To the credit of the profession they have kept on talking, many of them. To the credit of some of our bravest and wisest editors the talk has been widely published. And right here I wish to pay a well deserved tribute to the "Ladies' Home Journal," which ought to have a Nobel prize for great public service.

That paper—long scorned by me as the arch-type of all small ultra-feminine backwardness, did the bravest thing a paper can do, risked its whole position by flying in the face of the public and printing the clearest, fullest, most enlightening accounts of the present status of these "social diseases," their terrible effects, and our duty toward them. It lost subscribers by the thousand and hundred thousand, but it did the work; and did it better than any other publication could; not only on account of its enormous circulation, but because it went into the homes of pious and unenlightened persons who would never have seen the information in more progressive magazines.

The negative inertia and positive resistance of the popular mind cannot forever resist the constantly increasing pressure of knowledge now poured forth on this subject.

But there is that other obstacle—the tradition of secrecy in the medical profession.

Doctors take the Hipprocratic oath. They solemnly swear not to reveal the confidences of their patients; or, more properly their innocent confidences. They are not bound like priests in the confessional; if a patient tells the doctor he has poisoned his mother or is about to poison his father, the doctor is not bound to conceal the facts.

Nevertheless, if a patient afflicted with one of these highly contagious diseases tells his doctor that he has poisoned his wife, or is to poison his child—the doctor feels professionally bound to keep silence.

What puzzles an outsider is to see why the medical mind discriminates so sharply here between the conduct required in cases of small pox or scarlet fever, and in this case. If you tell the doctor you have leprosy—there's nothing sacred about that. Off with you to the pest house, at any cost of pain and shame to you or your family. Is the whole community to be exposed to infection just to save your feelings?

So even with measles, with diphtheria, with yellow fever. The privacy of the home is invaded, families are ruthlessly separated, the strong arm of the law is reached out to protect the public against this danger; and the doctor, so far from conniving with the patient, is legally required to record all cases of this sort.

Now where is the difference?

These special diseases are more dangerous—and far more common, than most of these mentioned above; and their effects, hereditary as well as contagious, of measureless evil.

We are told that the difference is one of moral obliquity.

But surely there is no veil of secrecy about moral obliquity! If a man is a thief or a murderer we do not respect his confidence and conceal his offence. The papers justify their fierce blazonry of crimes and sins by saying that it strengthens public opinion—protects the people. No, it is not because of moral obliquity.

It is for precisely the same reason that you must not make inquiries of a Chinaman as to his wife's health, or see a Turkish lady without her veil—it is "improper!"

The doctors and the boards of health together can soon change this silly convention, and the physician be required to register every case of this sort as he does in other contagious diseases.

All this is called up at this time by a little book named "Never Told Tales," sent me by the author, Dr. William Robinson of New York City.

It is a brave little book. Dr. Robinson is not a novelist by profession, but his heart is so wrung and his brain so roused by the hidden tragedy he sees all about him that he has reached out into literature for aid. Everywhere this mischief creeps about, centering rankly in every large city; carried everywhere by those infected; bringing death, deformity, and hideous diseases into thousands of innocent families; spreading, growing, and nobody saying anything about it!

Dr. Robinson has said something. He has thrown out the little book of stories, hoping that in the vivid narrative form it may reach and appeal to those who would not read "medical literature"; or even the new and impressive books now to be had on this subject.

For solid information of a clear and serious sort, readable and clean, Dr. Prince Morrow's book, "Social Diseases and Marriage" is the best I know. Dr. Morrow is the founder of the American Society of Sanitary and Moral Prophylaxis in New York City; a splendid effort on the part of the medical profession to spread even to unwilling ears this necessary knowledge.

The New York Federation of Women's Clubs has lately taken action on the subject; passing resolutions urging in this state an amendment to the Domestic Relations law requiring every marriage certificate to be accompanied by a medical certificate also, certifying the applicant to be free from contagious disease. This is already required in several western states. It seems a simple and righteous proposition. If a man wishes to join the army or navy, or to have his life insured, he has to pass a physical examination, and is refused if he is unfit. Is not marriage and parenthood as important as carrying life insurance?

There is a large and growing interest in these matters among intelligent women; and it is a natural and proper one. If a woman is to unite her life with a man, she surely has a right to know whether her own life is to be risked by the union. If she looks forward to motherhood as every normal woman should, she should be safeguarded from this terrible possibility.

It is time there was wide, full public knowledge on this subject.



PERSONAL PROBLEMS

This from a recent newspaper: "When a reporter called at the address, Miss Doe or Mrs. Roe appeared in a highly nervous state as a result of her struggles during the day to keep out of the way of reporters. It took half an hour's argument to induce her to acknowledge the marriage."

As the whole story treats of this lady's marriage, the calling her "Miss" appears to be a needlessly elaborate insult; but what seems most prominent here is the naive brutality of the inquisitor.

Here is a runaway match; the groom being a student and the son of a somewhat prominent man; it is a bit of gossip, of no general importance whatever, the publication of which is sure to cause intense distress to the bride, the groom, the father, and the heads of the institution where the young man was being educated.

In pursuit of this utterly unnecessary "news" the young bride is hounded into a "highly nervous condition" by the person hired to meddle in private affairs for trade purposes. The effect of her previous "struggle to keep out of the way" is calmly noted by the successful intruder; he forces himself in where he was not wanted; he remains admittedly against the will of the occupier; he talks like a book-agent and wears out the already nervous woman till he makes her "acknowledge the marriage."

As a personal problem, why should any citizen submit to be exploited in this manner for trade purposes?

As a public problem, why should any tradesman be allowed to practice this sort of psychic assault and battery?

The position was well expressed by a wise man as follows: "If the newspaper is a public business for public service, by what right do personal owners make fortunes out of it? If it is a personal business for personal profit, by what right does it meddle with my private affairs?"

This might be made an extremely debatable question: What right has anyone to keep to himself some process, drug, or special knowledge of real value to humanity? Patents or royalties may be allowed, with full freedom to use, but has he the right to conceal and withhold his benefaction? Or suppose again, that one has some distinction of no use to humanity, yet of sufficient interest to the gaping crowd to command a price for exhibition; if one is a Bearded Lady, say, or a Living Skeleton, or a Fat Boy, and if one makes a living by exhibiting these peculiarities and selling one's photograph—then would it be just to allow any and every photographer to forcibly take one's picture and sell it?

Further, suppose one has a private history rich in biographical revelations, and intended to publish the same, after the manner of those major and minor ego-maniacs of the astounding "confessions"; then is it right that the public scandal pedlars be allowed to chase their prey into his or her private house, and by a sort of "third degree" process wring from the exhausted and irritated victim these biographical tidbits, that they may go and sell them to their own profit?

"The public is interested in these things," we are gravely told by these who thus make a living.

The Public might, conceivably, be interested in the table manners of certain noted persons, or their expressions while shaving, or "doing their hair."

Is it therefore permissible that dealers in picture post-cards, or makers of moving picture. shows, come in with cameras at mealtimes or toilette hours, and photograph the lifted soupspoon, the purchased hair, or cheek stretched under the razor?

The right of society to the best service of all, we must accept as paramount; but what right has a private individual to exploit the secrets of other private individuals merely for his own financial profit? And how can he claim "social service" as his excuse, when what he does is no benefit but an injury to society?

Do we not need a wide and thorough revision of our ideas as to social and personal rights?



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THE FORERUNNER CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN'S MAGAZINE CHARLTON CO., 67 WALL ST., NEW YORK

AS TO PURPOSE:

What is The Forerunner? It is a monthly magazine, publishing stories short and serial, article and essay; drama, verse, satire and sermon; dialogue, fable and fantasty, comment and review. It is written entirely by Charlotte Perkins Gilman.

What is it For? It is to stimulate thought: to arouse hope, courage and impatience; to offer practical suggestions and solutions, to voice the strong assurance of better living, here, now, in our own hands to make.

What is it about? It is about people, principles, and the questions of every-day life; the personal and public problems of to-day. It gives a clear, consistent view of human life and how to live it.

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AS TO ADVERTISING:

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AS TO CONTENTS:

The main feature of the first year is a new book on a new subject with a new name:—

"Our Androcentric Culture." this is a study of the historic effect on normal human development of a too exclusively masculine civilization. It shows what man, the male, has done to the world: and what woman, the more human, may do to change it.

"What Diantha Did." This is a serial novel. It shows the course of true love running very crookedly—as it so often does—among the obstructions and difficulties of the housekeeping problem—and solves that problem. (NOT by co-operation.)

Among the short articles will appear:

"Private Morality and Public Immorality." "The Beauty Women Have Lost" "Our Overworked Instincts." "The Nun in the Kitchen." "Genius: Domestic and Maternal." "A Small God and a Large Goddess." "Animals in Cities." "How We Waste Three-Fourths Of Our Money." "Prize Children" "Kitchen-Mindedness" "Parlor-Mindedness" "Nursery-Mindedness"

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AS TO VALUE:

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One complete novel . . . By C. P. Gilman One new book . . . By C. P. Gilman Twelve short stories . . . By C. P. Gilman Twelve-and-more short articles . . . By C. P. Gilman Twelve-and-more new poems . . . By C. P. Gilman Twelve Short Sermons . . . By C. P. Gilman Besides "Comment and Review" . . . By C. P. Gilman "Personal Problems" . . . By C. P. Gilman And many other things . . . By C. P. Gilman

DON'T YOU THINK IT'S WORTH A DOLLAR?

THE FORERUNNER CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN'S MAGAZINE CHARLTON CO., 67 WALL ST., NEW YORK

__ 19_

Please find enclosed $ as subscription to "The Forerunner" from 19 to 19









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This is a six-room two-story cottage, natural wood finish, unplastered, on two and a half acres of land, 600 feet on the lake, with an old apple orchard and many other trees. It has on two sides covered piazzas, outside blinds, open fireplaces in two rooms; and new white enameled open plumbing, with hot and cold water. It is about a mile and a half from Essex Village, and about one-quarter of a mile from the post office, at the Crater Club, an exclusive summer colony. Access by boat and train.

I have not seen this cottage, but I've seen plans, elevations and photographs of it, and of views from it. It stands on a bluff, close to the lake, the Green Mountains far in the east, and the Adirondacks some twelve miles to the west. The people who own it will answer further questions and state facts fully on request, both advantages and disadvantages.

The list of furnishings is accurate and circumstantial, as follows:

INVENTORY OF CONTENTS OF COTTAGE

LIVING ROOM

Mahogany sofa, small mahogany table Marble-topped table and "Crowning of Esther" 4 rosewood chairs, steamer chair Whatnot, wall-bracket, books, basket Mahogany table, small round 3-legged Long mantel mirror, gilt frame 3 oil paintings, 3 engravings Rustic seat (filled with wood) Old-fashioned heating stove, crated Candle-lantern, 2 Japanese trays Door-scraper, woodbasket Tongs-holder, hearth brush Child's garden tools 2 sofa cushions Various small ornaments

KITCHEN

Ironing Table, stand, wax, bosom board Tin pail, dipper, basin 1 new broom, 1 old broom Tool box, tools, nails, saw, hatchet Hammock, barrel hammock, tie ropes Soap rack, dustpan, scrap basket Folding hat rack, ladder Carving set, 6 knives (very old) Coffee pot, toaster, egg whip, egg beater 5 large white china plates 5 medium and 6 small ditto 6 demi tasse and saucers, same 2 tea cups, 6 saucers, same 2 egg stands, green; 2 sugar bowls 1 butterfly cup and saucer 6 glasses, 1 lemon squeezer 1 mechanical red-glass lamp 2 reading lamps, 3 small hand lamps 3 small bracket lamps, 1 shade White shades at all windows

GREEN BEDROOM

Green bedstead (three-quarter) 2 mattresses, 2 pillows, madras cover Green bureau; green washstand Green table; green rocking chair Oak chair; 2 pictures; 1 chamber

LARGE EAST BEDROOM

Oak bedstead (double) Oak bureau, oak washstand 2 mattresses, 2 feather beds, 1 bolster 2 pillows, madras spread 1 box cot, 1 mattress, straw pillow 2 chairs, 2 towel racks Bureau cover, pen cushion, etc. 3 pictures

SOUTHWEST BEDROOM Black walnut single bedstead 1 hair mattress and bolster 1 pillow, 1 feather bed, 1 madras spread Bureau (mirror broken), 2 towel racks Mahogany washstand, mirror Small 3-legged table 3 rosewood chairs Bureau cover, pin cushion, etc. Shoebag on wall Oil painting, on copper Brass stair rods, in closet

NORTHWEST BEDROOM

2 mahogany bureaus, empty trunk Portable bath-tub, clothes basket On shelves: 7 sheets, 7 pillow cases 3 table cloths, 10 doilies 4 towels, dish cloths and towels Bureau and tray cloths Curtains, enough for doors Curtains for some windows

Apply to "Summer Cottage," care of The Forerunner or to John B. Burnham, Agent, Essex, N.Y.



THE FORERUNNER

A MONTHLY MAGAZINE

BY

CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN AUTHOR, OWNER & PUBLISHER

1.00 A YEAR .10 A COPY

Volume 1. No. 7 MAY, 1910 Copyright for 1910 C. P. Gilman

Having made pockets, we need not carry so many things in our hands. Having made books, we need not carry so many things in our heads.



BRAIN SERVICE

We offer our hearts to God, contrite and broken; Why not offer our brains, whole and alive? Why follow the grovelling words wailing old races have spoken? Bow and submit, when we ought to resist and strive!

What is this "heart" that you offer? A circulator, An organ that quivers and starts at the fears of the hour. Why not offer your head? And hold it straighter? Bring to the service of God your noblest power?

When we learn to credit Him with our great ideals, and greater— When we all stand up at last, stop kissing the rod— When we bring the brains of to-day to seek and serve the Creator— God will look better to us, and we shall look better to God.



WHEN I WAS A WITCH

If I had understood the terms of that one-sided contract with Satan, the Time of Witching would have lasted longer—you may be sure of that. But how was I to tell? It just happened, and has never happened again, though I've tried the same preliminaries as far as I could control them.

The thing began all of a sudden, one October midnight—the 30th, to be exact. It had been hot, really hot, all day, and was sultry and thunderous in the evening; no air stirring, and the whole house stewing with that ill-advised activity which always seems to move the steam radiator when it isn't wanted.

I was in a state of simmering rage—hot enough, even without the weather and the furnace—and I went up on the roof to cool off. A top-floor apartment has that advantage, among others—you can take a walk without the mediation of an elevator boy!

There are things enough in New York to lose one's temper over at the best of times, and on this particular day they seemed to all happen at once, and some fresh ones. The night before, cats and dogs had broken my rest, of course. My morning paper was more than usually mendacious; and my neighbor's morning paper—more visible than my own as I went down town—was more than usually salacious. My cream wasn't cream—my egg was a relic of the past. My "new" napkins were giving out.

Being a woman, I'm supposed not to swear; but when the motorman disregarded my plain signal, and grinned as he rushed by; when the subway guard waited till I was just about to step on board and then slammed the door in my face—standing behind it calmly for some minutes before the bell rang to warrant his closing—I desired to swear like a mule-driver.

At night it was worse. The way people paw one's back in the crowd! The cow-puncher who packs the people in or jerks them out—the men who smoke and spit, law or no law—the women whose saw-edged cart-wheel hats, swashing feathers and deadly pins, add so to one's comfort inside.

Well, as I said, I was in a particularly bad temper, and went up on the roof to cool off. Heavy black clouds hung low overhead, and lightning flickered threateningly here and there.

A starved, black cat stole from behind a chimney and mewed dolefully. Poor thing! She had been scalded.

The street was quiet for New York. I leaned over a little and looked up and down the long parallels of twinkling lights. A belated cab drew near, the horse so tired he could hardly hold his head up.

Then the driver, with a skill born of plenteous practice, flung out his long-lashed whip and curled it under the poor beast's belly with a stinging cut that made me shudder. The horse shuddered too, poor wretch, and jingled his harness with an effort at a trot.

I leaned over the parapet and watched that man with a spirit of unmitigated ill-will.

"I wish," said I, slowly—and I did wish it with all my heart—"that every person who strikes or otherwise hurts a horse unnecessarily, shall feel the pain intended—and the horse not feel it!"

It did me good to say it, anyhow, but I never expected any result. I saw the man swing his great whip again, and—lay on heartily. I saw him throw up his hands—heard him scream—but I never thought what the matter was, even then.

The lean, black cat, timid but trustful, rubbed against my skirt and mewed.

"Poor Kitty" I said; "poor Kitty! It is a shame!" And I thought tenderly of all the thousands of hungry, hunted cats who stink and suffer its a great city.

Later, when I tried to sleep, and up across the stillness rose the raucous shrieks of some of these same sufferers, my pity turned cold. "Any fool that will try to keep a cat in a city!" I muttered, angrily.

Another yell—a pause—an ear-torturing, continuous cry. "I wish," I burst forth, "that every cat in the city was comfortably dead!"

A sudden silence fell, and in course of time I got to sleep.

Things went fairly well next morning, till I tried another egg. They were expensive eggs, too.

"I can't help it!" said my sister, who keeps house.

"I know you can't," I admitted. "But somebody could help it. I wish the people who are responsible had to eat their old eggs, and never get a good one till they sold good ones!"

"They'd stop eating eggs, that's all," said my sister, "and eat meat."

"Let 'em eat meat!" I said, recklessly. "The meat is as bad as the eggs! It's so long since we've had a clean, fresh chicken that I've forgotten how they taste!"

"It's cold storage," said my sister. She is a peaceable sort; I'm not.

"Yes, cold storage!" I snapped. "It ought to be a blessing—to tide over shortages, equalize supplies, and lower prices. What does it do? Corner the market, raise prices the year round, and make all the food bad!"

My anger rose. "If there was any way of getting at them!" I cried. "The law don't touch 'em. They need to be cursed somehow! I'd like to do it! I wish the whole crowd that profit by this vicious business might taste their bad meat, their old fish, their stale milk—whatever they ate. Yes, and feel the prices as we do!"

"They couldn't you know; they're rich," said my sister.

"I know that," I admitted, sulkily. "There's no way of getting at 'em. But I wish they could. And I wish they knew how people hated 'em, and felt that, too—till they mended their ways!"

When I left for my office I saw a funny thing. A man who drove a garbage cart took his horse by the bits and jerked and wrenched brutally. I was amazed to see him clap his hands to his own jaws with a moan, while the horse philosophically licked his chops and looked at him.

The man seemed to resent his expression, and struck him on the head, only to rub his own poll and swear amazedly, looking around to see who had hit him. the horse advanced a step, stretching a hungry nose toward a garbage pail crowned with cabbage leaves, and the man, recovering his sense of proprietorship, swore at him and kicked him in the ribs. That time he had to sit down, turning pale and weak. I watched with growing wonder and delight.

A market wagon came clattering down the street; the hard-faced young ruffian fresh for his morning task. He gathered the ends of the reins and brought them down on the horse's back with a resounding thwack. The horse did not notice this at all, but the boy did. He yelled!

I came to a place where many teamsters were at work hauling dirt and crushed stone. A strange silence and peace hung over the scene where usually the sound of the lash and sight of brutal blows made me hurry by. The men were talking together a little, and seemed to be exchanging notes. It was too good to be true. I gazed and marvelled, waiting for my car.

It came, merrily running along. It was not full. There was one not far ahead, which I had missed in watching the horses; there was no other near it in the rear.

Yet the coarse-faced person in authority who ran it, went gaily by without stopping, though I stood on the track almost, and waved my umbrella.

A hot flush of rage surged to my face. "I wish you felt the blow you deserve," said I, viciously, looking after the car. "I wish you'd have to stop, and back to here, and open the door and apologize. I wish that would happen to all of you, every time you play that trick."

To my infinite amazement, that car stopped and backed till the front door was before me. The motorman opened it. holding his hand to his cheek. "Beg your pardon, madam!" he said.

I passed in, dazed, overwhelmed. Could it be? Could it possibly be that—that what I wished came true. The idea sobered me, but I dismissed it with a scornful smile. "No such luck!" said I.

Opposite me sat a person in petticoats. She was of a sort I particularly detest. No real body of bones and muscles, but the contours of grouped sausages. Complacent, gaudily dressed, heavily wigged and ratted, with powder and perfume and flowers and jewels—and a dog.

A poor, wretched, little, artificial dog—alive, but only so by virtue of man's insolence; not a real creature that God made. And the dog had clothes on—and a bracelet! His fitted jacket had a pocket—and a pocket-handkerchief! He looked sick and unhappy.

I meditated on his pitiful position, and that of all the other poor chained prisoners, leading unnatural lives of enforced celibacy, cut off from sunlight, fresh air, the use of their limbs; led forth at stated intervals by unwilling servants, to defile our streets; over-fed, under-exercised, nervous and unhealthy.

"And we say we love them!" said I, bitterly to myself. "No wonder they bark and howl and go mad. No wonder they have almost as many diseases as we do! I wish—" Here the thought I had dismissed struck me agin. "I wish that all the unhappy dogs in cities would die at once!"

I watched the sad-eyed little invalid across the car. He dropped his head and died. She never noticed it till she got off; then she made fuss enough.

The evening papers were full of it. Some sudden pestilence had struck both dogs and cats, it would appear. Red headlines struck the eye, big letters, and columns were filled out of the complaints of those who had lost their "pets," of the sudden labors of the board of health, and interviews with doctors.

All day, as I went through the office routine, the strange sense of this new power struggled with reason and common knowledge. I even tried a few furtive test "wishes"—wished that the waste basket would fall over, that the inkstand would fill itself; but they didn't.

I dismissed the idea as pure foolishness, till I saw those newspapers, and heard people telling worse stories.

One thing I decided at once—not to tell a soul. "Nobody'd believe me if I did," said I to myself. "And I won't give 'em the chance. I've scored on cats and dogs, anyhow—and horses."

As I watched the horses at work that afternoon, and thought of all their unknown sufferings from crowded city stables, bad air and insufficient food, and from the wearing strain of asphalt pavements in wet and icy weather, I decided to have another try on horses.

"I wish," said I, slowly and carefully, but with a fixed intensity of purposes, "that every horse owner, keeper, hirer and driver or rider, might feel what the horse feels, when he suffers at our hands. Feel it keenly and constantly till the case is mended."

I wasn't able to verify this attempt for some time; but the effect was so general that it got widely talked about soon; and this "new wave of humane feeling" soon raised the status of horses in our city. Also it diminished their numbers. People began to prefer motor drays—which was a mighty good thing.

Now I felt pretty well assured in my own mind, and kept my assurance to my self. Also I began to make a list of my cherished grudges, with a fine sense of power and pleasure.

"I must be careful," I said to myself; "very careful; and, above all things, make the punishment fit the crime."

The subway crowding came to my mind next; both the people who crowd because they have to, and the people who make them. "I mustn't punish anybody, for what they can't help," I mused. "But when it's pure meanness!" Then I bethought me of the remote stockholders, of the more immediate directors, of the painfully prominent officials and insolent employees—and got to work.

"I might as well make a good job of it while this lasts," said I to myself. "It's quite a responsibility, but lots of fun." And I wished that every person responsible for the condition of our subways might be mysteriously compelled to ride up and down in them continuously during rush hours.

This experiment I watched with keen interest, but for the life of me I could see little difference. There were a few more well-dressed persons in the crowds, that was all. So I came to the conclusion that the general public was mostly to blame, and carried their daily punishment without knowing it.

For the insolent guards and cheating ticket-sellers who give you short change, very slowly, when you are dancing on one foot and your train is there, I merely wished that they might feel the pain their victims would like to give them, short of real injury. They did, I guess.

Then I wished similar things for all manner of corporations and officials. It worked. It worked amazingly. There was a sudden conscientious revival all over the country. The dry bones rattled and sat up. Boards of directors, having troubles enough of their own, were aggravated by innumerable communications from suddenly sensitive stockholders.

In mills and mints and railroads, things began to mend. The country buzzed. The papers fattened. The churches sat up and took credit to themselves. I was incensed at this; and, after brief consideration, wished that every minister would preach to his congregation exactly what he believed and what he thought of them.

I went to six services the next Sunday—about ten minutes each, for two sessions. It was most amusing. A thousand pulpits were emptied forthwith, refilled, re-emptied, and so on, from week to week. People began to go to church; men largely—women didn't like it as well. They had always supposed the ministers thought more highly of them than now appeared to be the case.

One of my oldest grudges was against the sleeping-car people; and now I began to consider them. How often I had grinned and borne it—with other thousands—submitting helplessly.

Here is a railroad—a common carrier—and you have to use it. You pay for your transportation, a good round sum.

Then if you wish to stay in the sleeping car during the day, they charge you another two dollars and a half for the privilege of sitting there, whereas you have paid for a seat when you bought your ticket. That seat is now sold to another person—twice sold! Five dollars for twenty-four hours in a space six feet by three by three at night, and one seat by day; twenty-four of these privileges to a car—$120 a day for the rent of the car—and the passengers to pay the porter besides. That makes $44,800 a year.

Sleeping cars are expensive to build, they say. So are hotels; but they do not charge at such a rate. Now, what could I do to get even? Nothing could ever put back the dollars into the millions of pockets; but it might be stopped now, this beautiful process.

So I wished that all persons who profited by this performance might feel a shame so keen that they would make public avowal and apology, and, as partial restitution, offer their wealth to promote the cause of free railroads!

Then I remembered parrots. This was lucky, for my wrath flamed again. It was really cooling, as I tried to work out responsibility and adjust penalties. But parrots! Any person who wants to keep a parrot should go and live on an island alone with their preferred conversationalist!

There was a huge, squawky parrot right across the street from me, adding its senseless, rasping cries to the more necessary evils of other noises.

I had also an aunt with a parrot. She was a wealthy, ostentatious person, who had been an only child and inherited her money.

Uncle Joseph hated the yelling bird, but that didn't make any difference to Aunt Mathilda.

I didn't like this aunt, and wouldn't visit her, lest she think I was truckling for the sake of her money; but after I had wished this time, I called at the time set for my curse to work; and it did work with a vengeance. There sat poor Uncle Joe, looking thinner and meeker than ever; and my aunt, like an overripe plum, complacent enough.

"Let me out!" said Polly, suddenly. "Let me out to take a walk!"

"The clever thing!" said Aunt Mathilda. "He never said that before."

She let him out. Then he flapped up on the chandelier and sat among the prisms, quite safe.

"What an old pig you are, Mathilda!" said the parrot.

She started to her feet—naturally.

"Born a Pig—trained a Pig—a Pig by nature and education!" said the parrot. "Nobody'd put up with you, except for your money; unless it's this long-suffering husband of yours. He wouldn't, if he hadn't the patience of Job!"

"Hold your tongue!" screamed Aunt Mathilda. "Come down from there! Come here!"

Polly cocked his head and jingled the prisms. "Sit down, Mathilda!" he said, cheerfully. "You've got to listen. You are fat and homely and selfish. You are a nuisance to everybody about you. You have got to feed me and take care of me better than ever—and you've got to listen to me when I talk. Pig!"

I visited another person with a parrot the next day. She put a cloth over his cage when I came in.

"Take it off!" said Polly. She took it off.

"Won't you come into the other room?" she asked me, nervously.

"Better stay here!" said her pet. "Sit still—sit still!"

She sat still.

"Your hair is mostly false," said pretty Poll. "And your teeth—and your outlines. You eat too much. You are lazy. You ought to exercise, and don't know enough. Better apologize to this lady for backbiting! You've got to listen."

The trade in parrots fell off from that day; they say there is no call for them. But the people who kept parrots, keep them yet—parrots live a long time.

Bores were a class of offenders against whom I had long borne undying enmity. Now I rubbed my hands and began on them, with this simple wish: That every person whom they bored should tell them the plain truth.

There is one man whom I have specially in mind. He was blackballed at a pleasant club, but continues to go there. He isn't a member—he just goes; and no one does anything to him.

It was very funny after this. He appeared that very night at a meeting, and almost every person present asked him how he came there. "You're not a member, you know," they said. "Why do you butt in? Nobody likes you."

Some were more lenient with him. "Why don't you learn to be more considerate of others, and make some real friends?" they said. "To have a few friends who do enjoy your visits ought to be pleasanter than being a public nuisance."

He disappeared from that club, anyway.

I began to feel very cocky indeed.

In the food business there was already a marked improvement; and in transportation. The hubbub of reformation waxed louder daily, urged on by the unknown sufferings of all the profiters by iniquity.

The papers thrived on all this; and as I watched the loud-voiced protestations of my pet abomination in journalism, I had a brilliant idea, literally.

Next morning I was down town early, watching the men open their papers. My abomination was shamefully popular, and never more so than this morning. Across the top was printing in gold letters:

All intentional lies, in adv., editorial, news, or any other column. . .Scarlet All malicious matter. . .Crimson All careless or ignorant mistakes. . .Pink All for direct self-interest of owner. . .Dark green All mere bait—to sell the paper. . .Bright green All advertising, primary or secondary. . .Brown All sensational and salacious matter. . .Yellow All hired hypocrisy. . .Purple Good fun, instruction and entertainment. . .Blue True and necessary news and honest editorials. . .Ordinary print

You never saw such a crazy quilt of a paper. They were bought like hot cakes for some days; but the real business fell off very soon. They'd have stopped it all if they could; but the papers looked all right when they came off the press. The color scheme flamed out only to the bona-fide reader.

I let this work for about a week, to the immense joy of all the other papers; and then turned it on to them, all at once. Newspaper reading became very exciting for a little, but the trade fell off. Even newspaper editors could not keep on feeding a market like that. The blue printed and ordinary printed matter grew from column to column and page to page. Some papers—small, to be sure, but refreshing—began to appear in blue and black alone.

This kept me interested and happy for quite a while; so much so that I quite forgot to be angry at other things. There was such a change in all kinds of business, following the mere printing of truth in the newspapers. It began to appear as if we had lived in a sort of delirium—not really knowing the facts about anything. As soon as we really knew the facts, we began to behave very differently, of course.

What really brought all my enjoyment to an end was women. Being a woman, I was naturally interested in them, and could see some things more clearly than men could. I saw their real power, their real dignity, their real responsibility in the world; and then the way they dress and behave used to make me fairly frantic. 'Twas like seeing archangels playing jackstraws—or real horses only used as rocking-horses. So I determined to get after them.

How to manage it! What to hit first! Their hats, their ugly, inane, outrageous hats—that is what one thinks of first. Their silly, expensive clothes—their diddling beads and jewelry—their greedy childishness—mostly of the women provided for by rich men.

Then I thought of all the other women, the real ones, the vast majority, patiently doing the work of servants without even a servant's pay—and neglecting the noblest duties of motherhood in favor of house-service; the greatest power on earth, blind, chained, untaught, in a treadmill. I thought of what they might do, compared to what they did do, and my heart swelled with something that was far from anger.

Then I wished—with all my strength—that women, all women, might realize Womanhood at last; its power and pride and place in life; that they might see their duty as mothers of the world—to love and care for everyone alive; that they might see their dirty to men—to choose only the best, and then to bear and rear better ones; that they might see their duty as human beings, and come right out into full life and work and happiness!

I stopped, breathless, with shining eyes. I waited, trembling, for things to happen.

Nothing happened.

You see, this magic which had fallen on me was black magic—and I had wished white.

It didn't work at all, and, what was worse, it stopped all the other things that were working so nicely.

Oh, if I had only thought to wish permanence for those lovely punishments! If only I had done more while I could do it, had half appreciated my privileges when I was a Witch!



[Untitled]

"I can understand," says Eugene Wood, "how some women want to vote. And I can understand how some women do not want to vote."

"But I can't understand how some women do not want other women to vote."



BELIEVING AND KNOWING

What is Believing—psychologically? What does the brain do when it "believes" that is different from what it does when it "knows"?

There is a difference. When you know a thing you don't have to believe it. There is no effort, and no credit attached, in knowing; but this act of "believing" has long been held as both difficult and worthy.

There seems to be not only a clearly marked distinction between knowing and believing, but a direct incompatibility. It may be said roughly that the less we know the more we believe, and the more we know the less we believe. The credulity of the child, the savage, and the less educated classes in society, is in sharp contrast with the relative incredulity of the adult civilized human, and the more highly educated.

There is a difference also shown in our mental sensations as to a thing believed and a thing known. If a man tells you that grass is red and the sky yellow, you merely think him color blind—It does not anger you nor alter your opinion. If he tells you that two and two make ten, you think him ignorant, weak-minded, but your view is not changed, nor are you enraged by him. But if he contradicts you on some religious dogma you are hurt and angry. Why? As a matter of direct physicho-psychological action, why?

To make a physical comparison, it is like the difference between being pushed against when you stand square on your feet, and pushed when you stand on one leg.

Or again, the thing you know is like something nailed down, or planted and growing; the thing you believe like something held up by main force, and quite likely to be joggled or blown away. "Do not try to shake my faith!" protests the believer. He does not object to your trying to shake his knowledge.

If the new knowledge you bring him is evidently a matter of fact, if his brain rationally perceives that he was wrong about this thing, and you are right, he removes his incorrect idea and establishes the correct one, with no more disagreeable sensation than a little sense of shame:—not that, if he was wise enough to admit ignorance gracefully.

But the new faith you bring him is quite another matter. He hangs on to his old faith as if there was a virtue in the mental attitude of belief—aha! now we are on the track! He has been taught that there is!

We receive knowledge and faith in quite different ways, with quite different emphasis. The child learns—and learns—and learns—every day of his life; learns year after year, as long as his brain is able to receive impressions. This vast mass of knowledge is for the most part received indiscriminately and assorted by the brain after its own fashion.

There are but few departments of knowledge to which we have attached arbitrary ideas of superiority; and those fortunately, are all old ones. Knowledge of "the classics" was once kept in the same box with social standing, if not with orthodoxy; and to this day an error in spelling or grammar will condemn a person far more than entire ignorance of physiology or mechanics. Knowledge is a vast range, an unlimited range, visibly subject to extension; each new peak surmounted showing us many more. We learn, unlearn, and relearn, without much opposition or criticism, so long as our little bunch of specialties is assured—the spelling, for instance.

But when it comes to believing, disbelieving, and rebelieving—that is a different matter. Certain things were given us to believe—in our racial infancy—before we knew much of anything, and were therefore far more capable of believing. These articles of belief were sincerely held to be the most important matters; and they were too; because, if any stronger minded race infant refused to believe them, he was ostracised—or executed. What a man believed, or disbelieved, was the keynote of life—in that interesting race infancy of ours. All the other mental processes were as nothing compared to this. Knowledge? There was none to speak of. Doubt was a crime. Inquiry was the beginning of doubt.

The dogmas inserted did change, though slowly; but their importance in the scheme of life did not change. Whatever else the man might or might not be the first question was, "Art thou a Believer?" And he was. What he believed might be the One Absolute Truth; or one of many contemptible heresies; but he was always a believer.

They began with the helpless little children, and told them as the most important basic truths, whatsoever religious doctrines were current at the time; and renewed this process with every generation until this very day—and are still at it. Many of the most pronounced free-thinkers not only prefer to have their women still "devout," but insist on putting their children through the old course of instruction.

So, in the course of these unbroken ages; under a combined treatment of rigid "natural selection"—the elimination of the unfit, who were burned or beheaded—and of the heaviest social pressure, in both education and imitation; we have developed in the race mind a special area for "believing" as distinct front knowing. This area is abnormally sensitive because in those long ages behind us, it was the very vital base of life itself. If your Belief was steady and intact, you were permitted to live. If it was in the least degree wavering you were in danger. Is it any wonder we object so automatically to anyone's trying to "shake our faith?"

The change of the last century in this regard has been not only in the sudden opening up of new fields of knowledge; not only in the adoption of entire new methods in the acquisition of knowledge; not only in the rapid popularization of knowledge; but most of all in a new relation of ideas. We are beginning dimly to grasp something of the real scheme of life; to get our sense of the basic verities from observation of facts. That underlying scheme of life which the brain as an organ hungers for, is now opening to us in the field of ascertained fact.

A broad deep satisfying conception of life may now be gathered from the open book of natural law, both the perception of and the inspiration to right living are to be found there; all matters of calm clear easily held knowledge. When one knows enough to build a working religion on established facts, one does not have so much need of that extra capacity of believing.

You may also believe what you know—but it isn't necessary.

It will be a wonderful thing for the world when in every mind the beautiful truths of life shall be common knowledge. You may believe in an alleged father you have never seen; but when you live with your father you know him.



THE KINGDOM

"Where is Heaven?" asked the Person. "I want Heaven—to enjoy it; I want Heaven, recompensing For the evils I have suffered— All the terrible injustice, All the foolish waste and hunger— Where is Heaven? Can I get there?"

Then the Priest expounded Heaven: "Heaven is a place for dead men; After you are dead you'll find it, If"—and here the Priest was earnest— "If you do the things I tell you— Do exactly what is ordered! It will cost you quite a little— You must pay a price for Heaven— You must pay before you enter."

"Am I sure of what I'm getting?" Asked the mean, suspicious Person. "What you urge is disagreeable; What you ask is quite expensive; Am I sure of getting Heaven?"

Then the Priest prepared a potion, Made of Concentrated Ages, Made of Many Mingled Feelings— Highest Hope and Deepest Terror— Mixed our best and worst together, Reverence and Love and Service, Coward Fear and rank Self-Interest— Gave him this when he was little, Pumped it in before the Person Could examine his prescription. So the Person, thus instructed, Now believed the things he told him; Paid the price as he was able, Died—the Priest said, went to Heaven— None came back to contradict him!

*

"We want Heaven," said the People; We believe in God and Heaven; Where God is, there must be Heaven; God is Here—and this is Heaven."

Then they saw the earth was lovely; Life was sweet, and love eternal; Then they learned the joy of living, Caught a glimpse of what Life might be, What it could be—should be—would be— When the People chose to have it!

Then they bought no further tickets Of the sidewalk speculators; They no longer gave their children The "spring medicine" of Grandma. They said, "We will take no chances Of what happens after dying; We perceive that Human Beings, Wise, and sweet, and brave, and tender, Strong, and beautiful, and noble, Living peaceably together, In a universal garden, With the Sciences for Soldiers, With the Allied Arts for Angels, With the Crafts and Trades for Servants, With all Nature for the Teacher, And all People for the Students, Make a very pleasant Heaven. We can see and understand it, We believe we'd really like some; Now we'll set to work and make it!

So they set to work, together, In the Faith that rests on Knowledge, In the Hope that's born of Wisdom. In the Love that grows with Practise And proceeded to make Heaven.

*

And God smiled. He had been tired Of the everlasting dead men, Of the hungry, grasping dead men; He had always wanted live ones— Wanted them to build the Kingdom!



PRIZE CHILDREN

A prosperous farmer, driving a valuable horse, will exhibit with pride the "points" of his swift roadster—the fine action, the speed and endurance. He himself sits stoop-shouldered and muscle-bound; strong, it may be, but slow and awkward, with bad teeth and poor digestion; by no means a model human being either in "points" or "action."

He never thinks of these things.

A virtuous housewife, running a comfortable house, has a justifiable pride in the cleanliness, comfort and convenience of the place, in its beautiful appointments and conveniences, and in her own. fine clothes! She herself is stout, short-legged, incapable of any swift agility of action; a brief run leaves her panting; she would be grotesque as a statue; and her internal housekeeping is by no means as efficient as a doctor would approve.

She never thinks of these things.

The same farmer will show you his stock—sheep, swine, fowls, cattle; point out their superiority and talk learnedly of the best methods of improvement. The same housewife will show you her fine needlework, her fine cooking, and discuss patterns and recipes with gusto. Both the farmer and his wife took prizes at the county fair—he for pigs and poultry, she for pies.

Now look at their children.

She gathers little Johnny into her motherly arms. "Johnny was always delicate!" she says tenderly. "He's a little backward because he's delicate. Mother's boy!" And she kisses his smooth head as he nestles up to her. "Adelaide had better go and lie down. Adelaide's not strong. They work her too hard in school."

Jim looks sturdy enough, and makes noise enough, but the expert perceives that Jimmy has adenoids, breathes through his mouth, is really undersized.

Here is the oldest boy, a tall, heavy fellow; but what a complexion! "Quite natural for boys of that age; yes, he's real sensitive about it."

*

Well? They are "good children." When properly dressed, they compare favorably with other people's children.

None of them would take any prizes in an exhibition of Human Stock. There are no such prizes. As to the exhibition—that is continuous. We are so used to the exhibition, and to its pitiful average, that we have no ideals left.

Neither the farmer nor his wife ever thought of a Human Standard; whether they came up to it, or if their children did, or of how they might improve the breed.

We take humanity as we find it. We admire "beauty," or what we call beauty; but we don't care enough for it to try to increase it. We are concerned about our health after we lose it, but give small thought to lifting the average. Young men vie with one another in athletic sports, and have certain ideals, perhaps, of "military bearing," and the kind of chest and chin a man should have; but all their ideals put together do not make us as beautiful and strong as we have a right to be.

Then arise those who come to us talking largely of eugenics; wanting us to breed super-men and super-women; talk[ing of improving] the race by right selection. There is a lot of sense in this; we could do wonders that way; of course, if we would. Certain obstacles arise, however. Men and women seem to love each other on other grounds than physical superiority. Those physically superior do not always have the most superior children. Then, again, the physically superior children do not always hold out through life, somehow.

This method of breeding and selection is nature's way. It works well—give it a chance; but it has to be accompanied by a ruthless slaughter of the unfit, and takes thousands upon thousands of years. We have a method worth two of that.

We can improve the species after it is born.

That's the great human power, the conscious ability to improve ourselves and our children. We have the power. We have the knowledge, too—some of us have it, and all of us can get it.

The trouble is, speaking generally, that we haven't the standards.

Here is where our mothers need new ideals, and new information. A person who is going to raise cattle ought to know something about cattle; know what to expect of cattle, and how to produce it. Suppose we had a course in Humaniculture to study. We have Agricultural colleges; we study Horticulture, and Floriculture, and Apiculture and Arboriculture. Why not have a Humanicultural College, and learn something about how to raise people?

Such a course of study would begin with the theory, illustrating by picture and model; and later should have practical illustration from the living model, in nursery and school. The graduate from such a course would have quite a different idea of human standards.

She would know the true proportions of the human body, and not call a No. 2 foot "beautiful" on a No. 10 body. She would know what the real shape of the human body is, and that to alter it arbitrarily is a habit of the lowest savagery. The shape of the body is the result of its natural activities, and cannot be altered without injury to them. She would learn that to interfere with the human shape, moulding it to lines that have nothing to do with the living structure and its complex functions, is as offensive and ridiculous as it would be to alter the shape of a horse.

Should we not laugh to see a horse in corsets? The time is coming when we shall so laugh to see a woman.

She would learn to measure beauty, human beauty, by full health and vigor first of all, right proportion, full possession of all natural power, and that the human animal is by nature swift, agile, active to a high degree, and should remain so throughout life. So trained, she would regard being "put on a car" by the elbow as an insult, not a compliment.

Then at last we should begin to have some notion of what to expect in children, and how to get it. The girl would look forward not merely to some vague little ones to love and care for, but to having finer children than anyone else—if she could! And she would naturally have a new standard of fatherhood, and sternly refuse to accept disease and the vice which makes disease.

Then, when the children came, she would know the size and weight that was normal, the way to feed and clothe the little body so as to promote the best growth; the kind of exercise and training essential to develop that legitimate human beauty and power which ought to belong to all of us.

We have our vulgar "Baby Shows," where fat-cheeked, over-fed younglings are proudly exhibited. A time is coming when, without public exhibitions, without prize-money or clamorous vote, we shall raise a new standard in child culture—and live up to it.



HEAVEN FORBID!

When I was seventeen, you'd find No youth so brash as I; Things must be settled to my mind, Or I'd know why!

I knew it all, and somewhat more, What I believed was true; The future held no task in store I could not do!

If I had died in my youthful pride— And no man can say when— Should I have been immortal As I was then? (Heaven forbid!)

When I was forty-two I stood Successful, proud and strong; Little I cared for bad or good— My purse was long.

My breakfast, newspaper and train,— My office,—the Exchange— My work, my pleasure, and my gain— A narrow range.

If I had died in my business pride— And no man can say when— Should I have been immortal As I was then? (Heaven forbid!)

Now I am old, and yet I keep Intelligent content; I wake and sleep in the quiet deep Of disillusionment.

I don't believe, nor disbelieve— I simply do not know. I fear no grave—no heaven crave— Am quite prepared to go.

But when I die—and I would not stay, Though a friend should show me how, Shall I become immortal, As I am now? (Heaven forbid!)



WHAT DIANTHA DID

CHAPTER VII.

HERESY AND SCHISM.

You may talk about religion with a free and open mind, For ten dollars you may criticize a judge; You may discuss in politics the newest thing you find, And open scientific truth to all the deaf and blind, But there's one place where the brain must never budge!

CHORUS.

Oh, the Home is Utterly Perfect! And all its works within! To say a word about it— To criticize or doubt it— To seek to mend or move it— To venture to improve it— Is The Unpardonable Sin!

—"Old Song."

Mr. Porne took an afternoon off and came with his wife to hear their former housemaid lecture. As many other men as were able did the same. All the members not bedridden were present, and nearly all the guests they had invited.

So many were the acceptances that a downtown hall had been taken; the floor was more than filled, and in the gallery sat a block of servant girls, more gorgeous in array than the ladies below whispering excitedly among themselves. The platform recalled a "tournament of roses," and, sternly important among all that fragrant loveliness, sat Mrs. Dankshire in "the chair" flanked by Miss Torbus, the Recording Secretary, Miss Massing, the Treasurer, and Mrs. Ree, tremulous with importance in her official position. All these ladies wore an air of high emprise, even more intense than that with which they usually essayed their public duties. They were richly dressed, except Miss Torbus, who came as near it as she could.

At the side, and somewhat in the rear of the President, on a chair quite different from "the chair," discreetly gowned and of a bafflingly serene demeanor, sat Miss Bell. All eyes were upon her—even some opera glasses.

"She's a good-looker anyhow," was one masculine opinion.

"She's a peach," was another, "Tell you—the chap that gets her is well heeled!" said a third.

The ladies bent their hats toward one another and conferred in flowing whispers; and in the gallery eager confidences were exchanged, with giggles.

On the small table before Mrs. Dankshire, shaded by a magnificent bunch of roses, lay that core and crux of all parliamentry dignity, the gavel; an instrument no self-respecting chairwoman may be without; yet which she still approaches with respectful uncertainty.

In spite of its large size and high social standing, the Orchardina Home and Culture Club contained some elements of unrest, and when the yearly election of officers came round there was always need for careful work in practical politics to keep the reins of government in the hands of "the right people."

Mrs. Thaddler, conscious of her New York millions, and Madam Weatherstone, conscious of her Philadelphia lineage, with Mrs. Johnston A. Marrow ("one of the Boston Marrows!" was awesomely whispered of her), were the heads of what might be called "the conservative party" in this small parliament; while Miss Miranda L. Eagerson, describing herself as 'a journalist,' who held her place in local society largely by virtue of the tacit dread of what she might do if offended—led the more radical element.

Most of the members were quite content to follow the lead of the solidly established ladies of Orchard Avenue; especially as this leadership consisted mainly in the pursuance of a masterly inactivity. When wealth and aristocracy combine with that common inertia which we dignify as "conservatism" they exert a powerful influence in the great art of sitting still.

Nevertheless there were many alert and conscientious women in this large membership, and when Miss Eagerson held the floor, and urged upon the club some active assistance in the march of events, it needed all Mrs. Dankshire's generalship to keep them content with marking time.

On this auspicious occasion, however, both sides were agreed in interest and approval. Here was a subject appealing to every woman present, and every man but such few as merely "boarded"; even they had memories and hopes concerning this question.

Solemnly rose Mrs. Dankshire, her full silks rustling about her, and let one clear tap of the gavel fall into the sea of soft whispering and guttural murmurs.

In the silence that followed she uttered the momentous announcements: "The meeting will please come to order," "We will now hear the reading of the minutes of the last meeting," and so on most conscientiously through officer's reports and committees reports to "new business."

Perhaps it is their more frequent practice of religious rites, perhaps their devout acceptance of social rulings and the dictates of fashion, perhaps the lifelong reiterance of small duties at home, or all these things together, which makes women so seriously letter-perfect in parliamentry usage. But these stately ceremonies were ended in course of time, and Mrs. Dankshire rose again, even more solemn than before, and came forward majestically.

"Members—-and guests," she said impressively, "this is an occasion which brings pride to the heart of every member of the Home and Culture Club. As our name implies, this Club is formed to serve the interests of The Home—those interests which stand first, I trust, in every human heart."

A telling pause, and the light patter of gloved hands.

"Its second purpose," pursued the speaker, with that measured delivery which showed that her custom, as one member put it, was to "first write and then commit," "is to promote the cause of Culture in this community. Our aim is Culture in the broadest sense, not only in the curricula of institutions of learning, not only in those spreading branches of study and research which tempts us on from height to height"—("proof of arboreal ancestry that," Miss Eagerson confided to a friend, whose choked giggle attracted condemning eyes)—"but in the more intimate fields of daily experience."

"Most of us, however widely interested in the higher education, are still—and find in this our highest honor—wives and mothers." These novel titles called forth another round of applause.

"As such," continued Mrs. Dankshire, "we all recognize the difficult—the well-nigh insuperable problems of the"—she glanced at the gallery now paying awed attention—"domestic question."

"We know how on the one hand our homes yawn unattended"—("I yawn while I'm attending—eh?" one gentleman in the rear suggested to his neighbor)—while on the other the ranks of mercenary labor are overcrowded. Why is it that while the peace and beauty, the security and comfort, of a good home, with easy labor and high pay, are open to every young woman, whose circumstances oblige her to toil for her living, she blindly refuses these true advantages and loses her health and too often what is far more precious!—in the din and tumult of the factory, or the dangerous exposure of the public counter."

Madam Weatherstone was much impressed at this point, and beat her black fan upon her black glove emphatically. Mrs. Thaddler also nodded; which meant a good deal from her. The applause was most gratifying to the speaker, who continued:

"Fortunately for the world there are some women yet who appreciate the true values of life." A faint blush crept slowly up the face of Diantha, but her expression was unchanged. Whoso had met and managed a roomful of merciless children can easily face a woman's club.

"We have with us on this occasion one, as we my say, our equal in birth and breeding,"—Madam Weatherstone here looked painfully shocked as also did the Boston Marrow; possibly Mrs. Dankshire, whose parents were Iowa farmers, was not unmindful of this, but she went on smoothly, "and whose first employment was the honored task of the teacher; who has deliberately cast her lot with the domestic worker, and brought her trained intelligence to bear upon the solution of this great question—The True Nature of Domestic Service. In the interests of this problem she has consented to address us—I take pleasure in introducing Miss Diantha Bell."

Diantha rose calmly, stepped forward, bowed to the President and officers, and to the audience. She stood quietly for a moment, regarding the faces before her, and produced a typewritten paper. It was clear, short, and to some minds convincing.

She set forth that the term "domestic industry" did not define certain kinds of labor, but a stage of labor; that all labor was originally domestic; but that most kinds had now become social, as with weaving and spinning, for instance, for centuries confined to the home and done by women only; now done in mills by men and women; that this process of socialization has now been taken from the home almost all the manufactures—as of wine, beer, soap, candles, pickles and other specialties, and part of the laundry work; that the other processes of cleaning are also being socialized, as by the vacuum cleaners, the professional window-washers, rug cleaners, and similar professional workers; and that even in the preparation of food many kinds are now specialized, as by the baker and confectioner. That in service itself we were now able to hire by the hour or day skilled workers necessarily above the level of the "general."

A growing rustle of disapproval began to make itself felt, which increased as she went on to explain how the position of the housemaid is a survival of the ancient status of woman slavery, the family with the male head and the group of servile women.

"The keynote of all our difficulty in this relation is that we demand celibacy of our domestic servants," said Diantha.

A murmur arose at this statement, but she continued calmly:

"Since it is natural for women to marry, the result is that our domestic servants consist of a constantly changing series of young girls, apprentices, as it were; and the complicated and important duties of the household cannot be fully mastered by such hands."

The audience disapproved somewhat of this, but more of what followed. She showed (Mrs. Porne nodding her head amusedly), that so far from being highly paid and easy labor, house service was exacting and responsible, involving a high degree of skill as well as moral character, and that it was paid less than ordinary unskilled labor, part of this payment being primitive barter.

Then, as whispers and sporadic little spurts of angry talk increased, the clear quiet voice went on to state that this last matter, the position of a strange young girl in our homes, was of itself a source of much of the difficulty of the situation.

"We speak of giving them the safety and shelter of the home,"—here Diantha grew solemn;—"So far from sharing our homes, she gives up her own, and has none of ours, but the poorest of our food and a cramped lodging; she has neither the freedom nor the privileges of a home; and as to shelter and safety—the domestic worker, owing to her peculiarly defenceless position, furnishes a terrible percentage of the unfortunate."

A shocked silence met this statement.

"In England shop-workers complain of the old custom of 'sleeping in'—their employers furnishing them with lodging as part payment; this also is a survival of the old apprentice method. With us, only the domestic servant is held to this antiquated position."

Regardless of the chill displeasure about her she cheerfully pursued:

"Let us now consider the economic side of the question. 'Domestic economy' is a favorite phrase. As a matter of fact our method of domestic service is inordinately wasteful. Even where the wife does all the housework, without pay, we still waste labor to an enormous extent, requiring one whole woman to wait upon each man. If the man hires one or more servants, the wastes increase. If one hundred men undertake some common business, they do not divide in two halves, each man having another man to serve him—fifty productive laborers, and fifty cooks. Two or three cooks could provide for the whole group; to use fifty is to waste 47 per cent. of the labor.

"But our waste of labor is as nothing to our waste of money. For, say twenty families, we have twenty kitchens with all their furnishings, twenty stoves with all their fuel; twenty cooks with all their wages; in cash and barter combined we pay about ten dollars a week for our cooks—$200 a week to pay for the cooking for twenty families, for about a hundred persons!

"Three expert cooks, one at $20 a week and two at $15 would save to those twenty families $150 a week and give them better food. The cost of kitchen furnishings and fuel, could be reduced by nine-tenths; and beyond all that comes our incredible waste in individual purchasing. What twenty families spend on individual patronage of small retailers, could be reduced by more than half if bought by competent persons in wholesale quantities. Moreover, our whole food supply would rise in quality as well as lower in price if it was bought by experts.

"To what does all this lead?" asked Diantha pleasantly.

Nobody said anything, but the visible attitude of the house seemed to say that it led straight to perdition.

"The solution for which so many are looking is no new scheme of any sort; and in particular it is not that oft repeated fore-doomed failure called "co-operative housekeeping."

At this a wave of relief spread perceptibly. The irritation roused by those preposterous figures and accusations was somewhat allayed. Hope was relit in darkened countenances.

"The inefficiency of a dozen tottering households is not removed by combining them," said Diantha. This was of dubious import. "Why should we expect a group of families to "keep house" expertly and economically together, when they are driven into companionship by the fact that none of them can do it alone."

Again an uncertain reception.

"Every family is a distinct unit," the girl continued. "Its needs are separate and should be met separately. The separate house and garden should belong to each family, the freedom and group privacy of the home. But the separate home may be served by a common water company, by a common milkman, by a common baker, by a common cooking and a common cleaning establishment. We are rapidly approaching an improved system of living in which the private home will no more want a cookshop on the premises than a blacksmith's shop or soap-factory. The necessary work of the kitchenless house will be done by the hour, with skilled labor; and we shall order our food cooked instead of raw. This will give to the employees a respectable well-paid profession, with their own homes and families; and to the employers a saving of about two-thirds of the expense of living, as well as an end of all our difficulties with the servant question. That is the way to elevate—to enoble domestic service. It must cease to be domestic service—and become world service."

Suddenly and quietly she sat down.

Miss Eagerson was on her feet. So were others.

"Madam President! Madam President!" resounded from several points at once. Madam Weatherstone—Mrs. Thaddler—no! yes—they really were both on their feet. Applause was going on—irregularly—soon dropped. Only, from the group in the gallery it was whole-hearted and consistent.

Mrs. Dankshire, who had been growing red and redder as the paper advanced, who had conferred in alarmed whispers with Mrs. Ree, and Miss Massing, who had even been seen to extend her hand to the gavel and finger it threateningly, now rose, somewhat precipitately, and came forward.

"Order, please! You will please keep order. You have heard the—we will now—the meeting is now open for discussion, Mrs. Thaddler!" And she sat down. She meant to have said Madam Weatherstone, by Mrs. Thaddler was more aggressive.

"I wish to say," said that much beaded lady in a loud voice, "that I was against this—unfortunate experiment—from the first. And I trust it will never be repeated!" She sat down.

Two tight little dimples flickered for an instant about the corners of Diantha's mouth.

"Madam Weatherstone?" said the President, placatingly.

Madam Weatherstone arose, rather sulkily, and looked about her. An agitated assembly met her eye, buzzing universally each to each.

"Order!" said Mrs. Dankshire, "ORDER, please!" and rapped three times with the gavel.

"I have attended many meetings, in many clubs, in many states," said Madam Weatherstone, "and have heard much that was foolish, and some things that were dangerous. But I will say that never in the course of all my experience have I heard anything so foolish and so dangerous, as this. I trust that the—doubtless well meant—attempt to throw light on this subject—from the wrong quarter—has been a lesson to us all. No club could survive more than one such lamentable mistake!" And she sat down, gathering her large satin wrap about her like a retiring Caesar.

"Madam President!" broke forth Miss Eagerson. "I was up first—and have been standing ever since—"

"One moment, Miss Eagerson," said Mrs. Dankshire superbly, "The Rev. Dr. Eltwood."

If Mrs. Dankshire supposed she was still further supporting the cause of condemnation she made a painful mistake. The cloth and the fine bearing of the young clergyman deceived her; and she forgot that he was said to be "advanced" and was new to the place.

"Will you come to the platform, Dr. Eltwood?"

Dr. Eltwood came to the platform with the easy air of one to whom platforms belonged by right.

"Ladies," he began in tones of cordial good will, "both employer and employed!—and gentlemen—whom I am delighted to see here to-day! I am grateful for the opportunity so graciously extended to me"—he bowed six feet of black broadcloth toward Mrs. Dankshire—"by your honored President.

"And I am grateful for the opportunity previously enjoyed, of listening to the most rational, practical, wise, true and hopeful words I have ever heard on this subject. I trust there will be enough open-minded women—and men—in Orchardina to make possible among us that higher business development of a great art which has been so convincingly laid before us. This club is deserving of all thanks from the community for extending to so many the privilege of listening to our valued fellow-citizen—Miss Bell."

He bowed again—to Miss Bell—and to Mrs. Dankshire, and resumed his seat, Miss Eagerson taking advantage of the dazed pause to occupy the platform herself.

"Mr. Eltwood is right!" she said. "Miss Bell is right! This is the true presentation of the subject, 'by one who knows.' Miss Bell has pricked our pretty bubble so thoroughly that we don't know where we're standing—but she knows! Housework is a business—like any other business—I've always said so, and it's got to be done in a business way. Now I for one—" but Miss Eagerson was rapped down by the Presidential gavel; as Mrs. Thaddler, portentous and severe, stalked forward.

"It is not my habit to make public speeches," she began, "nor my desire; but this is a time when prompt and decisive action needs to be taken. This Club cannot afford to countenance any such farrago of mischievous nonsense as we have heard to-day. I move you, Madam President, that a resolution of condemnation be passed at once; and the meeting then dismissed!"

She stalked back again, while Mrs. Marrow of Boston, in clear, cold tones seconded the motion.

But another voice was heard—for the first time in that assembly—Mrs. Weatherstone, the pretty, delicate widower daughter-in-law of Madam Weatherstone, was on her feet with "Madam President! I wish to speak to this motion."

"Won't you come to the platform, Mrs. Weatherstone?" asked Mrs. Dankshire graciously, and the little lady came, visibly trembling, but holding her head high.

All sat silent, all expected—what was not forthcoming.

"I wish to protest, as a member of the Club, and as a woman, against the gross discourtesy which has been offered to the guest and speaker of the day. In answer to our invitation Miss Bell has given us a scholarly and interesting paper, and I move that we extend her a vote of thanks."

"I second the motion," came from all quarters.

"There is another motion before the house," from others.

Cries of "Madam President" arose everywhere, many speakers were on their feet. Mrs. Dankshire tapped frantically with the little gavel, but Miss Eagerson, by sheer vocal power, took and held the floor.

"I move that we take a vote on this question," she cried in piercing tones. "Let every woman who knows enough to appreciate Miss Bell's paper—and has any sense of decency—stand up!"

Quite a large proportion of the audience stood up—very informally. Those who did not, did not mean to acknowledge lack of intelligence and sense of decency, but to express emphatic disapproval of Miss Eagerson, Miss Bell and their views.

"I move you, Madam President," cried Mrs. Thaddler, at the top of her voice, "that every member who is guilty of such grossly unparlimentary conduct be hereby dropped from this Club!"

"We hereby resign!" cried Miss Eagerson. "We drop you! We'll have a New Woman's Club in Orchardina with some warmth in its heart and some brains in its head—even if it hasn't as much money in its pocket!"

Amid stern rappings, hissings, cries of "Order—order," and frantic "Motions to adjourn" the meeting broke up; the club elements dissolving and reforming into two bodies as by some swift chemical reaction.

Great was the rejoicing of the daily press; some amusement was felt, though courteously suppressed by the men present, and by many not present, when they heard of it.

Some ladies were so shocked and grieved as to withdraw from club-life altogether. Others, in stern dignity, upheld the shaken standards of Home and Culture; while the most conspicuous outcome of it all was the immediate formation of the New Woman's Club of Orchardina.



THE HOUSE OF APPLES

There was a certain King; young and inexperienced, but a man of resource and initiative; an efficacious King if he did but know it. Being new to his business, however, he did not, as yet, exert himself particularly.

This King, as it happened, was mightily fond of apples; but he was, as aforesaid, youthful and inexperienced; and too much overwhelmed with new duties, glories, and responsibilities, to be very exacting.

As a matter of expediency his stewards and servants strove to please him. As a matter of course they gave him what he wanted, when they could. As a matter of fact his table was provided with the best the market could afford.

The market, however, could not afford to do very well; at least its products did not satisfy the King.

"What is the trouble with these apples!" said the King, "Bring me another kind!"

They brought him several kinds—as many as three or four.

"Bring me more kinds!" said the King.

"These are all that the market affords, O King," they replied.

"Confound the market!" said the King, "I will consider this business myself."

Then the King consulted his books about apples; and the heads of departments in his Bureaus of horticulture and of Commerce. Having thus added to his information, he then went out to study the facts; and he found that the facts were these:

Apples grew as easily as ever they did; and there were really more kinds instead of less. People liked apples as well as ever they did, and there were more people instead of less.

Yet in the country the orchards were neglected and the apples fed to pigs or left to rot; and in the city, the fruit-stalls were loaded with the monotonous tasteless apples of commerce, cold-stored from time unknown; and those that were cheap were nasty, and those that were not nasty and not cheap were by mo means as high in quality as they were in price.

Then the King issued a Mandate, ordering his subjects far and wide to send him samples of all kinds of apples that were grown; with their names and histories and habits.

After this he made a tour of state, visiting his kingdom far and wide, and studying Appleculture in every quarter. And he consulted the people separately, in different places, saying, "Why do you not raise more apples of this sort and of this?"

And with one accord the people answered him—"It does not pay!"

This his Financial Advisers explained to him, outwardly with deep respect, but inwardly with derision at his inexperience, that there was no market for these varieties of apples, and they discoursed on The Law of Supply and Demand.

Then the King called upon his people to write everyone a postal card to him, stating the kind of apples they would buy if they could; and how many barrels or bushels or pecks or quarts they would like to use in a season, if the price was $2.00 a barrel, or five cents a quart.

This furnished employment to many mathematicians and staticians and tabulators for many days; but when all was done the King found that the desire of his people for apples averaged a barrel apiece per year. And the King briskly multiplied the number of his people by the price of a barrel of apples, and obtained a great sum.

"Ah!" said the King. "This is 'The Market,' is it not?"

But his Financial Advisers laughed in their sleeves, saying solemnly to him. "No, O King—this is merely an estimate of the idle desires of the people—with two large Ifs in it."