and out of children and others; nothing but the scientific preparation of food.

Also, as shown in the article, the flies will be reduced 99 per cent. by the reduction in the number of horses required to bring supplies and remove garbage and ashes. To the large kitchen, wholesale supplies could be brought in motor trucks—a further loss to the fly.

III

Question.—"A certain husband has been in the habit for years of paying a dollar a month lodge dues, and other incidental expenses of lodge meetings. The wife has paid a dollar a year dues in a suffrage club, and a dollar and a half a year for subscription to the Woman's Journal. The 'late' panic has shrunk the family income, and something must be cut off. The Wife will cut off the two small amounts mentioned. She will cut off anything else that is for her separate existence. Now, the question is, how may her feeling of virtue and self-sacrifice be changed to a realization of injustice?"

Answer.—This is a very large question—how to change the ethical values of a woman's life!

We gather by inference that the "certain husband" has not cut off his lodge dues—or anything else.

The best answer is: let the woman EARN HER OWN LIVING. That goes farthest in changing self-sacrifice to justice.



OUR BOUND VOLUME AS A CHRISTMAS PRESENT

The first year comprises fourteen issues—November, 1909, to December, 1910, inclusive.

In it is the Housekeeping novel—"What Diantha Did"—which will interest many, both men and women. It offers a very practical solution to the Servant Question.

In it is also the Book About Men—"The Man-Made World, or Our Androcentric Culture."

There have been books and books about women—mostly, unpleasant. This is the first one about men, as such; men as distinguished from Human Beings—as women have always been distinguished from Human Beings.

You won't wholly like the book—just consider whether it is true!

The novel separately, or the book separately, would also make good presents, but the date of their publication is not settled, while in the bound volume of the magazine you get them both for only 25c. more than one would cost.

This set, making a volume of some 420 pages, with its twelve short stories, its articles, fables, verse, and other matter, will make a very good gift—for some people. Ready early in December. $1.25.



TO THOSE SPECIALLY INTERESTED IN THIS MAGAZINE, OR SPECIALLY INTERESTED IN FIFTY DOLLARS

This is not a "Popular Magazine." It does not try to be. It is a magazine which meets the needs of a comparatively few, but they like it immensely—as is shown by the extracts from their letters we are now publishing.

We want to reach, if possible, all the people who would like The Forerunner if they knew about it.

For the rest of this year we are making a special offer to anyone who will get us new subscribers; the regular commission of 25 per cent., and a rising premium which goes up to a total of 50 per cent. for a hundred new paid year's subscriptions.

$50.00 for one hundred new subscribers!

For a girl in college who wants to help herself;

For a woman in a liberal church, or with a wide acquaintance among progressive thinkers;

For a Suffragist in touch with similar believers;

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WORSHIP

How does it feel?— The drawing of the magnet on the steel? All else gives way; No rivets hold, no bars delay, Called in that overwhelming hour, From far and near they fly and cling, Allied, united, clustering; And the great pulsing currents flow Through each small scattered scrap below. Scattered no more; One with that all compelling core; One absolute, one all alive with power.

How does it feel?— The swift obedient utmost flight Of radiant sky-wide waves of light, Far couriers of the central sun, Crossing a million miles as one— Still going—going— Limitless joy that needs no knowing Each last least flickering ray One with the Heart of Day.



MY ASTONISHING DODO

She was twenty-six, and owned it cheerfully, the day I met her.

This prejudiced me in her favor at once, for I prize honesty in women, and on this point it is unusual. She did not, it is true, share largely in my special artistic tastes, or, to any great extent, in my social circle; but she was a fine wholesome sweet woman, cheerful and strong, and I wished to make a friend of her. I greatly prized my good friends among women, for I had conscientious views against marrying on a small salary.

Later it appeared that she had other and different views, but she did not mention them then.

Dorothea was her name. Her family called her Dora, her intimate friends, Dolly, but I called her Dodo, just between ourselves.

A very good-looking girl was Dodo, though not showy; and in no way distinguished in dress, which rather annoyed me at first; for I have a great admiration for a well-gowned, well-groomed woman.

My ideas on matrimony were strongly colored by certain facts and figures given me by an old college friend of mine. He was a nice fellow, and his wife one of the loveliest girls of our set, though rather delicate. They lived very comfortably in a quiet way, with a few good books and pictures, and four little ones.

"It's a thousand dollars a year for the first year for each baby," he told me, "and five hundred a year afterward."

I was astonished. I had no idea the little things cost so much.

"There's the trained nurse for your wife," he went on, "at $25.00 a week for four weeks; and then the trained nurse for your baby, at $15.00 a week for forty-eight weeks; that makes $820.00. Then the doctor's bills, the clothes and so on—with the certified milk—easily take up the rest."

"Isn't fifteen dollars a week a good deal for a child's nurse?" I asked.

"What do you pay a good stenographer?" he demanded.

"Why, a special one gets $20.00," I admitted. "But that work needs training and experience."

"So does taking care of babies!" he cried triumphantly. "Don't try to save on babies, Morton; it's poor economy."

I liked his point of view, and admired his family extremely. His wife was one of those sympathetic appreciative women who so help a man in his work. But the prospects of my own marriage seemed remote. That was why I was so glad of a good wholesome companionable friend like Dodo.

We were so calmly intimate that I soon grew to discuss many of my ideas and plans with her. She was much interested in the figures given by my friend, and got me to set them all down for her. He had twice my salary, and not a cent left at the year's end; and they were not in "society" either. Five hundred dollars was allowed for his personal expenses, and the same for her; little enough to dress on nowadays, he had assured me, with all amusements, travel, books and periodicals, and dentist bills, included.

"I don't think it ought to cost so much," said Dodo.

She was a business woman, and followed the figures closely; and of course she appreciated the high views I held on the subject, and my self-denial, too.

I can't tell to this day how it happened; but before I knew it we were engaged. I was almost sorry, for a long engagement is a strain on both parties; but Dodo cheered me up; she said we were really no worse off than we were before, and in some ways better. At times I fully agreed with her.

So we drifted along for about a year, and then, after a good deal of distant discussion, we suddenly got married.

I don't recall now just why we so hastily concluded to do it; I seemed to be in a kind of dream; but anyway we did, and were absurdly happy about it, too.

"Don't be a Goose, dear boy!" she said. "It isn't wicked to be married. And we're quite old enough!"

"But we can't afford it—you know we can't," I said. This was while we were camping out on our honey-vacation.

"Mr. Morton Howland," said my wife; "don't you worry one bit about affording it. I want you to understand that you've married a business woman."

"But you've given up your position!" I cried, aghast. "Surely, you don't think of going back!"

"I've given up one position," she replied with calmness, "and taken another. And I mean to fill it. Now you go peacefully on earning what you did before, and leave the housekeeping business to me—will you, Dear?"

Naturally I had to; for I couldn't keep house; even if I so desired I didn't know how. But I had read so much and heard so much and seen so much of the difficulties of housekeeping for young married people, that I confess I was a good deal worried.

Toward the end of our trip I began to anticipate the burden of house-hunting.

"About where do you think we are going to live?" I tentatively inquired.

"At 384 Meter Avenue," she promptly answered. I nearly dropped the paddle (we were canoeing at the moment), I was so astonished.

"That's a good location—for cheap flats," I said slowly. "Do you mean to say you've rented one, all by yourself?"

She smiled comfortingly. Lovely teeth had my Dodo, strong and white and even, though not small.

"Not quite so bad as that, Dear," she answered, "but I've got the refusal. My friends the Scallens had it, and are moving out this Fall. It's a new building, they had it all papered very prettily, and if you like it we can move in as soon as they leave—say a week after moving time—it will be cheaper then. We'll look at it as soon as we return."

We did. It seemed suitable enough; pleasant, and cheaper than I had thought possible. Indeed, I demurred a little on the question of style, and accessibility to friends; but Dodo said the people who really cared for us would come, and the people who did not could easily be spared.

We had married so hastily, right on the verge of vacation time, that I had hardly given a thought to furnishing but Dodo seemed to know just where to go and what to get; at much less cost than I had imagined.

She produced $250.00 from her bank account, which she had been saving for years she said. I put up about the same; and we had that little flat as pretty and comfortable as any home I ever saw.

She set her foot down about pictures though. "Time enough for those things when we can afford it," she said, and we certainly could not afford it then.

Then was materialized from some foreign clime a neat, strong young woman to do our house-work, washing and all.

"She's an apprentice," said Dodo. "She is willing to learn housekeeping, and I am willing to teach her."

"How do you come to be so competent in house-work?" said I; "I thought you were a bookkeeper."

Then Dodo smiled her large bright smile. "Morton, dear," she said, "I will now tell you a Secret! I have always intended to marry, and, as far as possible, I learned the business. I am a business woman, you know."

She certainly did know her business. She kept the household accounts like—well, like what she was—an expert accountant. When she furnished the kitchen she installed a good reliable set of weights and measures. She weighed the ice and the bread, she measured the milk and the potatoes, and made firm, definite, accurate protests when things went wrong; even sending samples of queer cream to the Board of Health for analysis. What with my business stationery and her accurate figures our letters were strangely potent, and we were well supplied, while our friends sadly and tamely complained of imposture and extortion.

Her largest item of expense in furnishing was a first-class sewing machine, and a marvellous female figure, made to measure, which stood in a corner and served as a "cloak tree" when not in use.

"You don't propose to make your own clothes, surely?" said I when this headless object appeared.

"Some of 'em," she admitted, "you'll see. Of course I can't dress for society."

Now I had prepared myself very conscientiously to meet the storms and shallows of early married life, as I had read about them; I was bound I would not bring home anybody to dinner without telephoning, and was prepared to assure my wife verbally, at least twice a day, that I loved her. She anticipated me on the dinner business, however.

"Look here!" she said, leading me to the pantry, when it was filled to her liking, and she showed me a special corner all marked off and labelled "For Emergencies." There was a whole outfit of eatables and drinkables in glass and tin.

"Now do your worst!" she said triumphantly. "You can bring home six men in the middle of the night—and I'll feed them! But you mustn't do it two nights in succession, for I'd have to stock up again."

As to tears and nervousness and "did I love her," I was almost, sometimes, a bit disappointed in Dodo, she was so calm. She was happy, and I was happy, but it seemed to require no effort at all.

One morning I almost forgot, and left the elevator standing while I ran back to kiss her and say "I love you, dearest." She held me off from her with her two strong hands and laughed tenderly. "Dear boy!" she said, "I mean you shall."

I meditated on that all the way downtown.

She meant I should. Well, I did. And the next time one of my new-married friends circuitously asked for a bit of light on what was to him a dark and perplexing question, I suddenly felt very light-hearted about my domestic affairs. Somehow we hadn't any troubles at all. Dodo kept well; we lived very comfortably and it cost far less than I had anticipated.

"How did you know how to train a servant?" I asked my wife.

"Dear," said she, "I have admitted to you that I always intended to be married, when I found the man I could love and trust and honor." (Dodo overestimates my virtues, of course.)

"Lots of girls intend to marry," I interposed.

"Yes, I know they do," she agreed, "they want to love and he loved, but they don't learn their business! Now the business of house-work is not so abstruse nor so laborious, if you give your mind to it. I took an evening-course in domestic economy, read and studied some, and spent one vacation with an aunt of mine up in Vermont who 'does her own work.' The next vacation I did ours. I learned the trade in a small way."

We had a lovely time that first year. She dressed fairly well, but the smallness of her expense account was a standing marvel, owing to the machine and the Headless One.

"Did you take a course in dressmaking, too?" I inquired.

"Yes, in another vacation."

"You had the most industrious vacations of anyone I ever knew," said I, "and the most varied."

"I am no chicken, you see, my dear," was her cheerful reply, "and I like to work. You work, why shouldn't I?"

The only thing I had to criticize, if there was anything, was that Dodo wouldn't go to the theatre and things like that, as often as I wanted her to. She said frankly that we couldn't afford it, and why should I want to go out for amusement when we had such a happy home? So we stayed at home a good deal, made a few calls, and played cards together, and were very happy, of course.

All this time I was in more or less anxiety lest that thousand dollar baby should descend upon us before we were ready, for I had only six hundred in the bank now. Presently this dread event loomed awe-inspiringly on our horizon. I didn't say anything to Dodo about my fears, she must on no account be rendered anxious, but I lay awake nights and sometimes got up furtively and walked the floor in my room, thinking how I should raise the money.

She heard me one night. "Dear!" she called softly. "What are you doing? Is it burglars?"

I reassured her on that point and she promptly reassured me on the other, as soon as she had made me tell her what I was worrying about.

"Why, bless you, dear," she said, serenely, "you needn't give a thought to that. I've got money in the bank for my baby."

"I thought you spent all of it for the furnishings," said I.

"Oh, that was the Furnishing Money! Cuddle down here, or you'll get cold, and I'll tell you all about it."

So she explained in her calm strong cheerful way, with a little contented chuckle now and then, that she had always intended to be married.

"This is now no news," I exclaimed severely, "tell me something different."

"Well, in order to prepare for this Great Event," she went on, "I learned about housework, as you have seen. I saved money enough to furnish a small flat and put that in one bank. And I also anticipated this not Impossible Contingency and saved more money and put it in another bank!"

"Why two banks, if a mere man may inquire?"

"It is well," she replied sententiously, "not to have all one's eggs in one basket."

I lay still and meditated on this new revelation.

"Have you got a thousand dollars, if this Remote Relative may so far urge for information?"

"I have just that sum," she replied.

"And, not to be impertinent, have you nine other thousands of dollars in nine other banks for nine other not Impossible Contingencies?"

She shook her head with determination. "Nine is an Impossible Contingency," she replied. "No, I have but one thousand dollars in this bank. Now you be good, and continue to practice your business, into the details of which I do not press, and let me carry on the Baby Business, which is mine."

It was a great load off my mind, and I slept well from that time on.

So did Dodo. She kept well, busy, placid, and cheerful. Once, I came home in a state of real terror. I had been learning, from one of my friends, and from books, of the terrible experience which lay before her. She saw that I was unusually intense in my affection and constantly regarded her with tender anxiety. "What is the matter with you, Morton?" said she. "I'm—worried," I admitted. "I've been thinking—what if I should lose you! Oh Dodo! I'd rather have you than a thousand babies."

"I should think you would," said she calmly. "Now look here, Dear Boy! What are you worrying about? This is not an unusual enterprise I've embarked on; it's the plain course of nature, easily fulfilled by all manner of lady creatures! Don't you be afraid one bit, I'm not."

She wasn't. She kept her serene good cheer up to the last moment, had an efficient but inexpensive woman doctor, and presently was up again, still serene, with a Pink Person added to our family, of small size but of enormous importance.

Again I rather trembled for our peace and happiness, and mentally girded up my loins for wakeful nights of walking. No such troubles followed. We used separate rooms, and she kept the Pink Person in hers. Occasionally he made remarks in the night, but not for long. He was well, she was well—things went along very much as they did before.

I was "lost in wonder, love and praise" and especially in amazement at the continued cheapness of our living.

Suddenly a thought struck me. "Where's ths nurse?" I demanded.

"The nurse? Why she left long ago. I kept her only for the month."

"I mean the child's nurse," said I, "the fifteen dollar one."

"Oh—I'm the child's nurse," said Dodo.

"You!" said I. "Do you mean to say you take all the care of this child yourself?"

"Why, of course," said Dodo, "what's a mother for?"

"But—the time it takes," I protested, rather weakly.

"What do you expect me to do with my time, Morton?"

"Why, whatever you did before—This arrived."

"I will not have my son alluded to as 'This'!" said she severely. "Morton J. Hopkins, Jr., if you please. As to my time before? Why, I used it in preparing for time to come, of course. I have things ready for this youngster for three years ahead."

"How about the certified milk?" I asked.

Dodo smiled a superior smile; "I certify the milk," said she.

"Can you take care of the child and the house, too?"

"Bless you, Morton, 'the care' of a seven-room flat and a competent servant does not take more than an hour a day. And I market while I'm out with the baby.

"Do you mean to say you are going to push the perambulator yourself?"

"Why not?" she asked a little sharply, "surely a mother need not be ashamed of the company of her own child."

"But you'll be taken for a nurse—"

"I am a nurse! And proud of it!"

I gazed at her in my third access of deep amazement. "Do you mean to say that you took lessons in child culture, too?"

"Too? Why, I took lessons in child culture first of all. How often must I tell you, Morton, that I always intended to be married! Being married involves, to my mind, motherhood, that is what it is for! So naturally I prepared myself for the work I meant to do. I am a business woman, Morton, and this is my business."

*

That was twenty years ago. We have five children. Morton, Jr., is in college. So is Dorothea second. Dodo means to put them all through, she says. My salary has increased, but not so fast as prices, and neither of them so fast as my family. None of those babies cost a thousand dollars the first year though, nor five hundred thereafter; Dodo's thousand held out for the lot. We moved to a home in the suburbs, of course; that was only fair to the children. I live within my income always—we have but one servant still, and the children are all taught housework in the good old way. None of my friends has as devoted, as vigorous and—and—as successful a wife as I have. She is the incarnate spirit of all the Housewives and House-mothers of history and fiction. The only thing I miss in her—if I must own to missing anything—is companionship and sympathy outside of household affairs. My newspaper work—which she always calls "my business"—has remained a business. The literary aspirations I once had were long since laid aside as impracticable. And the only thing I miss in life beyond my home is, well—as a matter of fact, I don't have any life beyond my home—except, of course, my business.

My friends are mostly co-commuters now. I couldn't keep up with the set I used to know. As my wife said, she could 't dress for society, and, visibly, she couldn't. We have few books, there isn't any margin for luxuries, she says; and of course we can't go to the plays and concerts in town. But these are unessentials—of course—as she says.

I am very proud of my home, my family, and my Amazing Dodo.



WHY TEXTS?

I once listened to a sermon in the Temple Church in London; a sermon delivered with great dignity by an Eminent Divine, a Canon, as I remember.

Here was this worthy man, in that historic place, in the heart of huge London, in the fierce whirring center of so many present social problems, so many aching, hoping human hearts. He had a chance to speak to them; with the purpose, presumably, of giving light and cheer and strength to live better.

There he stood, a conspicuous and powerful figure; and there sat his audience, waiting. To say the truth, they did not look particularly hopeful; having doubtless "sat under" him before.

He took his text from the Nineteenth Chapter of "Acts"—something about "the town clark" of Ephesus; and how he appeased the people. There was some excitement, it appeared, among the citizens, and they raised a noise comparable to the convention which nominated Bryan; "and all with one voice about the space of two hours cried out, Great is Diana of the Ephesians."

Well. She certainly was—is yet, for that matter, though her influence is not confined to Ephesus.

In the face of this tumult, the "town clark," who seems to have been a peaceable person, with a strong sense of justice and propriety, quieted the people with fair words, explaining to them that their vociferous statement as to the dimensions or efficacy of their goddess were quite indisputable; and "matters of common knowledge," and that if they had any complaint against these missionaries they should go to law about it.

Evidently a fair-minded and law-abiding citizen, the "town clark of Ephesus"; but—what of it?

What shadow of interest, to modern life, has this chatty anecdote about the attitude of the Ancient Ephesian toward visiting preachers?

It is barely possible; intellectually conceivable, that is, that the distinguished clergyman was drawing a parallel between these long dead gentry, and ourselves; in our attitude toward the advocates of new faiths.

For instance, there come among us persons teaching Socialism; and we all cry with one voice for about the space of fifty years, "Great is the Competitive System!"—and are minded to destroy the teachers, no "town clark" intervening.

But this did not seem to be in his mind at all. He was talking about ancient history pure and simple; the only merit in his extract lying in its location—it was in the Bible.

Whence to my title—Why texts?

Why does a modern sermon to modern people have to be based upon and buttressed by a quotation from the writings of the ancient Hebrews, or the more modern group of mixed blood and more mixed language through whom came the New Testament?

This is no question either verbal or general; but a very sincere question of the need of such quotation in the religious teaching of the present time.

Suppose we have a glaring modern instance of good or evil, which every live minister feels called upon to preach about; to the genuine edification of his hearers; why must he get out his concordance and ransack the Scriptures to find an applicable remark?

In the Hebrew Church the Reading is longer and the Exposition closer, I understand; and in the "Christian Science" church there is Reading without even that much licence; but in our liberal Christian "services" the sermon is generally intended to be of immediate use to the hearers, not merely to give them an extract from "that which is written."

What people want most is to know how to behave, now.

They want teaching that shall explain clearly what they ought to do; why they want to do it, and how they may best learn to do it.

Clear, strong, simple, convincing Explanations of Life—Directions for Action; Stimulus and Strength; Courage and Hope; Peace and Comfort—these are the things we want in our sermons.

Are they any better for the laborious far-fetched text?



THE LITTLE WHITE ANIMALS

Reprinted from "The Conservator," by courtesy of Mr. Horace Traubel.

We who have grown Human—house-bodied, cloth-skinned, Wire-nerved and steam-heated—alas! we forget The poor little beasts we have bandaged and pinned And hid in our carpet-lined prisons!—and yet Though our great social body be brickwork and steel, The little white animals in it, can feel!

Humanity needs them. We cannot disclaim The laws of the bodies we lived in before We grew to be Human. In spite of our frame Of time-scorning metals, the life at its core, Controlling its action and guarding its ease, Is the little white animal out of the trees!

It is true that our soul is far higher than theirs; We look farther, live longer, love wider—we know; They only can feel for themselves—and their heirs; We, the life of humanity. Yet, even so, We must always remember that soul at its base Looks out through the little white animal's face.

If they die we are dead. If they live we can grow, They ply in our streets as blood corpuscles ply In their own little veins. If you cut off the flow Of these beasts in a city, that city will die. Yet we heighten our buildings and harden our souls Till the little white animals perish in shoals.

Their innocent instincts we turn to a curse, Their bodies we torture, their powers we abuse, The beast that humanity lives in fares worse Than the beasts of the forest with nothing to lose. Free creatures, sub-human—they never have known The sins and diseases we force on our own.

And yet 'tis a beautiful creature!—tall—fair— With features full pleasant and hand-wooing hair; Kind, docile, intelligent, eager to learn; And the longing we read in its eyes when they burn Is to beg us to use it more freely to show To each other the love that our new soul can know.

Our engines drive fast in earth, water and air; Our resistless, smooth-running machines still unroll, With brain-work unceasing and handiwork fair, New material forms for each step on the soul; But that soul, for the contact without which it dies, Comes closest of all through that animal's eyes.



WOMEN TEACHERS, MARRIED AND UNMARRIED

We have still active and conspicuous among us, saying and doing foolish things about women, men, both eminent and ordinary, whose attitude in this matter will make them a shame to their children, and a laughing stock to their grandchildren. We are proud to exhibit name and portrait of the great-grandfather who signed the Declaration of Independence, but our descendants will forget as soon as possible those asinine ancestors who are to-day so writing themselves down—in their attitude in regard to women teachers, married and unmarried.

For long women were kept out of the schools altogether—education was for boys. They were not allowed to teach, save in a small way, in infant schools, or schools for girls; teaching was a masculine profession. Now they have equal educational opportunities—in large measure, and constitute the majority of pupils; and, what is more alarming, the majority of teachers. The "male mind"—essentially and hopelessly male—sees in this not the natural development of a long suppressed human being, but the entrance of females upon a masculine province.

In her relation of pupil, there is a large body of eminent educators clamoring that girls should be taught female things; that, whether our universities are turned into trade schools or not, the women's colleges and "annexes" should teach girls "the duties of wife and mother." By this, of course, they mean the duties of house-service, and, perhaps, of nursing. Nothing would scandalize these Antique Worthies more than to have girls taught the real duties of wife and mother!

Also, in the relation of pupils, a man of as high standing as Professor Barrett Wendell of Harvard claims that teaching girls lowers the mentality of men! In coeducational colleges the "male mind," seeing in the violent games of young men a profound educational influence (and large profits!), considers that the presence of the purely studious element—the girls—is an injury to the college, and is even now endeavoring to eliminate them.

But it is in treatment of women teachers that this sex attitude of mind is most prominent to-day, most offensive, and most ridiculous.

The first effect is, of course, to give to the woman teacher the lowest grades of work and the lowest pay. Even when she has forced her way into high-grade work, and won a good position over all competitors, her pay is still measured by her status as a female—not as a teacher. The "male mind" can never for a moment forget or overlook the fact that women are females; and is rigidly incapable of admitting that they are also human beings as much as he.

In spite of this absurd limitation, women teachers have increased in numbers and in power; and are pressing steadily up into the higher positions reserved for men. An enormous majority of our teaching force is now composed of women; and, in our public schools, they naturally teach boys. Upon this point has arisen, and is still rising, an angry protest among men. Women teachers are, they say, unmarried; to be unmarried is an unnatural state, productive of various mental and physical morbidities; and as such does not form a suitable atmosphere for growing boys.

Recently President Hamilton of Tufts College goes even further than this, and objects to the influence of unmarried teachers upon girls!

To the "male mind," viewing the woman as first, last and always a female, and marriage and motherhood as her only normal relations, these crowding thousands of calm, respectable, independent, unmarried women are in a condition of unrest, of acrimonious rebellion against fate, of a contemptuous dislike for their unattainable "sour grapes." They are assumed to have been queer in the first place, or some gracious protector would have married them; and to grow queerer as life drags away, leaving them eternally unsatisfied, bitter and perverse. This deadly influence is supposed to have some poisonous effect on the pupils; just what is not defined. The unselfish, tireless service of the "maiden aunt" in the home we all know; but set her to teaching school, and some strange evil follows from the contact.

President Hamilton says college girls need to have their outlook on life broadened, not narrowed; and thinks these limited ladies, the teachers, are fitted only for work in the lower preparatory schools, or in "homes" and "settlements."

Just how the average male teacher in a college is to broaden the outlook of his pupils is not explained. It does not need explanation. It is broader because he is a man!

Most of our men teachers are still young men, by the way, and unmarried. Is the influence of the unmarried male on classes of girls an unmixed good? Is a man by nature a better teacher? More subtly sympathetic, more capable of understanding the difficulties of each pupil and meeting them, more patient and tender?

No—but he is "more methodical," and "a better disciplinarian." In other words, he is more male—and therefore a better teacher! All this is absurd enough, and injurious enough; false, unjust, pitifully ignorant.

But the crowning feat of the "logical male mind" is in its exclusion of married women from schools. This is what the living children of living men will laugh at and blush for—that their fathers should have made themselves thus lamentably conspicuous in present-day history. Here in this city of New York, where a system of competitive examination ensures the required degree of learning and promotion follows on proved efficiency (or is supposed to); some women teachers, following "that inexorable law of nature" which so many others successfully evade, have presumed to marry. Surely now the stock objection to women teachers is removed.

All that "narrowness," that "bitterness," that "morbidity" is transformed by this magic alchemy into breadth and sweetness and all health. Now we have for our children the influence of "normal womanhood"—of "the wife and mother."

No. Married women are not desired in our schools; not allowed; they are specifically discriminated against.

Some years ago a woman teacher of New York married, and refused to give up her position. There was no reason for discharging her—she fulfilled every duty as competently as before. But these historic school officials withheld her pay!

They had no right to; she had earned the money—it was hers. But they had the power, and used it. After many months of this high-handed withholding of her legitimate salary, this woman, and another similarly placed, sued for their back pay, making a test case of it.

They won. It was a perfectly plain case in law and equity.

Then the Board, naturally displeased, passed a by-law prohibiting the appointment, or reappointment, of married women. One woman, already in, and married, a very efficient teacher, and candidate for promotion to principalship, was not promoted, for this plain reason: they do not wish married women to teach in our schools.

Now, why?

What injurious influence exudes from previously competent teachers merely because they now know this personal, as well as their former professional, happiness!

Then with bated breath the official male mind suggests that they might become mothers.

Well? So they should. Is there anything about mothers which renders them unfit persons to teach children?

"You do not understand!" says the official male mind, a little nervously. "They would be—about to become mothers—and the children might notice it!"

Here we have Justice Shallow, Mrs. Grundy and King Canute rolled into one. What gross ignorance, what narrow conservatism, what petty and futile resistance to progress, as well as a low coarseness, prompts this objection! If our system of education allows children to grow up in such neglect that they neither know nor reverence motherhood, it is high time that the system was changed.

And it will be changed; by women—who are mothers.

Aside from this, and admitting that most married teachers who are in this dreaded "condition" do rapidly remove themselves from school, and do not come back for a year or more, the next objection is "the continued absence" of the married woman teachers.

Since there is a long array of substitutes, excellent substitutes (often married women, these!) who are paid less than the salary the absent one does not draw, it is difficult to see the evil of this. Unless indeed the merits of the married teacher are so supreme that even her temporary absence is a real loss. If that be so, then she is worth keeping, it would seem, at any cost.

In all this tissue of injustice and absurdity is there no thread of explanation, no reason better than these for such arbitrary interference with personal rights? There is a veritable cable; enough to hang the whole case on. It is shown in this provision:

If the married woman teacher can bring a doctor's certificate showing that her husband is sick—then she can hold her place and draw her pay, undisturbed!

The plain ordinary un-male mind will say, "What has that to do with it?"

It has nothing to do with it. The position in question is that of the teacher; the relation one between the teacher and pupil on the one side, and teacher and governing officers on the other side. Whether teacher, pupil or official is married or unmarried had nothing to do with the case, unless it can be shown to interfere with the legitimate work involved. Are we to suppose that the unseen extraneous husband has, when well, a malign influence on his wife's proficiency as a teacher, and, when ill, a beneficent one? Not at all; there is no such subtlety involved. It is not in the least a question of professional efficiency; it is a question of money.

Money is for men—who should use some of it to take care of their women. When a woman marries, she has a claim for support, and no further use for money of her own, no right to it, in fact!

Now let us temporarily admit that this is so—what has it to do with the action of school boards? Is our public school system an institution for the regulation of married women's property rights? Does it make inquiries as to the family relations of men teachers and pay them according to the number of dependents they have to support? Among the unmarried women, are those who are putting brothers through college, or maintaining invalid sisters or aged parents, paid more than the young lady living at home and not "having to work" at all? If there is no discrimination made in this matter among men teachers, nor among unmarried women teachers, why does it instantly enter into consideration in the case of married teachers?

All "systems" grow stiff, case-hardened, difficult to change; but in America we have the newest and most pliable, and we are bravely used to altering things. It is high time we altered our system of education. The very crown and flower of our best minds and noblest characters are called for to bring up children:

"That our childhood may pass with the best you can give— And our manhood so live!"

Men and women both are needed as teachers; education is a social process—not one of sex. Yet the woman is, by virtue of her motherhood, the original teacher; and is more frequently possessed of the teaching instinct. All normal women would naturally marry, circumstances permitting; should marry, and would be no poorer teachers for that new relationship. All normal women should be mothers; and as such, would be better teachers—not worse!

As to payment, so long as we must measure off our services and pay for them, no form of human work is worthy of higher reward than this. To gather the fruit of all our progress, to prepare it for a child's mind, and lead him to eat that fruit, freely, and so grow to his best and highest—this is the human work.

It should be so prized, so honored, and so paid. And the payment should be for great work done—and bear no relation whatever to age or sex, or sex-relation; much less to the pathological condition of irrelevant husbands.

There is now formed in New York City, "The Married Women Teachers' Association" (secretary, Miss Anna G. Walsh, 22 Harvard Street, Jamaica, N. Y.), the purpose of which is to resist this unjust and illegitimate discrimination.

It is unfortunate that more of the unmarried teachers do not cheerfully assist in the work.

They do not yet seem to realize that all women should make common cause against what is not only an injustice, but the most insolent and presuming interference on the part of men, with the private and personal affairs of women.



WHAT DIANTHA DID

CHAPTER XIII.

ALL THIS.

They laid before her conquering feet The spoils of many lands; Their crowns shone red upon her head Their scepters in her hands.

She heard two murmuring at night, Where rose-sweet shadows rest; And coveted the blossom red He laid upon her breast.

When Madam Weatherstone shook the plentiful dust of Orchardina from her expensive shoes, and returned to adorn the more classic groves of Philadelphia, Mrs. Thaddler assumed to hold undisputed sway as a social leader.

The Social Leader she meant to be; and marshalled her forces to that end. She Patronized here, and Donated there; revised her visiting list with rigid exclusiveness; secured an Eminent Professor and a Noted Writer as visitors, and gave entertainments of almost Roman magnificence.

Her husband grew more and more restive under the rising tide of social exactions in dress and deportment; and spent more and more time behind his fast horses, or on the stock-ranch where he raised them. As a neighbor and fellow ranchman, he scraped acquaintance with Ross Warden, and was able to render him many small services in the process of settling.

Mrs. Warden remembered his visit to Jopalez, and it took her some time to rearrange him in her mind as a person of wealth and standing. Having so rearranged him, on sufficient evidence, she and her daughters became most friendly, and had hopes of establishing valuable acquaintance in the town. "It's not for myself I care," she would explain to Ross, every day in the week and more on Sundays, "but for the girls. In that dreadful Jopalez there was absolutely no opportunity for them; but here, with horses, there is no reason we should not have friends. You must consider your sisters, Ross! Do be more cordial to Mr. Thaddler."

But Ross could not at present be cordial to anybody. His unexpected good fortune, the freedom from hated cares, and chance to work out his mighty theories on the faithful guinea-pig, ought to have filled his soul with joy; but Diantha's cruel obstinacy had embittered his cup of joy. He could not break with her; she had not refused him, and it was difficult in cold blood to refuse her.

He had stayed away for two whole weeks, in which time the guinea-pigs nibbled at ease and Diantha's work would have suffered except for her mother's extra efforts. Then he went to see her again, miserable but stubborn, finding her also miserable and also stubborn. They argued till there was grave danger of an absolute break between them; then dropped the subject by mutual agreement, and spent evenings of unsatisfying effort to talk about other things.

Diantha and her mother called on Mrs. Warden, of course, admiring the glorious view, the sweet high air, and the embowered loveliness of the two ranch houses. Ross drew Diantha aside and showed her "theirs"—a lovely little wide-porched concrete cottage, with a red-tiled roof, and heavy masses of Gold of Ophir and Banksia roses.

He held her hand and drew her close to him.

He kissed her when they were safe inside, and murmured: "Come, darling—won't you come and be my wife?"

"I will, Ross—whenever you say—but—!" She would not agree to give up her work, and he flung away from her in reckless despair. Mrs. Warden and the girls returned the call as a matter of duty, but came no more; the mother saying that she could not take her daughters to a Servant Girls' Club.

And though the Servant Girls' Club was soon removed to its new quarters and Union House became a quiet, well-conducted hotel, still the two families saw but little of each other.

Mrs. Warden naturally took her son's side, and considered Diantha an unnatural monster of hard-heartedness.

The matter sifted through to the ears of Mrs. Thaddler, who rejoiced in it, and called upon Mrs. Warden in her largest automobile. As a mother with four marriageable daughters, Mrs. Warden was delighted to accept and improve the acquaintance, but her aristocratic Southern soul was inwardly rebellious at the ancestorlessness and uncultured moneyed pride of her new friend.

"If only Madam Weatherstone had stayed!" she would complain to her daughters. "She had Family as well as Wealth."

"There's young Mrs. Weatherstone, mother—" suggested Dora.

"A nobody!" her mother replied. "She has the Weatherstone money, of course, but no Position; and what little she has she is losing by her low tastes. She goes about freely with Diantha Bell—her own housekeeper!"

"She's not her housekeeper now, mother—"

"Well, it's all the same! She was! And a mere general servant before that! And now to think that when Ross is willing to overlook it all and marry her, she won't give it up!"

They were all agreed on this point, unless perhaps that the youngest had her inward reservations. Dora had always liked Diantha better than had the others.

Young Mrs. Weatherstone stayed in her big empty house for a while, and as Mrs. Warden said, went about frequently with Diantha Bell. She liked Mrs. Bell, too—took her for long stimulating rides in her comfortable car, and insisted that first one and then the other of them should have a bit of vacation at her seashore home before the winter's work grew too heavy.

With Mrs. Bell she talked much of how Diantha had helped the town.

"She has no idea of the psychic effects, Mrs. Bell," said she. "She sees the business, and she has a great view of all it is going to do for women to come; but I don't think she realizes how much she is doing right now for women here—and men, too. There were my friends the Pornes; they were 'drifting apart,' as the novels have it—and no wonder. Isabel was absolutely no good as a housekeeper; he naturally didn't like it—and the baby made it all the worse; she pined for her work, you see, and couldn't get any time for it. Now they are as happy as can be—and it's just Diantha Bell's doings. The housework is off Isabel's shoulders.

"Then there are the Wagrams, and the Sheldons, and the Brinks—and ever so many more—who have told me themselves that they are far happier than they ever were before—and can live more cheaply. She ought to be the happiest girl alive!"

Mrs. Bell would agree to this, and quite swelled with happiness and pride; but Mrs. Weatherstone, watching narrowly, was not satisfied.

When she had Diantha with her she opened fire direct. "You ought to be the happiest, proudest, most triumphant woman in the world!" she said. "You're making oodles of money, your whole thing's going well, and look at your mother—she's made over!"

Diantha smiled and said she was happy; but her eyes would stray off to the very rim of the ocean; her mouth set in patient lines that were not in the least triumphant.

"Tell me about it, my friend," said her hostess. "Is it that he won't let you keep on with the business?"

Diantha nodded.

"And you won't give it up to marry him?"

"No," said Diantha. "No. Why should I? I'd marry him—to-morrow!" She held one hand with the other, tight, but they both shook a little. "I'd be glad to. But I will not give up my work!"

"You look thin," said Mrs. Weatherstone.

"Yes—"

"Do you sleep well?"

"No—not very."

"And I can see that you don't eat as you ought to. Hm! Are you going to break down?"

"No," said Diantha, "I am not going to break down. I am doing what is right, and I shall go on. It's a little hard at first—having him so near. But I am young and strong and have a great deal to do—I shall do it."

And then Mrs. Weatherstone would tell her all she knew of the intense satisfaction of the people she served, and pleasant stories about the girls. She bought her books to read and such gleanings as she found in foreign magazines on the subject of organized house-service.

Not only so, but she supplied the Orchardina library with a special bibliography on the subject, and induced the new Woman's Club to take up a course of reading in it, so that there gradually filtered into the Orchardina mind a faint perception that this was not the freak of an eccentric individual, but part of an inevitable business development, going on in various ways in many nations.

As the winter drew on, Mrs. Weatherstone whisked away again, but kept a warm current of interest in Diantha's life by many letters.

Mr. Bell came down from Jopalez with outer reluctance but inner satisfaction. He had rented his place, and Susie had three babies now. Henderson, Jr., had no place for him, and to do housework for himself was no part of Mr. Bell's plan.

In Diantha's hotel he had a comfortable room next his wife's, and a capacious chair in the firelit hall in wet weather, or on the shaded piazza in dry. The excellent library was a resource to him; he found some congenial souls to talk with; and under the new stimulus succeeded at last in patenting a small device that really worked. With this, and his rent, he felt inclined to establish a "home of his own," and the soul of Mrs. Bell sank within her. Without allowing it to come to an issue between them, she kept the question open for endless discussion; and Mr. Bell lived on in great contentment under the impression that he was about to move at almost any time. To his friends and cronies he dilated with pride on his daughter's wonderful achievements.

"She's as good as a boy!" he would declare. "Women nowadays seem to do anything they want to!" And he rigidly paid his board bill with a flourish.

Meanwhile the impressive gatherings at Mrs. Thaddler's, and the humbler tea and card parties of Diantha's friends, had a new topic as a shuttlecock.

A New York company had bought one of the largest and finest blocks in town—the old Para place—and was developing it in a manner hitherto unseen. The big, shabby, neglected estate began to turn into such a fairyland as only southern lands can know. The old live-oaks were untouched; the towering eucalyptus trees remained in ragged majesty; but an army of workmen was busy under guidance of a master of beauty.

One large and lovely building rose, promptly dubbed a hotel by the unwilling neighbors; others, smaller, showed here and there among the trees; and then a rose-gray wall of concrete ran around the whole, high, tantalizing, with green boughs and sweet odors coming over it. Those who went in reported many buildings, and much activity. But, when the wall was done, and each gate said "No admittance except on business," then the work of genii was imagined, and there was none to contradict.

It was a School of Theosophy; it was a Christian Science College; it was a Free-Love Colony; it was a Secret Society; it was a thousand wonders.

"Lot of little houses and one big one," the employees said when questioned.

"Hotel and cottages," the employers said when questioned.

They made no secret of it, they were too busy; but the town was unsatisfied. Why a wall? What did any honest person want of a wall? Yet the wall cast a pleasant shadow; there were seats here and there between buttresses, and, as the swift California season advanced, roses and oleanders nodded over the top, and gave hints of beauty and richness more subtly stimulating than all the open glory of the low-hedged gardens near.

Diantha's soul was stirred with secret envy. Some big concern was about to carry out her dream, or part of it—perhaps to be a huge and overflowing rival. Her own work grew meantime, and flourished as well as she could wish.

The food-delivery service was running to its full capacity; the girls got on very well under Mrs. Jessup, and were delighted to have a house of their own with the parlors and piazzas all to themselves, and a garden to sit in as well. If this depleted their ranks by marriage, it did not matter now, for there was a waiting list in training all the time.

Union House kept on evenly and profitably, and Diantha was beginning to feel safe and successful; but the years looked long before her.

She was always cheered by Mrs. Weatherstone's letters; and Mrs. Porne came to see her, and to compare notes over their friend's success. For Mrs. Weatherstone had been presented at Court—at more than one court, in fact; and Mrs. Weatherstone had been proposed to by a Duke—and had refused him! Orchardina well-nigh swooned when this was known.

She had been studying, investigating, had become known in scientific as well as social circles, and on her way back the strenuous upper layer of New York Society had also made much of her. Rumors grew of her exquisite costumes, of her unusual jewels, of her unique entertainments, of her popularity everywhere she went.

Other proposals, of a magnificent nature, were reported, with more magnificent refusals; and Orchardina began to be very proud of young Mrs. Weatherstone and to wish she would come back.

She did at last, bringing an Italian Prince with her, and a Hoch Geborene German Count also, who alleged they were travelling to study the country, but who were reputed to have had a duel already on the beautiful widow's account.

All this was long-drawn gossip but bore some faint resemblance to the facts. Viva Weatherstone at thirty was a very different woman front the pale, sad-eyed girl of four years earlier. And when the great house on the avenue was arrayed in new magnificence, and all Orchardina—that dared—had paid its respects to her, she opened the season, as it were, with a brilliant dinner, followed by a reception and ball.

All Orchardina came—so far as it had been invited. There was the Prince, sure enough—a pleasant, blue-eyed young man. And there was the Count, bearing visible evidence of duels a-plenty in earlier days. And there was Diantha Bell—receiving, with Mrs. Porne and Mrs. Weatherstone. All Orchardina stared. Diantha had been at the dinner—that was clear. And now she stood there in her soft, dark evening dress, the knot of golden acacias nestling against the black lace at her bosom, looking as fair and sweet as if she had never had a care in her life.

Her mother thought her the most beautiful thing she had ever seen; and her father, though somewhat critical, secretly thought so, too.

Mrs. Weatherstone cast many a loving look at the tall girl beside her in the intervals of "Delighted to see you's," and saw that her double burden had had no worse effect than to soften the lines of the mouth and give a hint of pathos to the clear depths of her eyes.

The foreign visitors were much interested in the young Amazon of Industry, as the Prince insisted on calling her; and even the German Count for a moment forgot his ancestors in her pleasant practical talk.

Mrs. Weatherstone had taken pains to call upon the Wardens—claiming a connection, if not a relationship, and to invite them all. And as the crowd grew bigger and bigger, Diantha saw Mrs. Warden at last approaching with her four daughters—and no one else. She greeted them politely and warmly; but Mrs. Weatherstone did more.

Holding them all in a little group beside her, she introduced her noble visitors to them; imparted the further information that their brother was fiance to Miss Bell. "I don't see him," she said, looking about. "He will come later, of course. Ah, Miss Madeline! How proud you all must feel of your sister-in-law to be!"

Madeline blushed and tried to say she was.

"Such a remarkable young lady!" said the Count to Adeline. "You will admire, envy, and imitate! Is it not so?"

"Your ladies of America have all things in your hands," said the Prince to Miss Cora. "To think that she has done so much, and is yet so young—and so beautiful!"

"I know you're all as proud as you can be," Mrs. Weatherstone continued to Dora. "You see, Diantha has been heard of abroad."

They all passed on presently, as others came; but Mrs. Warden's head was reeling. She wished she could by any means get at Ross, and make him come, which he had refused to do.

"I can't, mother," he had said. "You go—all of you. Take the girls. I'll call for you at twelve—but I won't go in."

Mr. and Mrs. Thaddler were there—but not happy. She was not, at least, and showed it; he was not until an idea struck him. He dodged softly out, and was soon flying off, at dangerous speed over the moon-white country roads.

He found Ross, dressed and ready, sulking blackly on his shadowy porch.

"Come and take a spin while you wait," said Mr. Thaddler.

"Thanks, I have to go in town later."

"I'll take you in town."

"Thank you, but I have to take the horses in and bring out my mother and the girls."

"I'll bring you all out in the car. Come on—it's a great night."

So Ross rather reluctantly came.

He sat back on the luxurious cushions, his arms folded sternly, his brows knit, and the stout gentleman at his side watched him shrewdly.

"How does the ranch go?" he asked.

"Very well, thank you, Mr. Thaddler."

"Them Chinks pay up promptly?"

"As prompt as the month comes round. Their rent is a very valuable part of the estate."

"Yes," Mr. Thaddler pursued. "They have a good steady market for their stuff. And the chicken man, too. Do you know who buys 'em?"

Ross did not. Did not greatly care, he intimated.

"I should think you'd be interested—you ought to—it's Diantha Bell."

Ross started, but said nothing.

"You see, I've taken a great interest in her proposition ever since she sprung it on us," Mr. Thaddler confided. "She's got the goods all right. But there was plenty against her here—you know what women are! And I made up my mind the supplies should be good and steady, anyhow. She had no trouble with her grocery orders; that was easy. Meat I couldn't handle—except indirectly—a little pressure, maybe, here and there." And he chuckled softly. "But this ranch I bought on purpose."

Ross turned as if he had been stung.

"You!" he said.

"Yes, me. Why not? It's a good property. I got it all fixed right, and then I bought your little upstate shop—lock, stock and barrel—and gave you this for it. A fair exchange is no robbery. Though it would be nice to have it all in the family, eh?"

Ross was silent for a few turbulent moments, revolving this far from pleasing information.

"What'd I do it for?" continued the unasked benefactor. "What do you think I did it for? So that brave, sweet little girl down here could have her heart's desire. She's established her business—she's proved her point—she's won the town—most of it; and there's nothing on earth to make her unhappy now but your pigheadedness! Young man, I tell you you're a plumb fool!"

One cannot throw one's host out of his own swift-flying car; nor is it wise to jump out one's self.

"Nothing on earth between you but your cussed pride!" Mr. Thaddler remorselessly went on. "This ranch is honestly yours—by a square deal. Your Jopalez business was worth the money—you ran it honestly and extended the trade. You'd have made a heap by it if you could have unbent a little. Gosh! I limbered up that store some in twelve months!" And the stout man smiled reminiscently.

Ross was still silent.

"And now you've got what you wanted—thanks to her, mind you, thanks to her!—and you ain't willing to let her have what she wants!"

The young man moistened his lips to speak.

"You ain't dependent on her in any sense—I don't mean that. You earned the place all right, and I don't doubt you'll make good, both in a business way and a scientific way, young man. But why in Hades you can't let her be happy, too, is more'n I can figure! Guess you get your notions from two generations back—and some!"

Ross began, stumblingly. "I did not know I was indebted to you, Mr. Thaddler."

"You're not, young man, you're not! I ran that shop of yours a year—built up the business and sold it for more than I paid for this. So you've no room for heroics—none at all. What I want you to realize is that you're breaking the heart of the finest woman I ever saw. You can't bend that girl—she'll never give up. A woman like that has got more things to do than just marry! But she's pining for you all the same.

"Here she is to-night, receiving with Mrs. Weatherstone—with those Bannerets, Dukes and Earls around her—standing up there like a Princess herself—and her eyes on the door all the time—and tears in 'em, I could swear—because you don't come!"

*

They drew up with a fine curve before the carriage gate.

"I'll take 'em all home—they won't be ready for some time yet," said Mr. Thaddler. "And if you two would like this car I'll send for the other one."

Ross shook hands with him. "You are very kind, Mr. Thaddler," he said. "I am obliged to you. But I think we will walk."

Tall and impressive, looking more distinguished in a six-year-old evening suit than even the Hoch Geborene in his uniform, he came at last, and Diantha saw him the moment he entered; saw, too, a new light in his eyes.

He went straight to her. And Mrs. Weatherstone did not lay it up against him that he had but the briefest of words for his hostess.

"Will you come?" he said. "May I take you home—now?"

She went with him, without a word, and they walked slowly home, by far outlying paths, and long waits on rose-bowered seats they knew.

The moon filled all the world with tender light and the orange blossoms flooded the still air with sweetness.

"Dear," said he, "I have been a proud fool—I am yet—but I have come to see a little clearer. I do not approve of your work—I cannot approve of it—but will you forgive me for that and marry me? I cannot live any longer without you?"

"Of course I will," said Diantha.

(To be continued)



THE GOOD MAN

A certain Good Man possessed many Virtues of character by right of inheritance, so that my Critical Friend remarked, "It is easy for him to be good."

Now the Good Man was by no means satisfied with his inherited virtues, and with Ceaseless Diligence and Long Effort he strove to acquire more, and in due season acquired them, abundantly, so that even my Critical Friend allowed these virtues were of some credit to him.

Nevertheless, being critical, he criticized the Good Man, to my grief and amazement.

"How can you criticize this Great White Soul?" I cried. "He has never committed a crime."

"Neither have you or I," interrupted my Critical Friend.

"He has never sinned," I continued, "he has not a single vice, he has not even a fault! And as to his Virtues!"

"What are his Virtues?" asked my Critical Friend.

Then I considered the Virtues of that Great Man and was lost in admiration and amazement. "He is unimpeachably Honest, Trustworthy and True," said I. "He is Humble and Modest even in his Superiority, and has Hope of Improvement; he is Brave in meeting adversity and Patient in bearing it. He is Chaste and Temperate, he is Generous and Unselfish and Self-sacrificing, he is Persevering and Diligent, Faithful and Enduring. He is good."

"Yes?" said my Critical Friend. "What good is he?"

"What good?" said I.

"Yes, what good? What does he do?"

"What do you mean?" I asked. "His business?"

"Of course. What's his business? What does he do in the world?"

"He's a business man," said I, "and a very good business man, if that is what you mean."

My Critical friend grinned unfeelingly. "What use is he?" he asked. "Whom does he serve? Of what use to humanity is his work? In what may the human race be benefited by his business? What will the world lose when he is gone?"

"They will lose a Good Man," said I, a little angrily.

And my Critical Friend subsided, merely grunting once more, in that tiresome way of his, "What good?"



OUR ANDROCENTRIC CULTURE; OR, THE MAN-MADE WORLD

XIII.

INDUSTRY AND ECONOMICS.

The forest of Truth, on the subject of industry and economics, is difficult to see on account of the trees.

We have so many Facts on this subject; so many Opinions; so many Traditions and Habits; and the pressure of Immediate Conclusions is so intense upon us all; that it is not easy to form a clear space in one's mind and consider the field fairly.

Possibly the present treatment of the subject will appeal most to the minds of those who know least about it; such as the Average Woman. To her, Industry is a daylong and lifelong duty, as well as a natural impulse; and economics means going without things. To such untrained but also unprejudiced minds it should be easy to show the main facts on these lines.

Let us dispose of Economics first, as having a solemn scientific appearance.

Physical Economics treats of the internal affairs of the body; the whole machinery and how it works; all organs, members, functions; each last and littlest capillary and leucocyte, are parts of that "economy."

Nature's "economy" is not in the least "economical." The waste of life, the waste of material, the waste of time and effort, are prodigious, yet she achieves her end as we see.

Domestic Economics covers the whole care and government of the household; the maintenance of peace, health, order, and morality; the care and nourishment of children as far as done at home; the entire management of the home, as well as the spending and saving of money; are included in it. Saving is the least and poorest part of it; especially as in mere abstinence from needed things; most especially when this abstinence is mainly "Mother's." How best to spend; time, strength, love, care, labor, knowledge, and money—this should be the main study in Domestic Economics.