CHAPTER V.

When the fig growns on the thistle,

And the silk purse on the sow;

When one swallow brings the summer,

And blue moons on her brow--

Then we may look for strength and skill,

Experience, good health, good will,

Art and science well combined,

Honest soul and able mind,

Servants built upon this plan,

One to wait on every man,

Patiently from youth to age,--

For less than a street cleaner's wage!

When the parson's gay on Mondays,

When we meet a month of Sundays,

We may look for them and find them--

But Not Now!

When young Mrs. Weatherstone swept her trailing crepe from the

automobile to her friend's door, it was opened by a quick, soft-footed

maid with a pleasant face, who showed her into a parlor, not only cool

and flower-lit, but having that fresh smell that tells of new-washed

floors.

Mrs. Porne came flying down to meet her, with such a look of rest and

comfort as roused instant notice.

"Why, Belle! I haven't seen you look so bright in ever so long. It

must be the new maid!"

"That's it--she's 'Bell' too--'Miss Bell' if you please!"

The visitor looked puzzled. "Is she a--a friend?" she ventured, not

sure of her ground.

"I should say she was! A friend in need! Sit here by the window,

Viva--and I'll tell you all about it--as far as it goes."

She gaily recounted her climax of confusion and weariness, and the

sudden appearance of this ministering angel. "She arrived at about

quarter of ten. I engaged her inside of five minutes. She was into a

gingham gown and at work by ten o'clock!"

"What promptness! And I suppose there was plenty to do!"

Mrs. Porne laughed unblushingly. "There was enough for ten women it

seemed to me! Let's see--it's about five now--seven hours. We have

nine rooms, besides the halls and stairs, and my shop. She hasn't

touched that yet. But the house is clean--_clean_! Smell it!"

She took her guest out into the hall, through the library and

dining-room, upstairs where the pleasant bedrooms stretched open and

orderly.

"She said that if I didn't mind she'd give it a superficial general

cleaning today and be more thorough later!"

Mrs. Weatherstone looked about her with a rather languid interest. "I'm

very glad for you, Belle, dear--but--what an endless nuisance it all

is--don't you think so?"

"Nuisance! It's slow death! to me at least," Mrs. Porne answered. "But

I don't see why you should mind. I thought Madam Weatherstone ran

that--palace, of yours, and you didn't have any trouble at all."

"Oh yes, she runs it. I couldn't get along with her at all if she

didn't. That's her life. It was my mother's too. Always fussing and

fussing. Their houses on their backs--like snails!"

"Don't see why, with ten (or is it fifteen?) servants."

"Its twenty, I think. But my dear Belle, if you imagine that when you

have twenty servants you have neither work nor care--come and try it

awhile, that's all!"

"Not for a millionaire baby's ransom!" answered Isabel promptly.

"Give me my drawing tools and plans and I'm happy--but this

business"--she swept a white hand wearily about--"it's not my work,

that's all."

"But you _enjoy_ it, don't you--I mean having nice things?" asked her

friend.

"Of course I enjoy it, but so does Edgar. Can't a woman enjoy her home,

just as a man does, without running the shop? I enjoy ocean travel, but

I don't want to be either a captain or a common sailor!"

Mrs. Weatherstone smiled, a little sadly. "You're lucky, you have other

interests," she said. "How about our bungalow? have you got any

farther?"

Mrs. Porne flushed. "I'm sorry, Viva. You ought to have given it to

someone else. I haven't gone into that workroom for eight solid days.

No help, and the baby, you know. And I was always dog-tired."

"That's all right, dear, there's no very great rush. You can get at it

now, can't you--with this other Belle to the fore?"

"She's not Belle, bless you--she's 'Miss Bell.' It's her last name."

Mrs. Weatherstone smiled her faint smile. "Well--why not? Like a

seamstress, I suppose."

"Exactly. That's what she said. "If this labor was as important as

that of seamstress or governess why not the same courtesy--Oh she's a

most superior _and_ opinionated young person, I can see that."

"I like her looks," admitted Mrs. Weatherstone, "but can't we look over

those plans again; there's something I wanted to suggest." And they

went up to the big room on the third floor.

In her shop and at her work Isabel Porne was a different woman. She was

eager and yet calm; full of ideas and ideals, yet with a practical

knowledge of details that made her houses dear to the souls of women.

She pointed out in the new drawings the practical advantages of kitchen

and pantry; the simple but thorough ventilation, the deep closets, till

her friend fairly laughed at her. "And you say you're not domestic!"

"I'm a domestic architect, if you like," said Isabel; "but not a

domestic servant.--I'll remember what you say about those windows--it's

a good idea," and she made a careful note of Mrs. Weatherstone's

suggestion.

That lady pushed the plans away from her, and went to the many cushioned

lounge in the wide west window, where she sat so long silent that Isabel

followed at last and took her hand.

"Did you love him so much?" she asked softly.

"Who?" was the surprising answer.

"Why--Mr. Weatherstone," said Mrs. Porne.

"No--not very much. But he was something."

Isabel was puzzled. "I knew you so well in school," she said, "and that

gay year in Paris. You were always a dear, submissive quiet little

thing--but not like this. What's happened Viva?"

"Nothing that anybody can help," said her friend. "Nothing that

matters. What does matter, anyway? Fuss and fuss and fuss. Dress and

entertain. Travel till you're tired, and rest till you're crazy!

Then--when a real thing happens--there's all this!" and she lifted her

black draperies disdainfully. "And mourning notepaper and cards and

servant's livery--and all the things you mustn't do!"

Isabel put an arm around her. "Don't mind, dear--you'll get over

this--you are young enough yet--the world is full of things to do!"

But Mrs. Weatherstone only smiled her faint smile again. "I loved

another man, first," she said. "A real one. He died. He never cared

for me at all. I cared for nothing else--nothing in life. That's why I

married Martin Weatherstone--not for his old millions--but he really

cared--and I was sorry for him. Now he's dead. And I'm wearing

this--and still mourning for the other one."

Isabel held her hand, stroked it softly, laid it against her cheek.

"Oh, I'll feel differently in time, perhaps!" said her visitor.

"Maybe if you took hold of the house--if you ran things

yourself,"--ventured Mrs. Porne.

Mrs. Weatherstone laughed. "And turn out the old lady? You don't know

her. Why she managed her son till he ran away from her--and after he

got so rich and imported her from Philadelphia to rule over Orchardina

in general and his household in particular, she managed that poor little

first wife of his into her grave, and that wretched boy--he's the only

person that manages her! She's utterly spoiled him--that was his

father's constant grief. No, no--let her run the house--she thinks she

owns it."

"She's fond of you, isn't she?" asked Mrs. Porne.

"O I guess so--if I let her have her own way. And she certainly saves

me a great deal of trouble. Speaking of trouble, there they are--she

said she'd stop for me."

At the gate puffed the big car, a person in livery rang the bell, and

Mrs. Weatherstone kissed her friend warmly, and passed like a heavy

shadow along the rose-bordered path. In the tonneau sat a massive old

lady in sober silks, with a set impassive countenance, severely correct

in every feature, and young Mat Weatherstone, sulky because he had to

ride with his grandmother now and then. He was not a nice young man.

*

Diantha found it hard to write her home letters, especially to Ross.

She could not tell them of all she meant to do; and she must tell them

of this part of it, at once, before they heard of it through others.

To leave home--to leave school-teaching, to leave love--and "go out to

service" did not seem a step up, that was certain. But she set her red

lips tighter and wrote the letters; wrote them and mailed them that

evening, tired though she was.

Three letters came back quickly.

Her mother's answer was affectionate, patient, and trustful, though not

understanding.

Her sister's was as unpleasant as she had expected.

"The _idea!_" wrote Mrs. Susie. "A girl with a good home to live in and

another to look forward to--and able to earn money _respectably!_ to go

out and work like a common Irish girl! Why Gerald is so mortified he

can't face his friends--and I'm as ashamed as I can be! My own sister!

You must be _crazy_--simply _crazy!_"

It was hard on them. Diantha had faced her own difficulties bravely

enough; and sympathized keenly with her mother, and with Ross; but she

had not quite visualized the mortification of her relatives. She found

tears in her eyes over her mother's letter. Her sister's made her both

sorry and angry--a most disagreeable feeling--as when you step on the

cat on the stairs. Ross's letter she held some time without opening.

She was in her little upstairs room in the evening. She had swept,

scoured, scalded and carbolized it, and the hospitally smell was now

giving way to the soft richness of the outer air. The "hoo! hoo!" of

the little mourning owl came to her ears through the whispering night,

and large moths beat noiselessly against the window screen. She kissed

the letter again, held it tightly to her heart for a moment, and opened

it.

"Dearest: I have your letter with its--somewhat surprising--news. It is

a comfort to know where you are, that you are settled and in no danger.

"I can readily imagine that this is but the preliminary to something

else, as you say so repeatedly; and I can understand also that you are

too wise to tell me all you mean to be beforehand.

"I will be perfectly frank with you, Dear.

"In the first place I love you. I shall love you always, whatever you

do. But I will not disguise from you that this whole business seems to

me unutterably foolish and wrong.

"I suppose you expect by some mysterious process to "develope" and

"elevate" this housework business; and to make money. I should not love

you any better if you made a million--and I would not take money from

you--you know that, I hope. If in the years we must wait before we can

marry, you are happier away from me--working in strange kitchens--or

offices--that is your affair.

"I shall not argue nor plead with you, Dear Girl; I know you think you

are doing right; and I have no right, nor power, to prevent you. But if

my wish were right and power, you would be here to-night, under the

shadow of the acacia boughs--in my arms!

"Any time you feel like coming back you will be welcome, Dear.

"Yours, Ross."

Any time she felt like coming back?

Diantha slipped down in a little heap by the bed, her face on the

letter--her arms spread wide. The letter grew wetter and wetter, and

her shoulders shook from time to time.

But the hands were tight-clenched, and if you had been near enough you

might have heard a dogged repetition, monotonous as a Tibetan prayer

mill: "It is right. It is right. It is right." And then. "Help

me--please! I need it." Diantha was not "gifted in prayer."

When Mr. Porne came home that night he found the wifely smile which is

supposed to greet all returning husbands quite genuinely in evidence.

"O Edgar!" cried she in a triumphant whisper, "I've got such a nice

girl! She's just as neat and quick; you've no idea the work she's done

today--it looks like another place already. But if things look queer at

dinner don't notice it--for I've just given her her head. I was so

tired, and baby bothered so, and she said that perhaps she could manage

all by herself if I was willing to risk it, so I took baby for a

car-ride and have only just got back. And I _think_ the dinner's going

to be lovely!"

It was lovely. The dining-room was cool and flyless. The table was set

with an assured touch. A few of Orchardina's ever ready roses in a

glass bowl gave an air of intended beauty Mrs. Porne had had no time

for.

The food was well-cooked and well-served, and the attendance showed an

intelligent appreciation of when people want things and how they want

them.

Mrs. Porne quite glowed with exultation, but her husband gently

suggested that the newness of the broom was visibly uppermost, and that

such palpable perfections were probably accompanied by some drawbacks.

But he liked her looks, he admitted, and the cooking would cover a

multitude of sins.

On this they rested, while the week went by. It was a full week, and a

short one. Mrs. Porne, making hay while the sun shone, caught up a

little in her sewing and made some conscience-tormenting calls.

When Thursday night came around she was simply running over with

information to give her husband.

"Such a talk as I have had with Miss Bell! She is so queer! But she's

nice too, and it's all reasonable enough, what she says. You know she's

studied this thing all out, and she knows about it--statistics and

things. I was astonished till I found she used to teach school. Just

think of it! And to be willing to work out! She certainly does her

work beautiful, but--it doesn't seem like having a servant at all. I

feel as if I--boarded with her!"

"Why she seemed to me very modest and unpresuming," put in Mr. Porne.

"O yes, she never presumes. But I mean the capable way she manages--I

don't have to tell her one thing, nor to oversee, nor criticize. I

spoke of it and she said, 'If I didn't understand the business I should

have no right to undertake it."

"That's a new point of view, isn't it?" asked her husband. "Don't they

usually make you teach them their trade and charge for the privilege?"

"Yes, of course they do. But then she does have her disadvantages--as

you said."

"Does she? What are they?"

"Why she's so--rigid. I'll read you her--I don't know what to call it.

She's written out a definite proposition as to her staying with us, and

I want you to study it, it's the queerest thing I ever saw."

The document was somewhat novel. A clear statement of the hours of

labor required in the position, the quality and amount of the different

kinds of work; the terms on which she was willing to undertake it, and

all prefaced by a few remarks on the status of household labor which

made Mr. Porne open his eyes.

Thus Miss Bell; "The ordinary rate for labor in this state, unskilled

labor of the ordinary sort, is $2.00 a day. This is in return for the

simplest exertion of brute force, under constant supervision and

direction, and involving no serious risk to the employer."

"Household labor calls for the practice of several distinct crafts, and,

to be properly done, requires thorough training and experience. Its

performer is not only in a position of confidence, as necessarily

entrusted with the care of the employer's goods and with knowledge of

the most intimate family relations; but the work itself, in maintaining

the life and health of the members of the household, is of most vital

importance.

"In consideration of existing economic conditions, however, I am willing

to undertake these intricate and responsible duties for a seven day week

at less wages than are given the street-digger, for $1.50 a day."

"Good gracious, my dear!" said Mr. Porne, laying down the paper, "This

young woman does appreciate her business! And we're to be let off easy

at $45.00 a month, are we"

"And feel under obligations at that!" answered his wife. "But you read

ahead. It is most instructive. We shall have to ask her to read a

paper for the Club!"

"'In further consideration of the conditions of the time, I am willing

to accept part payment in board and lodging instead of cash. Such

accommodations as are usually offered with this position may be rated at

$17.00 a month."

"O come now, don't we board her any better than that?"

"That's what I thought, and I asked her about it, and she explained that

she could get a room as good for a dollar and a-half a week--she had

actually made inquiries in this very town! And she could; really a

better room, better furnished, that is, and service with it. You know

I've always meant to get the girl's room fixed more prettily, but

usually they don't seem to mind. And as to food--you see she knows all

about the cost of things, and the materials she consumes are really not

more than two dollars and a half a week, if they are that. She even

made some figures for me to prove it--see."

Mr. Porne had to laugh.

"Breakfast. Coffee at thirty-five cents per pound, one cup, one cent.

Oatmeal at fourteen cents per package, one bowl, one cent. Bread at

five cents per loaf, two slices, one-half cent. Butter at forty cents

per pound, one piece, one and a-half cents. Oranges at thirty cents per

dozen, one, three cents. Milk at eight cents per quart, on oatmeal, one

cent. Meat or fish or egg, average five cents. Total--thirteen cents."

"There! And she showed me dinner and lunch the same way. I had no idea

food, just the material, cost so little. It's the labor, she says that

makes it cost even in the cheapest restaurant."

"I see," said Mr. Porne. "And in the case of the domestic servant we

furnish the materials and she furnishes the labor. She cooks her own

food and waits on herself--naturally it wouldn't come high. What does

she make it?"

'Food, average per day . . . $0.35

Room, $1.50 per w'k, ave. per day . . . .22

-----

.57

Total, per month . . . $17.10

$1.50 per day, per month . . . $45.00

"'Remaining payable in cash, $28.00.' Do I still live! But my dear

Ellie, that's only what an ordinary first-class cook charges, out here,

without all this fuss!"

"I know it, Ned, but you know we think it's awful, and we're always

telling about their getting their board and lodging clear--as if we

gave'em that out of the goodness of our hearts!"

"Exactly, my dear. And this amazing and arithmetical young woman makes

us feel as if we were giving her wampum instead of money--mere primitive

barter of ancient days in return for her twentieth century services!

How does she do her work--that's the main question."

"I never saw anyone do it better, or quicker, or easier. That is, I

thought it was easy till she brought me this paper. Just read about her

work, and you'll feel as if we ought to pay her all your salary."

Mr. Porne read:

"Labor performed, average ten hours a day, as follows: Preparation of

food materials, care of fires, cooking, table service, and cleaning of

dishes, utensils, towels, stove, etc., per meal--breakfast two hours,

dinner three hours, supper or lunch one hour--six hours per day for food

service. Daily chamber work and dusting, etc., one and one-half hours

per day. Weekly cleaning for house of nine rooms, with halls, stairs,

closets, porches, steps, walks, etc., sweeping, dusting, washing

windows, mopping, scouring, etc., averaging two hours per day. Door

service, waiting on tradesmen, and extras one-half hour per day. Total

ten hours per day."

"That sounds well. Does it take that much time every day?"

"Yes, indeed! It would take me twenty!" she answered. "You know the

week I was here alone I never did half she does. Of course I had Baby,

but then I didn't do the things. I guess when it doesn't take so long

they just don't do what ought to be done. For she is quick, awfully

quick about her work. And she's thorough. I suppose it ought to be

done that way--but I never had one before."

"She keeps mighty fresh and bright-looking after these herculean

labors."

"Yes, but then she rests! Her ten hours are from six-thirty a.m., when

she goes into the kitchen as regularly as a cuckoo clock, to

eight-thirty p.m. when she is all through and her kitchen looks like

a--well it's as clean and orderly as if no one was ever in it."

"Ten hours--that's fourteen."

"I know it, but she takes out four. She claims time to eat her meals."

"Preposterous!"

"Half an hour apiece, and half an hour in the morning to rest--and two

in the afternoon. Anyway she is out, two hours every afternoon, riding

in the electric cars!"

"That don't look like a very hard job. Her day laborer doesn't get two

hours off every afternoon to take excursions into the country!"

"No, I know that, but he doesn't begin so early, nor stop so late. She

does her square ten hours work, and I suppose one has a right to time

off."

"You seem dubious about that, my dear."

"Yes, that's just where it's awkward. I'm used to girls being in all

the time, excepting their day out. You see I can't leave baby, nor

always take him--and it interferes with my freedom afternoons."

"Well--can't you arrange with her somehow?"

"See if you can. She says she will only give ten hours of time for a

dollar and a half a day--tisn't but fifteen cents an hour--I have to pay

a woman twenty that comes in. And if she is to give up her chance of

sunlight and fresh air she wants me to pay her extra--by the hour. Or

she says, if I prefer, she would take four hours every other day--and so

be at home half the time. I said it was difficult to arrange--with

baby, and she was very sympathetic and nice, but she won't alter her

plans."

"Let her go, and get a less exacting servant."

"But--she does her work so well! And it saves a lot, really. She knows

all about marketing and things, and plans the meals so as to have things

lap, and it's a comfort to have her in the house and feel so safe and

sure everything will be done right."

"Well, it's your province, my dear. I don't profess to advise. But I

assure you I appreciate the table, and the cleanness of everything, and

the rested look in your eyes, dear girl!"

She slipped her hand into his affectionately. "It does make a

difference," she said. "I _could_ get a girl for $20.00 and save nearly

$2.60 a week--but you know what they are!"

"I do indeed," he admitted fervently. "It's worth the money to have

this thing done so well. I think she's right about the wages. Better

keep her."

"O--she'll only agree to stay six months even at this rate!"

"Well--keep her six months and be thankful. I thought she was too good

to last!"

They looked over the offered contract again. It closed with:

"This agreement to hold for six months from date if mutually

satisfactory. In case of disagreement two weeks' notice is to be given

on either side, or two weeks' wages if preferred by the employer." It

was dated, and signed "Miss D. C. Bell."

And with inward amusement and great display of penmanship they added

"Mrs. Isabel J. Porne," and the contract was made.

[Erratum]

Apology is due to Mr. Horace Traubel, by whose kind permission "Little

Leafy Brothers," in our February issue, was reprinted from "The

Conservator," for not giving proper acknowledgment. Also to our readers

for the same omission.

OUR ANDROCENTRIC CULTURE; or, THE MAN-MADE WORLD

V.

MASCULINE LITERATURE.

When we are offered a "woman's" paper, page, or column, we find it

filled with matter supposed to appeal to women as a sex or class; the

writer mainly dwelling upon the Kaiser's four K's--Kuchen, Kinder,

Kirche, Kleider. They iterate and reiterate endlessly the discussion of

cookery, old and new; of the care of children; of the overwhelming

subject of clothing; and of moral instruction. All this is recognized

as "feminine" literature, and it must have some appeal else the women

would not read it. What parallel have we in "masculine" literature?

"None!" is the proud reply. "Men are people! Women, being 'the sex,'

have their limited feminine interests, their feminine point of view,

which must be provided for. Men, however, are not restricted--to them

belongs the world's literature!"

Yes, it has belonged to them--ever since there was any. They have

written it and they have read it. It is only lately that women,

generally speaking, have been taught to read; still more lately that

they have been allowed to write. It is but a little while since Harriet

Martineau concealed her writing beneath her sewing when visitors came

in--writing was "masculine"--sewing "feminine."

We have not, it Is true, confined men to a narrowly construed "masculine

sphere," and composed a special literature suited to it. Their effect

on literature has been far wider than that, monopolizing this form of

art with special favor. It was suited above all others to the dominant

impulse of self-expression; and being, as we have seen essentially and

continually "the sex;" they have impressed that sex upon this art

overwhelmingly; they have given the world a masculized literature.

It is hard for us to realize this. We can readily see, that if women

had always written the books, no men either writing or reading them,

that would have surely "feminized" our literature; but we have not in

our minds the concept, much less the word, for an overmasculized

influence.

Men having been accepted as humanity, women but a side-issue; (most

literally if we accept the Hebrew legend!), whatever men did or said was

human--and not to be criticized. In no department of life is it easier

to contravert this old belief; to show how the male sex as such differs

from the human type; and how this maleness has monopolized and

disfigured a great social function.

Human life is a very large affair; and literature is its chief art. We

live, humanly, only through our power of communication. Speech gives us

this power laterally, as it were, in immediate personal contact. For

permanent use speech becomes oral tradition--a poor dependence.

Literature gives not only an infinite multiplication to the lateral

spread of communion but adds the vertical reach. Through it we know the

past, govern the present, and influence the future. In its servicable

common forms it is the indispensable daily servant of our lives; in its

nobler flights as a great art no means of human inter-change goes so

far.

In these brief limits we can touch but lightly on some phases of so

great a subject; and will rest the case mainly on the effect of an

exclusively masculine handling of the two fields of history and fiction.

In poetry and the drama the same influence is easily traced, but in the

first two it is so baldly prominent as to defy objection.

History is, or should be, the story of our racial life. What have men

made it? The story of warfare and conquest. Begin at the very

beginning with the carven stones of Egypt, the clay records of Chaldea,

what do we find of history?

"I Pharaoh, King of Kings! Lord of Lords! (etc. etc.), "went down into

the miserable land of Kush, and slew of the inhabitants thereof an

hundred and forty and two thousands!" That, or something like it, is

the kind of record early history gives us.

The story of Conquering Kings, who and how many they killed and

enslaved; the grovelling adulation of the abased; the unlimited

jubilation of the victor; from the primitive state of most ancient

kings, and the Roman triumphs where queens walked in chains, down to our

omni present soldier's monuments: the story of war and conquest--war and

conquest--over and over; with such boasting and triumph, such cock-crow

and flapping of wings as show most unmistakably the natural source.

All this will strike the reader at first as biased and unfair. "That

was the way people lived in those days!" says the reader.

No--it was not the way women lived.

"O, women!" says the reader, "Of course not! Women are different."

Yea, women are different; and _men are different!_ Both of them, as

sexes, differ from the human norm, which is social life and all social

development. Society was slowly growing in all those black blind years.

The arts, the sciences, the trades and crafts and professions,

religion, philosophy, government, law, commerce, agriculture--all the

human processes were going on as well as they were able, between wars.

The male naturally fights, and naturally crows, triumphs over his rival

and takes the prize--therefore was he made male. Maleness means war.

Not only so; but being male, he cares only for male interests. Men,

being the sole arbiters of what should be done and said and written,

have given us not only a social growth scarred and thwarted from the

beginning by continual destruction; but a history which is one unbroken

record of courage and red cruelty, of triumph and black shame.

As to what went on that was of real consequence, the great slow steps of

the working world, the discoveries and inventions, the real progress of

humanity--that was not worth recording, from a masculine point of view.

Within this last century, "the woman's century," the century of the

great awakening, the rising demand for freedom, political, economic, and

domestic, we are beginning to write real history, human history, and not

merely masculine history. But that great branch of literature--Hebrew,

Greek, Roman, and all down later times, shows beyond all question, the

influence of our androcentric culture.

Literature is the most powerful and necessary of the arts, and fiction

is its broadest form. If art "holds the mirror up to nature" this art's

mirror is the largest of all, the most used. Since our very life

depends on some communication; and our progress is in proportion to our

fullness and freedom of communication; since real communication requires

mutual understanding; so in the growth of the social consciousness, we

note from the beginning a passionate interest in other people's lives.

The art which gives humanity consciousness is the most vital art. Our

greatest dramatists are lauded for their breadth of knowledge of "human

nature," their range of emotion and understanding; our greatest poets

are those who most deeply and widely experience and reveal the feelings

of the human heart; and the power of fiction is that it can reach and

express this great field of human life with no limits but those of the

author.

When fiction began it was the legitimate child of oral tradition; a

product of natural brain activity; the legend constructed instead of

remembered. (This stage is with us yet as seen in the constant changes

in repetition of popular jokes and stories.)

Fiction to-day has a much wider range; yet it is still restricted,

heavily and most mischievously restricted.

What is the preferred subject matter of fiction?

There are two main branches found everywhere, from the Romaunt of the

Rose to the Purplish Magazine;--the Story of Adventure, and the Love

Story.

The Story-of-Adventure branch is not so thick as the other by any means,

but it is a sturdy bough for all that. Stevenson and Kipling have

proved its immense popularity, with the whole brood of detective stories

and the tales of successful rascality we call "picaresque" Our most

popular weekly shows the broad appeal of this class of fiction.

All these tales of adventure, of struggle and difficulty; of hunting and

fishing and fighting; of robbing and murdering, catching and punishing,

are distinctly and essentially masculine. They do not touch on human

processes, social processes, but on the special field of predatory

excitement so long the sole province of men.

It is to be noted here that even in the overwhelming rise of industrial

interests to-day, these, when used as the basis for a story, are forced

into line with one, or both, of these two main branches of

fiction;--conflict or love. Unless the story has one of these

"interests" in it, there is no story--so holds the editor; the dictum

being, put plainly, "life has no interests except conflict and love!"

It is surely something more than a coincidence that these are the two

essential features of masculinity--Desire and Combat--Love and War.

As a matter of fact the major interests of life are in line with its

major processes; and these--in our stage of human development--are more

varied than our fiction would have us believe. Half the world consists

of women, we should remember, who are types of human life as well as

men, and their major processes are not those of conflict and adventure,

their love means more than mating. Even on so poor a line of

distinction as the "woman's column" offers, if women are to be kept to

their four Ks, there should be a "men's column" also; and all the

"sporting news" and fish stories be put in that; they are not world

interests; they are male interests.

Now for the main branch--the Love Story. Ninety per cent. of fiction is

In this line; this is preeminently the major interest of life--given in

fiction. What is the love-story, as rendered by this art?

It is the story of the pre-marital struggle. It is the Adventures of

Him in Pursuit of Her--and it stops when he gets her! Story after

story, age after age, over and over and over, this ceaseless repetition

of the Preliminaries.

Here is Human Life. In its large sense, its real sense, it is a matter

of inter-relation between individuals and groups, covering all emotions,

all processes, all experiences. Out of this vast field of human life

fiction arbitrarily selects one emotion, one process, one experience, as

its necessary base.

"Ah! but we are persons most of all!" protests the reader. "This is

personal experience--it has the universal appeal!"

Take human life personally then. Here is a Human Being, a life,

covering some seventy years; involving the changing growth of many

faculties; the ever new marvels of youth, the long working time of

middle life, the slow ripening of age. Here is the human soul, in the

human body, Living. Out of this field of personal life, with all of its

emotions, processes, and experiences, fiction arbitrarily selects one

emotion, one process, one experience, mainly of one sex.

The "love" of our stories is man's love of woman. If any dare dispute

this, and say it treats equally of woman's love for man, I answer, "Then

why do the stories stop at marriage?"

There is a current jest, revealing much, to this effect:

The young wife complains that the husband does not wait upon and woo her

as he did before marriage; to which he replies, "Why should I run after

the street-car when I've caught it?"

Woman's love for man, as currently treated in fiction is largely a

reflex; it is the way he wants her to feel, expects her to feel; not a

fair representation of how she does feel. If "love" is to be selected

as the most important thing in life to write about, then the mother's

love should be the principal subject: This is the main stream. This is

the general underlying, world-lifting force. The "life-force," now so

glibly chattered about, finds its fullest expression in motherhood; not

in the emotions of an assistant in the preliminary stages.

What has literature, what has fiction, to offer concerning mother-love,

or even concerning father-love, as compared to this vast volume of

excitement about lover-love? Why is the search-light continually

focussed upon a two or three years space of life "mid the blank miles

round about?" Why indeed, except for the clear reason, that on a

starkly masculine basis this is his one period of overwhelming interest

and excitement.

If the beehive produced literature, the bee's fiction would be rich and

broad; full of the complex tasks of comb-building and filling; the care

and feeding of the young, the guardian-service of the queen; and far

beyond that it would spread to the blue glory of the summer sky, the

fresh winds, the endless beauty and sweetness of a thousand thousand

flowers. It would treat of the vast fecundity of motherhood, the

educative and selective processes of the group-mothers; and the passion

of loyalty, of social service, which holds the hive together.

But if the drones wrote fiction, it would have no subject matter save

the feasting of many; and the nuptial flight, of one.

To the male, as such, this mating instinct is frankly the major interest

of life; even the belligerent instincts are second to it. To the

female, as such, it is for all its intensity, but a passing interest.

In nature's economy, his is but a temporary devotion, hers the slow

processes of life's fulfillment.

In Humanity we have long since, not outgrown, but overgrown, this stage

of feeling. In Human Parentage even the mother's share begins to pale

beside that ever-growing Social love and care, which guards and guides

the children of to-day.

The art of literature in this main form of fiction is far too great a

thing to be wholly governed by one dominant note. As life widened and

intensified, the artist, if great enough, has transcended sex; and in

the mightier works of the real masters, we find fiction treating of

life, life in general, in all its complex relationships, and refusing to

be held longer to the rigid canons of an androcentric past.

This was the power of Balzac--he took in more than this one field. This

was the universal appeal of Dickens; he wrote of people, all kinds of

people, doing all kinds of things. As you recall with pleasure some

preferred novel of this general favorite, you find yourself looking

narrowly for the "love story" in it. It is there--for it is part of

life; but it does not dominate the whole scene--any more than it does in

life.

The thought of the world is made and handed out to us in the main. The

makers of books are the makers of thoughts and feelings for people in

general. Fiction is the most popular form in which this world-food is

taken. If it were true, it would teach us life easily, swiftly, truly;

teach not by preaching but by truly re-presenting; and we should grow up

becoming acquainted with a far wider range of life in books than could

even be ours in person. Then meeting life in reality we should be

wise--and not be disappointed.

As it is, our great sea of fiction is steeped and dyed and flavored all

one way. A young man faces life--the seventy year stretch, remember,

and is given book upon book wherein one set of feelings is continually

vocalized and overestimated. He reads forever of love, good love and

bad love, natural and unnatural, legitimate and illegitimate; with the

unavoidable inference that there is nothing else going on.

If he is a healthy young man he breaks loose from the whole thing,

despises "love stories" and takes up life as he finds it. But what

impression he does receive from fiction is a false one, and he suffers

without knowing it from lack of the truer broader views of life it

failed to give him.

A young woman faces life--the seventy year stretch remember; and is

given the same books--with restrictions. Remember the remark of

Rochefoucauld, "There are thirty good stories in the world and

twenty-nine cannot be told to women." There is a certain broad field of

literature so grossly androcentric that for very shame men have tried to

keep it to themselves. But in a milder form, the spades all named

teaspoons, or at the worst appearing as trowels--the young woman is

given the same fiction. Love and love and love--from "first sight" to

marriage. There it stops--just the fluttering ribbon of announcement,

"and lived happily ever after."

Is that kind of fiction any sort of picture of a woman's life? Fiction,

under our androcentric culture, has not given any true picture of

woman's life, very little of human life, and a disproportioned section

of man's life.

As we daily grow more human, both of us, this noble art is changing for

the better so fast that a short lifetime can mark the growth. New

fields are opening and new laborers are working in them. But it is no

swift and easy matter to disabuse the race mind from attitudes and

habits inculcated for a thousand years. What we have been fed upon so

long we are well used to, what we are used to we like, what we like we

think is good and proper.

The widening demand for broader, truer fiction is disputed by the slow

racial mind: and opposed by the marketers of literature on grounds of

visible self-interest, as well as lethargic conservatism.

It is difficult for men, heretofore the sole producers and consumers of

literature; and for women, new to the field, and following masculine

canons because all the canons were masculine; to stretch their minds to

a recognition of the change which is even now upon us.

This one narrow field has been for so long overworked, our minds are so

filled with heroes and heroes continually repeating the one-act play,

that when a book like David Harum is offered the publisher refuses it

repeatedly, and finally insists on a "heart interest" being injected by

force.

Did anyone read David Harum for that heart interest? Does anyone

remember that heart interest? Has humanity no interests but those of

the heart?

Robert Ellesmere was a popular book--but not because of its heart

interest.

Uncle Tom's Cabin appealed to the entire world, more widely than any

work of fiction that was ever written; but if anybody fell in love and

married in it they have been forgotten. There was plenty of love in

that book, love of family, love of friends, love of master for servant

and servant for master; love of mother for child; love of married people

for each other; love of humanity and love of God.

It was extremely popular. Some say it was not literature. That opinion

will live, like the name of Empedocles.

The art of fiction is being re-born in these days. Life is discovered

to be longer, wider, deeper, richer, than these monotonous players of

one June would have us believe.

The humanizing of woman of itself opens five distinctly fresh fields of

fiction: First the position of the young woman who is called upon to

give up her "career"--her humanness--for marriage, and who objects to

it; second, the middle-aged woman who at last discovers that her

discontent is social starvation--that it is not more love that she

wants, but more business in life: Third the interrelation of women with

women--a thing we could never write about before because we never had it

before: except in harems and convents: Fourth the inter-action between

mothers and children; this not the eternal "mother and child," wherein

the child is always a baby, but the long drama of personal relationship;

the love and hope, the patience and power, the lasting joy and triumph,

the slow eating disappointment which must never be owned to a living

soul--here are grounds for novels that a million mothers and many

million children would eagerly read: Fifth the new attitude of the

full-grown woman who faces the demands of love with the high standards

of conscious motherhood.

There are other fields, broad and brilliantly promising, but this

chapter is meant merely to show that our one-sided culture has, in this

art, most disproportionately overestimated the dominant instincts of the

male--Love and War--an offense against art and truth, and an injury to

life.

WATER-LURE

We who were born of water, in the warm slow ancient years,

Love it to-day for all we pay

Of terror and loss and tears.

The child laughs loud at the fountain, laughs low in the April rain,

And the sea's bright brim is a lure to him

Where a lost life lives again.

COMMENT AND REVIEW

In a recent number of a leading "woman's" periodical is a disquisition

on love--a girl's ideals of love, based on Elaine and the Sleeping

Beauty.

This is a serious matter surely. Love being an essential preliminary to

the best parenthood, and the major element of personal happiness, is a

most commanding subject; and as the woman is the most important factor

in both lines, her ideals are worth discussing.

We note that the author says "girl" instead of woman; but as boys and

girls do have ideals they too are worth considering. What are these

ideals as discussed in this worthy periodical?

We are told that the girl is often unfit to meet "the big grave

questions of love itself;" and "to make sure that she has these ideals

from the highest sources."

"What are these sources?" pursues this sagacious monitor; and then she

offers--"fairy tales and old romance." For ideals of love--here--in

America to-day--we are referred to Grimm's Marchen; to Cinderella, the

Goose Girl, Beauty and the Beast, and the Sleeping Beauty! Various

heroines of mythology and fiction are adduced, and the crowning type of

all is Elaine, The Lily Maid of Astolat.

A careful reading of fairy tales, however worthy, does not seem to throw

much light on the problems of marriage; and right marriage is what all

this love and its ideals are for. Here is a matter calling for the

widest knowledge, the noblest purpose, the highest principles, the most

practical action; a matter concerning not only the private happiness of

two persons, but the lives of several others; a matter not only of

individual appeal, but of the very broadest social duty; and for its

ideals we are referred to old fairy tales!

The Sleeping Beauty is a most happy instance of woman's right attitude

toward love and marriage--she is to remain starkly unconscious, using

absolutely no discretion; and cheerfully marry the first man that kisses

her! In the fairy story he was a noble prince--but the average sleeping

beauty of to-day is often waked up by the wrong man!

Sometimes she is married first, and wakes up afterward; like the lady in

Lear's limerick:

"There a an old man of Jamaica,

Who suddenly married a Quaker.

But she cried out, "O Lack!

I have married a Black!"

Which grieved that old man of Jamaica."

How does Elaine answer as an ideal? Almost as well as the Sleeping

Beauty. Ignorance absolute; instant surrender to the first man

appearing; no shadow of inquiry as to his being married or single; much

less as to his morals. Then the apotheosis of the tidy-making

instinct--embroidering a cover for a steel shield! a thing meant to bear

the hardest kind of blows, made for that purpose, and she so afraid it

will get "rust or soilure" that she constructs this decorated case for

it.

Then the going forth to nurse her wounded hero, and the ingenuous

proposal, when he offers to requite her.

Being refused, what then? Any thought of her duty in the world? Of her

two good brothers? Of her aged father--very fond of her too, that old

father? Not the slightest. Not even a glimmer of purpose to live

on--if her love was so wonderful, and be of some use to the great man,

by and by.

Nothing but herself. "I want something! I can't have it! I will

die!"--and die she did, of set purpose, by a sort of flabby suicide;

making the most careful arrangements for a spectacular funeral barge,

and a letter that should wring the heart of the obdurate man.

Well, I can remember when I cried over it--at about thirteen. It does

appeal to girls; but is it therefore an ideal to be held up as a High

Source and followed?

It is time and more than time for us to recognize that marriage is for

men and women, not girls and boys; that "love" is not a rosy dream but a

responsible undertaking, with consequences; that no true ideals of love

can be formed without full recognition of its purpose.

*

A thin small book of verse, a booklet, called "Philemon's Verses," from

The Evergreen Press, Montrose, Pa., has been sent me for review.

Now I have a theory of my own in regard to what we are pleased to call

"minor poets"; namely, that poetry is a natural form of expression to

most human beings, and should be used as such.

Why do we imagine that the best method of ensuring our output of poetry

is to have a few huge monoliths of poets--and no more? Is the great

poet surer of recognition, safer in his unparalleled superiority because

there is nothing between him and the unpoetical? Is a vast audience of

the dumb and verseless, who do not care enough for poetry to write any

of it, the best for the great poet?

According to my theory there is as much room for short-distance poetry

as for the kind that rings around the world for centuries.

As I look over this small collection, I am impressed most with its clear

sincerity, in feeling and expression. These verses are not cooked--they

grew.

Then I feel anew the range of interests of the modern singer--so swiftly

widening, so intensely human, and yet so sympathetic with nature.

Democracy in literature is a good thing; not only in subject matter but

in universal participation.

So that the contribution be genuine, the real speech of an honest soul,

it has its own place in the literature of the day; and that is evidently

the case with Philemon's Verses.

*

"The Lords of High Decision" is a title more high-sounding than

descriptive. If the story had been called "The Slaves of Low Decision"

it would be more recognizable.

Here is a man who wabbles through some thirty years of life without

coming to any decision at all; a woman who at no time had any decision;

another who decided wrong, then right, then wrong again, and was finally

let out by an accident; a first-class pitcher who gives up his chosen

field to be a chauffeur and general attache of the wabbler, and finally

loses his life to save another man--perhaps he was a Lord of High

Decision.

Perhaps Paddock, the settlement-running clergyman was. Or Walsh,--the

suppressed parent. Colonel Craighill, the father of the Wabbler, is

well drawn, evidently from nature.

A highly Episcopalian attitude toward divorce is taken; the heroine, who

has been for some years free of a husband casually married in youth, is

led to see her duty in going back to him; even though she deeply loves

another man. As her ex-husband has more sense than she, he refuses to

accept this living sacrifice. She succeeds in giving up something,

however, for her lover, a man of considerable wealth, makes his proposal

in this wise:

"I know I ask a great deal when I ask you to give up your work for

me--and yet I ask it. Remember, there is no gratitude in this--you are

a woman, and I am a man--and I love you."

Poor girl! She has struggled through poverty, a broken marriage, long

years of valiant endeavor for this work of hers; it was the innocent and

easily domesticated task of drawing children's faces--she was an

illustrator. Yet the first thing her "lover" does, in the very height

of his new virtue, in the very act of offering himself, is to assume as

a matter of course that she would give it up. And she did--for this

Lord of High Decision.

"The Lords of High Decision," by Meredith Nicholson. Doubleday, Page &

Co. $1.50.

PERSONAL PROBLEMS

Here is a "Personal" of distinct interest.

May it reach its mark!

"WANTED:

"By a Socialist woman of mature years, a congenial person of similar

sex, education and tastes to share with her the expense of a country

home in the mountains, and the study--as far as may be agreeable--of

nature, music, literature, sociology and socialism. No objection to

Suffragette or Vegetarian, but advocates of Anarchism or Free Love are

hereby contra-indicated. Credentials to be frankly exchanged with

personal history. Address: The Widow Baucis, Care of The Forerunner, 67

Wall St., New York City."

*

Apropos of the above, there are no more intimate and pressing problems

than those of the business of living, the mere every day processes.

We are still so hampered by the customs and habits of the proprietary

family that we assume as a matter of course that one must live, first,

in childhood and youth, with one's parental family; second, in middle

life, with one's matrimonial family; and third in age, with one's

descendants.

Now suppose one is of age, unmarried, and not fond of living with one's

parents. This is not wicked. It is not extremely unusual. One may be

very fond of one's parents, as parents, yet prefer other society in

daily life. Enforced residence in the same home of a number of grown

people of widely different ages, interests, and ideas, is not made happy

by the fact of blood-relationship.

There are many indications to show an increasing divergence of tastes

between our rapidly changing generations. Each set of young people seem

to differ more sharply from their parents than they, in their youth,

similarly differed.

Moreover, there are a number of persons who do not marry, and yet have a

right to live--yes, and to enjoy living.

Men have long ago solved this problem to their own satisfaction. They

leave home early; they have learned in cabin, camp and club to live in

groups, without women; and many, with an apartment of their own as a

base, seem to find enough society in visits among their friends.

But women are only beginning to realize that it is possible to live,

yes, and to have a "home," even if one has not, in the original sense,

"a family." The amount of happiness that really congenial friends can

find in living together is fully as great as that of some marriages; and

quite outside of daily contact in the household remains that boundless

field of strength, stimulus and delight which comes of true social

contact.

But the machinery of life is all arranged for married couples; who

rightly constitute the majority; and the unmarried woman is not allowed

for. She is, however, rapidly awakening to the fact that she has an

actual individual existence--as well as a potential marital existence;

and is learning how to use and enjoy it.

PLAYTIME

AUNT ELIZA

(This was done by two persons, in alternate lines, as a game.)

Seven days had Aunt Eliza

Read the Boston Advertiser,

Seven days on end;

But in spite of her persistence

Still she met with some resistance

From her bosom friend.

Thomas Brown, the Undertaker,

Who declared he'd have to shake her,

Daily called at ten;

Asking if dear Aunt's condition

Would allow of his admission,

With his corps of men.

Aunt Eliza heard him pleading,

Ceased an instant from her reading,

Softly downward stole;

Soon broke up the conversation,

Punctuating Brown's oration,

With a shower of coal.

THE CRIPPLE

There are such things as feet, human feet;

But these she does not use;

Firm and supple, white and sweet,

Softly graceful, lightly fleet,

For comfort, beauty, service meet--

There are feet, human feet,

These she does with scorn refuse--

Preferring shoes.

There are such things as shoes--human shoes;

Though scant and rare the proof;

Serviceable, soft and strong,

Pleasant, comely, wearing long,

Easy as a well-known song--

There are shoes, human shoes,

But from these she holds aloof--

Prefers the hoof!

There are such things as hoofs, sub-human hoofs,

High-heeled, sharp anomalies;

Small and pinching, hard and black,

Shiny as a beetle's back,

Cloven, clattering on the track,

There are hoofs, sub-human hoofs,

She cares not for truth, nor ease--

Preferring these!

THE FORERUNNER

A MONTHLY MAGAZINE

BY

CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN

AUTHOR, OWNER & PUBLISHER

1.00 A YEAR

.10 A COPY

Volume 1. No. 6

APRIL, 1910

Copyright for 1910

C. P. Gilman

The human soul is built for the love and service of the whole world.

We confine it to the love and service of five or six persons, and the

salvation of one.

WHEN THOU GAINEST HAPPINESS

When thou gainest happiness,

Life's full cup of sweetest wine;

Dost thou stop in grieving blind

Over those dark years behind?

Bitter now, rebellious, mad,

For the things thou hast not had--

Before everything was thine?

Dost not rather wonder why

Nearing blaze of joy like this,

Some prevision had not lit

Those dark hours with hope of it?

That thou couldst in patient strength

Have endured that sorrow's length--

_Nothing_--to the coming bliss!

Now, awaken! Look ahead!

See the earth one garden fair!

See the evils of to-day

Like a child's faults put away!

See our little history seem

Like a short forgotten dream!

See a full-grown rising race

Find our joy their commonplace!

Find such new joy of their own

As our best hopes have not known!

And take shame for thy despair!

MARTHA'S MOTHER

It was nine feet long.

It was eight feet high.

It was six feet wide.

There was a closet, actually!--a closet one foot deep--that was why she

took this room. There was the bed, and the trunk, and just room to open

the closet door part way--that accounted for the length. There was the

bed and the bureau and the chair--that accounted for the width. Between

the bedside and the bureau and chair side was a strip extending the

whole nine feet. There was room to turn around by the window. There

was room to turn round by the door. Martha was thin.

One, two, three, four--turn.

One, two, three, four--turn.

She managed it nicely.

"It is a stateroom," she always said to herself. "It is a luxurious,

large, well-furnished stateroom with a real window. It is _not_ a

cell."

Martha had a vigorous constructive imagination. Sometimes it was the

joy of her life, her magic carpet, her Aladdin's lamp. Sometimes it

frightened her--frightened her horribly, it was so strong.

The cell idea had come to her one gloomy day, and she had foolishly

allowed it to enter--played with it a little while. Since then she had

to keep a special bar on that particular intruder, so she had arranged a

stateroom "set," and forcibly kept it on hand.

Martha was a stenographer and typewriter in a real estate office. She

got $12 a week, and was thankful for it. It was steady pay, and enough

to live on. Seven dollars she paid for board and lodging, ninety cents

for her six lunches, ten a day for carfare, including Sundays;

seventy-five for laundry; one for her mother--that left one dollar and

sixty-five cents for clothes, shoes, gloves, everything. She had tried

cheaper board, but made up the cost in doctor's bills; and lost a good

place by being ill.

"Stone walls do not a prison make, nor hall bedrooms a cage," said she

determinedly. "Now then--here is another evening--what shall I do?

Library? No. My eyes are tired. Besides, three times a week is

enough. 'Tisn't club night. Will _not_ sit in the parlor. Too wet to

walk. Can't sew, worse'n reading--O good _land!_ I'm almost ready to

go with Basset!"

She shook herself and paced up and down again.

Prisoners form the habit of talking to themselves--this was the

suggestion that floated through her mind--that cell idea again.

"I've got to get out of this!" said Martha, stopping short. "It's

enough to drive a girl crazy!"

The driving process was stayed by a knock at the door. "Excuse me for

coming up," said a voice. "It's Mrs. MacAvelly."

Martha knew this lady well. She was a friend of Miss Podder at the

Girls' Trade Union Association. "Come in. I'm glad to see you!" she

said hospitably. "Have the chair--or the bed's really more

comfortable!"

"I was with Miss Podder this evening and she was anxious to know whether

your union has gained any since the last meeting--I told her I'd find

out--I had nothing else to do. Am I intruding?"

"Intruding!" Martha, gave a short laugh. "Why, it's a godsend, Mrs.

MacAvelly! If you knew how dull the evenings are to us girls!"

"Don't you--go out much? To--to theaters--or parks?" The lady's tone

was sympathetic and not inquisitive.

"Not very much," said Martha, rather sardonically. "Theaters--two

girls, two dollars, and twenty cents carfare. Parks, twenty cents--walk

your feet off, or sit on the benches and be stared at. Museums--not

open evenings."

"But don't you have visitors--in the parlor here?"

"Did you see it?" asked Martha.

Mrs. MacAvelly had seen it. It was cold and also stuffy. It was ugly

and shabby and stiff. Three tired girls sat there, two trying to read

by a strangled gaslight overhead; one trying to entertain a caller in a

social fiction of privacy at the other end of the room.

"Yes, we have visitors--but mostly they ask us out. And some of us

don't go," said Martha darkly.

"I see, I see!" said Mrs. MacAvelly, with a pleasant smile; and Martha

wondered whether she did see, or was just being civil.

"For instance, there's Mr. Basset," the girl pursued, somewhat

recklessly; meaning that her visitor should understand her.

"Mr. Basset?"

"Yes, 'Pond & Basset'--one of my employers."

Mrs. MacAvelly looked pained. "Couldn't you--er--avoid it?" she

suggested.

"You mean shake him?" asked Martha. "Why, yes--I could. Might lose my

job. Get another place--another Basset, probably."

"I see!" said Mrs. MacAvelly again. "Like the Fox and the Swarm of

Flies! There ought to be a more comfortable way of living for all you

girls! And how about the union--I have to be going back to Miss

Podder."

Martha gave her the information she wanted, and started to accompany her

downstairs. They heard the thin jangle of the door-bell, down through

the echoing halls, and the dragging feet of the servant coming up. A

kinky black head was thrust in at the door.

"Mr. Basset, callin' on Miss Joyce," was announced formally.

Martha stiffened. "Please tell Mr. Basset I am not feeling well

to-night--and beg to be excused.

She looked rather defiantly at her guest, as Lucy clattered down the

long stairs; then stole to the railing and peered down the narrow well.

She heard the message given with pompous accuracy, and then heard the

clear, firm tones of Mr. Basset:

"Tell Miss Joyce that I will wait."

Martha returned to her room in three long steps, slipped off her shoes

and calmly got into bed. "Good-night, Mrs. MacAvelly," she said. "I'm

so sorry, but my head aches and I've gone to bed! Would you be so very

good as to tell Lucy so as you're going down."

Mrs. MacAvelly said she would, and departed, and Martha lay

conscientiously quiet till she heard the door shut far below.

She was quiet, but she was not contented.

*

Yet the discontent of Martha was as nothing to the discontent of Mrs.

Joyce, her mother, in her rural home. Here was a woman of fifty-three,

alert, vigorous, nervously active; but an automobile-agitated horse had

danced upon her, and her usefulness, as she understood it, was over.

She could not get about without crutches, nor use her hands for

needlework, though still able to write after a fashion. Writing was not

her _forte,_ however, at the best of times.

She lived with a widowed sister in a little, lean dusty farmhouse by the

side of the road; a hill road that went nowhere in particular, and was

too steep for those who were going there.

Brisk on her crutches, Mrs. Joyce hopped about the little house, there

was nowhere else to hop to. She had talked her sister out long

since--Mary never had never much to say. Occasionally they quarreled

and then Mrs. Joyce hopped only in her room, a limited process.

She sat at the window one day, staring greedily out at the lumpy

rock-ribbed road; silent, perforce, and tapping the arms of her chair

with nervous intensity. Suddenly she called out, "Mary! Mary Ames!

Come here quick! There's somebody coming up the road!"

Mary came in, as fast as she could with eggs in her apron. "It's Mrs.

Holmes!" she said. "And a boarder, I guess."

"No, it ain't," said Mrs. Joyce, eagerly. "It's that woman that's

visiting the Holmes--she was in church last week, Myra Slater told me

about her. Her name's MacDowell, or something."

"It ain't MacDowell," said her sister. "I remember; it's MacAvelly."

This theory was borne out by Mrs. Holmes' entrance and introduction of

her friend.

"Have you any eggs for us, Mrs. Ames?" she said.

"Set down--set down," said Mrs. Ames cordially. "I was just getting in

my eggs--but here's only about eight yet. How many was you wantin'?"

"I want all you can find," said Mrs. Holmes. "Two dozen, three

dozen--all I can carry."

"There's two hens layin' out--I'll go and look them up. And I ain't

been in the woodshed chamber yet. I'll go'n hunt. You set right here

with my sister." And Mrs. Ames bustled off.

"Pleasant view you have here," said Mrs. MacAvelly politely, while Mrs.

Holmes rocked and fanned herself.

"Pleasant! Glad you think so, ma'am. Maybe you city folks wouldn't

think so much of views if you had nothing else to look at!"

"What would you like to look at?"

"Folks!" said Mrs. Joyce briefly. "Lots of folks! Somethin' doin'."

"You'd like to Iive in the city?"

"Yes, ma'am--I would so! I worked in the city once when I was a girl.

Waitress. In a big restaurant. I got to be cashier--in two years! I

like the business!"

"And then you married a farmer?" suggested Mrs. Holmes.

"Yes, I did. And I never was sorry, Mrs. Holmes. David Joyce was a

mighty good man. We was engaged before I left home--I was workin' to

help earn, so 't we could marry."

"There's plenty of work on a farm, isn't there?" Mrs. MacAvelly

inquired.

Mrs. Joyce's eager eyes kindled. "There is _so!_" she agreed. "Lots to

do. And lots to manage! We kept help then, and the farm hands, and the

children growin' up. And some seasons we took boarders."

"Did you like that?"

"I did. I liked it first rate. I like lots of people, and to do for

'em. The best time I ever had was one summer I ran a hotel."

"Ran a hotel! How interesting!"

"Yes'm--it was interesting! I had a cousin who kept a summer hotel up

here in the mountains a piece--and he was short-handed that summer and

got me to go up and help him out. Then he was taken sick, and I had the

whole thing on my shoulders! I just enjoyed it! And the place cleared

more that summer'n it ever did! He said 'twas owin' to his advantageous

buyin'. Maybe 'twas! But I could 'a bought more advantageous than he

did--I could a' told him that. Point o' fact, I did tell him that--and

he wouldn't have me again."

"That was a pity!" said Mrs. Holmes. "And I suppose if it wasn't for

your foot you would do that now--and enjoy it!"

"Of course I could!" protested Mrs. Joyce. "Do it better 'n ever, city

or country! But here I am, tied by the leg! And dependent on my sister

and children! It galls me terribly!"

Mrs. Holmes nodded sympathetically. "You are very brave, Mrs. Joyce,"

she said. "I admire your courage, and--" she couldn't say patience, so

she said, "cheerfulness."

Mrs. Ames came in with more eggs. "Not enough, but some," she said, and

the visitors departed therewith.

Toward the end of the summer, Miss Podder at the Girls' Trade Union

Association, sweltering in the little office, was pleased to receive a

call from her friend, Mrs. MacAvelly.

"I'd no idea you were in town," she said.

"I'm not, officially," answered her visitor, "just stopping over between

visits. It's hotter than I thought it would be, even on the upper west

side."

"Think what it is on the lower east side!" answered Miss Podder,

eagerly. "Hot all day--and hot at night! My girls do suffer so! They

are so crowded!"

"How do the clubs get on?" asked Mrs. MacAvelly. "Have your girls any

residence clubs yet?"

"No--nothing worth while. It takes somebody to run it right, you know.

The girls can't; the people who work for money can't meet our wants--and

the people who work for love, don't work well as a rule."

Mrs. McAvelly smiled sympathetically. "You're quite right about that,"

she said. "But really--some of those 'Homes' are better than others,

aren't they?"

"The girls hate them," answered Miss Podder. "They'd rather board--even

two or three in a room. They like their independence. You remember

Martha Joyce?"

Mrs. MacAvelly remembered. "Yes," she said, "I do--I met her mother

this summer."

"She's a cripple, isn't she?" asked Miss Podder. "Martha's told me

about her."

"Why, not exactly. She's what a Westerner might call 'crippled up

some,' but she's livelier than most well persons." And she amused her

friend with a vivid rehearsal of Mrs. Joyce's love of the city and her

former triumphs in restaurant and hotel.

"She'd be a fine one to run such a house for the girls, wouldn't she?"

suddenly cried Miss Podder.

"Why--if she could," Mrs. MacAvelly admitted slowly.

"_Could!_ Why not? You say she gets about easily enough. All she's

have to do is _manage,_ you see. She could order by 'phone and keep the

servants running!"

"I'm sure she'd like it," said Mrs. MacAvelly. "But don't such things

require capital?"

Miss Podder was somewhat daunted. "Yes--some; but I guess we could

raise it. If we could find the right house!"

"Let's look in the paper," suggested her visitor. "I've got a

_Herald._"

"There's one that reads all right," Miss Podder presently proclaimed.

"The location's good, and it's got a lot of rooms--furnished. I suppose

it would cost too much."

Mrs. MacAvelly agreed, rather ruefully.

"Come," she said, "it's time to close here, surely. Let's go and look

at that house, anyway. It's not far."

They got their permit and were in the house very shortly. "I remember

this place," said Miss Podder. "It was for sale earlier in the summer."

It was one of those once spacious houses, not of "old," but at least of

"middle-aged" New York; with large rooms arbitrarily divided into

smaller ones.

"It's been a boarding-house, that's clear," said Mrs. MacAvelly.

"Why, of course," Miss Podder answered, eagerly plunging about and

examining everything. "Anybody could see that! But it's been done

over--most thoroughly. The cellar's all whitewashed, and there's a new

furnace, and new range, and look at this icebox!" It was an ice-closet,

as a matter of fact, of large capacity, and a most sanitary aspect.

"Isn't it too big?" Mrs. MacAvelly inquired.

"Not for a boarding-house, my dear," Miss Podder enthusiastically

replied. "Why, they could buy a side of beef with that ice-box! And

look at the extra ovens! Did you ever see a place better furnished--for

what we want? It looks as if it had been done on purpose!"

"It does, doesn't it?" said Mrs. MacAvelley.

Miss Podder, eager and determined, let no grass grow under her feet.

The rent of the place was within reason.

"If they had twenty boarders--and some "mealers," I believe it could be

done! she said. "It's a miracle--this house. Seems as if somebody had

done it just for us!"

*

Armed with a list of girls who would agree to come, for six and seven

dollars a week, Miss Podder made a trip to Willettville and laid the

matter before Martha's mother.

"What an outrageous rent!" said that lady.

"Yes--New York rents _are_ rather inconsiderate," Miss Podder admitted.

"But see, here's a guaranteed income if the girls stay--and I'm sure

they will; and if the cooking's good you could easily get table boarders

besides."

Mrs. Joyce hopped to the bureau and brought out a hard, sharp-pointed

pencil, and a lined writing tablet.

"Let's figger it out," said she. "You say that house rents furnished at

$3,200. It would take a cook and a chambermaid!"

"And a furnace man," said Miss Podder. "They come to about fifty a

year. The cook would be thirty a month, the maid twenty-five, if you

got first-class help, and you'd need it."

"That amounts to $710 altogether," stated Mrs. Joyce.

"Fuel and light and such things would be $200," Miss Podder estimated,

"and I think you ought to allow $200 more for breakage and extras

generally."

"That's $4,310 already," said Mrs. Joyce.

Then there's the food," Miss Podder went on. "How much do you think it

would cost to feed twenty girls, two meals a day, and three Sundays?"

"And three more," Mrs. Joyce added, "with me, and the help,

twenty-three. I could do it for $2.00 a week apiece."

"Oh!" said Miss Podder. "_Could_ you? At New York prices?"

"See me do it!" said Mrs. Joyce.

"That makes a total expense of $6,710 a year. Now, what's the income,

ma'am?"

The income was clear--if they could get it. Ten girls at $6.00 and ten

at $7.00 made $130.00 a week--$6,700.00 a year.

"There you are!" said Mrs. Joyce triumphantly. "And the 'mealers'--if

my griddle-cakes don't fetch 'em I'm mistaken! If I have ten--at $5.00

a week and clear $3.00 off 'em--that'll be another bit--$1,560.00 more.

Total income $8,320.00. More'n one thousand clear! Maybe I can feed

'em a little higher--or charge less!"

The two women worked together for an hour or so; Mrs. Ames drawn in

later with demands as to butter, eggs, and "eatin' chickens."

"There's an ice-box as big as a closet," said Miss Podder.

Mrs. Joyce smiled triumphantly. "Good!" she said. "I can buy my

critters of Judson here and have him freight 'em down. I can get apples

here and potatoes, and lots of stuff."

"You'll need, probably, a little capital to start with," suggested Miss

Podder. "I think the Association could--"

"It don't have to, thank you just the same," said Mrs. Joyce. "I've got

enough in my stocking to take me to New York and get some fuel.

Besides, all my boarders is goin' to pay in advance--that's the one sure

way. The mealers can buy tickets!"

Her eyes danced. She fairly coursed about the room on her nimble

crutches.

"My!" she said, "it will seem good to have my girl to feed again."

*

The house opened in September, full of eager girls with large appetites

long unsatisfied. The place was new-smelling, fresh-painted,

beautifully clean. The furnishing was cheap, but fresh, tasteful, with

minor conveniences dear to the hearts of women.

The smallest rooms were larger than hall bedrooms, the big ones were

shared by friends. Martha and her mother had a chamber with two beds

and space to spare!

The dining-room was very large, and at night the tables were turned into

"settles" by the wall and the girls could dance to the sound of a hired

pianola. So could the "mealers," when invited; and there was soon a

waiting list of both sexes.

"I guess I can make a livin'," said Mrs. Joyce, "allowin' for bad

years."

"I don't understand how you feed us so well--for so little," said Miss

Podder, who was one of the boarders.

"'Sh!" said Mrs. Joyce, privately. "Your breakfast don't really cost

more'n ten cents--nor your dinner fifteen--not the way I order! Things

taste good 'cause they're _cooked_ good--that's all!"

"And you have no troubles with your help?"

"'Sh!" said Mrs. Joyce again, more privately. "I work 'em hard--and pay

'em a bonus--a dollar a week extra, as long as they give satisfaction.

It reduces my profits some--but it's worth it!"

"It's worth it to us, I'm sure!" said Miss Podder.

Mrs. MacAvelly called one evening in the first week, with warm interest

and approval. The tired girls were sitting about in comfortable rockers

and lounges, under comfortable lights, reading and sewing. The untired

ones were dancing in the dining-room, to the industrious pianola, or

having games of cards in the parlor.

"Do you think it'll be a success?" she asked her friend.

"It _is_ a success!" Miss Podder triumphantly replied. "I'm immensely

proud of it!"

"I should think you would be," aid Mrs. MacAvelly.

The doorbell rang sharply.

Mrs. Joyce was hopping through the hall at the moment, and promptly

opened it.

"Does Miss Martha Joyce board here?" inquired a gentleman.

"She does."

"I should like to see her," said he, handing in his card.

Mrs. Joyce read the card and looked at the man, her face setting in hard

lines. She had heard that name before.

"Miss Joyce is engaged," she replied curtly, still holding the door.

He could see past her into the bright, pleasant rooms. He heard the

music below, the swing of dancing feet, Martha's gay laugh from the

parlor.

The little lady on crutches blocked his path.

"Are you the housekeeper of this place?" he asked sharply.

"I'm more'n that!" she answered. "I'm Martha's mother."

Mr. Basset concluded he would not wait.

FOR FEAR

For fear of prowling beasts at night

They blocked the cave;

Women and children hid from sight,

Men scarce more brave.

For fear of warrior's sword and spear

They barred the gate;

Women and children lived in fear,

Men lived in hate.

For fear of criminals to-day

We lock the door;

Women and children still to stay

Hid evermore.

Come out! You need no longer hide!

What fear ye now?

No wolf nor lion waits outside--

Only a cow.

Come out! The world approaches peace,

War nears its end;

No warrior watches your release--

Only a friend.

Come out! The night of crime his fled--

Day is begun;

Here is no criminal to dread--

Only your son!

The world, half yours, demands your care,

Waken, and come!

Make it a woman's world, safe, fair,

Garden and home!

NURSERY-MINDEDNESS

Where do we get our first training in the field of common behavior, our

earliest and strongest impressions of ethics?

In the nursery, in the early environment of the little child, in the

daily influences that affect the opening mind; or, to put it in a phrase

hallowed by poetic imagery, "at our mother's knee." We are accustomed

to think highly of these early influences. Almost any man will say that

his mother taught him what was right--it was his own evil nature that

drove him wrong. So believing, we perpetuate these influences unchanged

from age to age, and it is small wonder we think human nature to be

inherently perverse if it continues to show such poor results from such

good education.

Suppose for a moment we take down one more old idol, and look into his

record, examining the environment of the little child as dispassionately

as we would examine the environment of a college student.

The child is born into an atmosphere of personality, which is essential,

and reared continuously in that atmosphere, which is not so essential.

Owing to these early impressions; so deep and ineffaceable, he grows to

look at human life with a huge "I," and an almost as large "My Family,"

in his immediate foreground; so out of drawing as to throw the whole

world into false perspective, seen as a generality, dim, confused and

distant.

In this atmosphere of unbroken personality, he repeats continually the

mistakes of the early savage, the animistic tendency we should as a race

have long since outgrown. The family with the male head was the great

hotbed of early religions.

In this primitive group, unchecked by any higher authority of king or

governor, arose ancestor-worship--that unnatural religion which erases

the laws of life and bids the chicken feed the hen--or rather the

rooster. No matriarchal cult would have made that mistake. The

patriarch owned his women, owned his children, owned all the property;

he gave and took away at his pleasure. Therefore, looming vast in

unchecked pride, he erected sacrificial religions all his own, demanding

sons to perform sacred rites in his honor; and grew so inflated with

superiority that he thanked his patriarchal God and Father every day

that he was not born a woman.

This Personality has cast its shadow across heaven. It has deified its

own traits and worships them. Through blind and selfish eyes it has

mis-seen and misrepresented God, and forced dark dogmas on its children,

age after age. Each child of us, though really born to the broad light

of a democratic age, is reared in the patriarchate. Each child of us

sees the father, dispenser of benefits, arbiter and ruler of the family;

and, so reared, each child of us repeats from generation to generation

the mistakes of personality.

The basic law of the patriarchal system was obedience, and is yet. The

child's first ethical lesson is in the verb "to obey." Not with any

convincing instance of right or wrong, though life bristles with them,

but as the duty of submission. He is not taught to observe, to relate,

to make his inference, to act, and to note results. He is taught that

his one duty is not to think, observe, or experiment, but to do what he

is told.

This is a convenient habit for those in authority; but not conducive to

any true development of the ethical sense. We are turned out into a

world of cause and effect, with no knowledge, no experience, no guide

whatever, but the painfully acquired habit of doing what some one else

tells us. We are not taught to study right and wrong conduct, to

understand it, to see the wisdom of the one and the folly of the other.

The child's first notion of "being good" is either sheer inaction or

prompt submission. What we call "a good baby" is one who does

absolutely nothing. Here we have an explanation of the amazing inertia

of people in general; of the smug immobility of those shining lights

"the best people." We all have been taught--rigorously taught in our

infancy--that to "keep quiet" was a virtue; and we keep quiet through

life. This is one clear instance of our nursery-mindedness.

We are reared in a black and white world: sharp wrong,--to do almost

anything amusing, and particularly and most of all, To Disobey; sharp

right,--to do nothing whatever, and particularly and best of all, To

Obey. We come out into a world that is all colors of the rainbow in

every shade and blending, where the things people tell us to do are

mostly wrong, and to do right requires the most strenuous and

independent activity. Greatly are we hindered in the work of life

to-day by our mis-taught infancy.

In the narrow round of family life, the inevitable repetitions, the

natural ruts of usage, the child has forced upon him the conservatism he

should have every help to out-grow. Habit uncriticized and unresisted;

convention an unquestioned good; these are the rules of the little

world. How he hates it! How he longs for something different--for

something to happen! The world is full of differences and happenings,

but he is helpless to meet them--he has been only trained in narrow

routine.

The oldest status in life, that of serving woman, is about him in his

infancy. That mother should do for him is right and natural, but why

should his mother be waiting on these other persons? Why is she the

house-servant as well as the mother? If she is but a fashionable person

in gay attire, he still has about him women servants. He cannot think

as yet, but he accepts from daily contact this serving womanhood as

natural and right, grows up to demand it in his household and to rear

his children in its shadow; and so perpetuate from age to age the

patriarchal error.

Then deep into this infant soul sinks the iron weight of what we call

Discipline. We women, having small knowledge of child-nature or

world-nature, never studying nature at all, but each girl-mother handed

on from nursery to nursery, a child teaching children, we undertake to

introduce the new soul to life!

We show him, as "life," the nursery, kitchen and parlor group in which

we live. We try to teach him the behavior required by these

surroundings. Two of the heaviest crosses to both the child and mother

lie in his bi- and tri-daily difficulties with clothing, and prolonged

initiation to the sacred mysteries of the table. We seek, as best we

may, to bend the new soul visiting this world to a correct fulfilment of

the polite functions of our domestic shrine; and we succeed unhappily

well. We rear a world of people who put manners before morals,

conventions before principles, conformity before initiative. Sorely do

we strive with the new soul, to choke questionings and crush its

resistance.

"Why?" says the child, "Why?" protesting with might and main against the

mummery into which he is being forced.

"Because Mother says so!" is the reason given. "Because you must obey!"

is the duty given; and to enforce the command comes punishment.

Punishment is a pitiful invention arbitrarily inserted in place of

consequence. Its power is in giving pain. Its appeal is to terror.

We, immovable and besotted in our ancient sanctuaries, deliberately give

pain to little children, deliberately arouse in them that curse of old

savagery, blind fear. To compel behavior which we cannot explain even

to ourselves, to force the new wine of their young lives into the old

bottles of our traditional habits, we keep alive in the little child an

attitude of mind the whole world should seek to outgrow and forget

forever.

The ethics of the nursery does not give us laws to be learned and

understood; relations of cause and effect for instructive practice;

matters of general use and welfare not to know and practice which argues

a foolish ignorance. It gives command purely arbitrary and

disconnected; their profit is not visible to the child; and their

penalties, while painfully conspicuous, bear no real relation to

offences.

Besides being arbitrary and disconnected, the penalties we give our

children have this alarming weakness--they are wholly contingent upon

discovery. No whipped child is too young to learn that his whipping did

not follow on the act--unless his mother knew he did it. Thus with

elaborate care, with trouble to ourselves and anguish to the child, we

develop in him the attitude of mind with which our criminals, big and

little, face the world--it is not what you do that matters--it is being

found out. This is not the position of the thinking being--it is

nursery-mindedness.

Pain and terror we teach our babies, and also shame. The child is pure,

innocent, natural. One of the first efforts of nursery culture is to

smear that white page with our self-made foulness. We labor

conscientiously and with patience, to teach our babies shame. We

degrade the human body, we befoul the habits of nature, we desecrate

life, teaching evil and foolish falsehood to our defenceless little

children. The "sex-taboos" of darkest savagery, the decencies and

indecencies of primitive convention, we have preserved throughout the

ages in our guarded temple of ancient idols, and in that atmosphere we

rear the child.

The heaviest drag on progress is the persistence of race-habits and

traditions, once natural and useful, but long since outgrown. The main

stronghold of this body of tradition is in that uneducated, undeveloped,

unorganized, lingering rudiment of earlier social forms--the

woman-servant group of primitive industries, in which our children grow.

We have cried out against the crushing restriction of old religions;

and, going farther, have seen that these religions have their strongest

hold on the woman and the child. It is here suggested that it is not

the religion that keeps down the woman and renews its grip on each new

generation of children, but that it is the degraded status of the woman

and her influence on the child which made possible such religions in the

first instance, and which accounts for their astonishing persistence in

modern times.

In the atmosphere of the nursery each child re-learns continually the

mental habits of a remote and lowly past. His sense of duty is a

personal one, it is obligation; and justified when we attempt to justify

it by the beneficent services of the parent. This parental religion

naturally pictures God as a parent--a father of course, and people as

his children. We, as his children, are to love and serve and glorify

him, and he to take care of us, parentally.

Coming out into the world of which he has been taught nothing, the young

man finds no corroboration whatever for this theory. He does not see

the alleged grounds of the religious views given him, and so he drops

his religion altogether.

If he had early been shown God in a thousand beautiful common instances,

as ever-present, unescapable, and beneficent Law--the sure, sound

constant force of life, then he would find the same God still visibly at

work in the world of love and labor, and not lose his religion by

outgrowing his nursery.

Instead of personal gratitude for personal service as a cause for good

behavior, he should be shown that his parents and teachers serve him and

other children because so best is the human race improved; and that he,

and the other children, owe their life's service to the same great body,

to the human race. This ideal would need neither patching nor

enlargement, but would last unbroken through life.

Our nursery-bred consciences suffer personally for personal sins, with

morbid keenness, but are stone blocks of indifference to the collective

sins which are the major evils of life to-day. A man may pointed out to

us as a wholesale malefactor, a dealer in bad meat, a poisoner of the

public mind through a degraded press, an extortioner, liar, doer of

uncounted evil; we reply that he is a "moral man"--that his personal

relations are excellent; and, if one continues to complain, we say,

"What has he done to you?"

Personality is the limit of our moral sense, the steady check to growth

in ethical understanding, as it is in economics, and in art. The normal

growth of the human soul to-day is into a wide, fluent, general relation

with mankind; and a deeper more satisfying and _workable_ conception of

God than we ever knew before. In our nursery-mindedness we face the

problems of civic morality, catching visible offenders and shutting them

in a closet, sending them supperless to bed, hurting and depriving them

in various ways, as blindly, stupidly and unprofitably as a woman spanks

her child.

Children reared in a democratic, scientific, broadly educative

atmosphere, would grow up able to see the absurdity of our primitive

institutions--but such an atmosphere does not originate in and cannot be

brought into the nursery.

As an inevitable reaction from nursery-government, the child finds

joyous relief in sheer riot and self-will. The behavior of our boys in

college shows well their previous uneducated and ill-educated condition.

The persistence of "hazing" among twentieth century persons old enough

to go to school, shows the weakness of nursery culture. This is a

custom prevalent among low savage races, known as "initiation by

torture." Its reason--if it ever had any--was to outdo nature's

cruelest and most wasteful methods, and to prepare for a life of

struggle and pain by a worse experience to begin with. About the age of

puberty, when body and mind are both sensitive, this pleasant rite took

place. Those who survived it, habituated to cruelty and unreason, were

thereby fitted to live cruel and unreasonable lives--and did so.

Race-customs, as old as this, die hard. They have to be understood,

condemned, opposed, and educated out of us. Our small children get no

such education. They, as a class, get no influence tending to uplift

and develop their sociological status. Clever and "well-trained" they

may be; well-loved and well--at least, expensively-dressed. But as soon

as they escape the nursery bounds, out pops the primeval savage,

unrestrained. These young students, with their revolting practices,

ought to know that they are in the social stage with cannibalism,

voudooism, fetich-worship; and to be hot with shame at their condition.

It is the race's babyhood,--a drooling, fumbling, infantile

folly--manifested almost to adult age. That it endures is due to our

nursery-mindedness.

About the little child should cluster and concentrate the noblest forces

of our latest days, our highest wisdom and deepest experience, our most

subtle skill. Such wisdom, skill and experience do not exist in the

average young woman, albeit a mother; still less in her low-class,

ignorant serving-maids. A wider, deeper love would desire better

environment for the child, more foresight and more power would provide

it. But our love, though intense, is narrow and largely childish--the

mother has not long left the influence of her own nursery; and neither

wisdom nor power grew there. Some day our women will see this. They

will understand at last what womanhood is for, and the power and glory

of civilized motherhood. They will see that the educative influences of

the first few years are pre-eminently important, and prepare for them as

assiduously as they prepare to give a college education to older

children.

The baby is a new human soul, learning Life. He should have about him

from the first, Truth and Order, with a sequence of impressions which

great minds have labored to prepare. He should have his mother's love,

his father's care, his brother's and sister's society; his home's

seclusion; and he should also have from his earliest days, a place to

share with many other children, and the love and care and service of

such guides and teachers as are most fit to help the growing of the

world.

We have gone far indeed in those things we learn after we leave home.

In our trades and professions, our arts and sciences, in the broad

avenues of the world's life, we have made great progress--albeit

hampered always to some extent by our nursery-mindedness.

But in our own personal relations we are stagnant, hide-bound, inert.

Our littleness, our morbidness, our self-consciousness, our narrowness,

our short-sightedness, our oppressive, insistent, omnipresent

personality--all these still crush us down. Bumptious with a good

child's complacency, grieving with a bad child's remorse, indifferent

and rebellious as ill-trained children are, we live unawakened among

social laws. We enjoy when we can; we suffer much--and needlessly; but

we seem incapable of taking hold of our large world-questions and

settling them.

It is only an apparent limitation. We are quite capable were we but

taught so. What hinders us is Nursery-Mindedness.

A VILLAGE OF FOOLS

There was a certain village, a little village on a little stream; and

the inhabitants thereof were Fools.

By profession they were tillers of the soil; and they kept beasts,

beasts of burden, and beasts to furnish meat. They lived upon the

products of their tillage, and upon the beasts, and upon fish from the

stream.

The Wise said, "This is a good village. There is land to furnish food,

and beasts in plenty, and a good stream flowing steadily from the

tree-clothed hills. These people should prosper well."

They did not know that the people of the village were Fools; Utter

Fools. Observe now their Foolishness! They cut down the trees of the

hills to make their fires withal; many and great fires, without stint or

hindrance; and presently there was no more any forest upon the hills to

cover them. Then the moist breath of the cloud-building forest was

dried away; and the thick wet sponge about the roots of the forest was

dried away; and the snow slid down the hills as it slides down steep

roof gables; and the rain ran down the narrow valleys as it runs down

gutter pipes; and the village was swept by floods in flood time, and lay

parched and thirsty in the dry season. And the people of the village

called the flood an Act of God, and they called the drought an Act of

God; for they were Fools.

Their fields they tilled continuously, for they needs must eat;

gathering from the good ground year after year, and generation after

generation, till the ground became sour and stale, and was bad ground

and bore no fruit.

"Surely," said the Wise, "they will gather from the stables of their

beasts and from the village that which shall enrich their soil and make

it bear fruit again."

They did not know that the people of the Village were Fools.

Thus did they with their beasts. They kept them thick in their village;

draught animals and burden-bearers; and from the defiled streets arose a

Plague of Flies, and tormented the people, so that they fell sick of

divers diseases. And they themselves crowded together ever more

thickly, till all the village became unsavory and unfit for human

habitation. Then they arose, wagging their heads sagaciously; and with

vast labor and expense they gathered together from their stables and

their habitations all that which should enrich the soil and produce

fruit again; and they poured it carefully into the stream. Now this was

the stream from which they drank; and when they drank their diluted

diseases they fell sick anew, and many died.

Also the fish fed upon this filth, and they also absorbed diseases; and

the people fed upon the fish which had fed upon the filth, and again

fell sick, and many died.

And those who died they carefully wrapped up in many coverings and laid

in the ground--them and their diseases with them--that the seeds thereof

might be fostered eternally, and continually came forth anew.

But the Wise burned their dead in clean fire, cherishing their memories

in their hearts, but not their slowly deteriorating remains in the dark

earth. And the wise kept their forests as a wild garden, planting as

well as reaping; having wood therefrom at need, and always the green

beauty and the cool shade, the moist winds and carpet of held water over

the hill slopes.

Their streams were pure and steady, tree shadowed and grass bordered

from end to end; for a tree beareth food as well as a field, and is

planted in a moment and the young tree cometh up as the old tree dieth.

And their fields they fed continually, so that they bore more rather

than less from year to year, and they prospered and did not die of

hand-made diseases.

But they knew not their own wisdom, for these things it seemed to them

that even Fools might see, and do accordingly.

Neither did the Fools know their own foolishness.

WHAT DIANTHA DID