CHAPTER IX.

"SLEEPING IN."

Men have marched in armies, fleets have borne them,

Left their homes new countries to subdue;

Young men seeking fortune wide have wandered--

We have something new.

Armies of young maidens cross our oceans;

Leave their mother's love, their father's care;

Maidens, young and helpless, widely wander,

Burdens new to bear.

Strange the land and language, laws and customs;

Ignorant and all alone they come;

Maidens young and helpless, serving strangers,

Thus we keep the Home.

When on earth was safety for young maidens

Far from mother's love and father's care?

We preserve The Home, and call it sacred--

Burdens new they bear.

The sun had gone down on Madam Weatherstone's wrath, and risen to find

it unabated. With condensed disapprobation written on every well-cut

feature, she came to the coldly gleaming breakfast table.

That Mrs. Halsey was undoubtedly gone, she had to admit; yet so far

failed to find the exact words of reproof for a woman of independent

means discharging her own housekeeper when it pleased her.

Young Mathew unexpectedly appeared at breakfast, perhaps in anticipation

of a sort of Roman holiday in which his usually late and apologetic

stepmother would furnish the amusement. They were both surprised to

find her there before them, looking uncommonly fresh in crisp, sheer

white, with deep-toned violets in her belt.

She ate with every appearance of enjoyment, chatting amiably about the

lovely morning--the flowers, the garden and the gardeners; her efforts

ill seconded, however.

"Shall I attend to the orders this morning?" asked Madam Weatherstone

with an air of noble patience.

"O no, thank you!" replied Viva. "I have engaged a new housekeeper."

"A new housekeeper! When?" The old lady was shaken by this

inconceivable promptness.

"Last night," said her daughter-in-law, looking calmly across the table,

her color rising a little.

"And when is she coming, if I may ask?"

"She has come. I have been with her an hour already this morning."

Young Mathew smiled. This was amusing, though not what he had expected.

"How extremely alert and businesslike!" he said lazily. "It's becoming

to you--to get up early!"

"You can't have got much of a person--at a minute's notice," said his

grandmother. "Or perhaps you have been planning this for some time?"

"No," said Viva. "I have wanted to get rid of Mrs. Halsey for some

time, but the new one I found yesterday."

"What's her name?" inquired Mathew.

"Bell--Miss Diantha Bell," she answered, looking as calm as if

announcing the day of the week, but inwardly dreading the result

somewhat. Like most of such terrors it was overestimated.

There was a little pause--rather an intense little pause; and

then--"Isn't that the girl who set 'em all by the ears yesterday?" asked

the young man, pointing to the morning paper. "They say she's a

good-looker."

Madam Weatherstone rose from the table in some agitation. "I must say I

am very sorry, Viva, that you should have been so--precipitate! This

young woman cannot be competent to manage a house like this--to say

nothing of her scandalous ideas. Mrs. Halsey was--to my mind--perfectly

satisfactory. I shall miss her very much." She swept out with an

unanswerable air.

"So shall I," muttered Mat, under his breath, as he strolled after her;

"unless the new one's equally amiable."

Viva Weatherstone watched them go, and stood awhile looking after the

well-built, well-dressed, well-mannered but far from well-behaved young

man.

"I don't _know_," she said to herself, "but I do feel--think--imagine--a

good deal. I'm sure I hope not! Anyway--it's new life to have that

girl in the house."

That girl had undertaken what she described to Ross as "a large order--a

very large order."

"It's the hardest thing I ever undertook," she wrote him, "but I think I

can do it; and it will be a tremendous help. Mrs. Weatherstone's a

brick--a perfect brick! She seems to have been very unhappy--for ever

so long--and to have submitted to her domineering old mother-in-law just

because she didn't care enough to resist. Now she's got waked up all of

a sudden--she says it was my paper at the club--more likely my awful

example, I think! and she fired her old housekeeper--I don't know what

for--and rushed me in.

"So here I am. The salary is good, the work is excellent training, and

I guess I can hold the place. But the old lady is a terror, and the

young man--how you would despise that Johnny!"

The home letters she now received were rather amusing. Ross, sternly

patient, saw little difference in her position. "I hope you will enjoy

your new work," he wrote, "but personally I should prefer that you did

not--so you might give it up and come home sooner. I miss you as you

can well imagine. Even when you were here life was hard enough--but

now!--

"I had a half offer for the store the other day, but it fell through.

If I could sell that incubus and put the money into a ranch--fruit,

hens, anything--then we could all live on it; more cheaply, I think; and

I could find time for some research work I have in mind. You remember

that guinea-pig experiment I want so to try?"

Diantha remembered and smiled sadly. She was not much interested in

guinea-pigs and their potential capacities, but she was interested in

her lover and his happiness. "Ranch," she said thoughtfully; "that's

not a bad idea."

Her mother wrote the same patient loving letters, perfunctorily hopeful.

Her father wrote none--"A woman's business--this letter-writin'," he

always held; and George, after one scornful upbraiding, had "washed his

hands of her" with some sense of relief. He didn't like to write

letters either.

But Susie kept up a lively correspondence. She was attached to her

sister, as to all her immediate relatives and surroundings; and while

she utterly disapproved of Diantha's undertaking, a sense of sisterly

duty, to say nothing of affection, prompted her to many letters. It did

not, however, always make these agreeable reading.

"Mother's pretty well, and the girl she's got now does nicely--that

first one turned out to be a failure. Father's as cranky as ever. We

are all well here and the baby (this was a brand new baby Diantha had

not seen) is just a Darling! You ought to be here, you unnatural Aunt!

Gerald doesn't ever speak of you--but I do just the same. You hear from

the Wardens, of course. Mrs. Warden's got neuralgia or something; keeps

them all busy. They are much excited over this new place of yours--you

ought to hear them go on! It appears that Madam Weatherstone is a

connection of theirs--one of the F. F. V's, I guess, and they think

she's something wonderful. And to have _you_ working _there!_--well,

you can just see how they'd feel; and I don't blame them. It's no use

arguing with you--but I should think you'd have enough of this

disgraceful foolishness by this time and come home!"

Diantha tried to be very philosophic over her home letters; but they

were far from stimulating. "It's no use arguing with poor Susie!" she

decided. "Susie thinks the sun rises and sets between kitchen, nursery

and parlor!

"Mother can't see the good of it yet, but she will later--Mother's all

right.

"I'm awfully sorry the Wardens feel so--and make Ross unhappy--but of

course I knew they would. It can't be helped. It's just a question of

time and work."

And she went to work.

*

Mrs. Porne called on her friend most promptly, with a natural eagerness

and curiosity.

"How does it work? Do you like her as much as you thought? Do tell me

about it, Viva. You look like another woman already!"

"I certainly feel like one," Viva answered. "I've seen slaves in

housework, and I've seen what we fondly call 'Queens' in housework; but

I never saw brains in it before."

Mrs. Porne sighed. "Isn't it just wonderful--the way she does things!

Dear me! We do miss her! She trained that Swede for us--and she does

pretty well--but not like 'Miss Bell'! I wish there were a hundred of

her!"

"If there were a hundred thousand she wouldn't go round!" answered Mrs.

Weatherstone. "How selfish we are! _That_ is the kind of woman we all

want in our homes--and fuss because we can't have them."

"Edgar says he quite agrees with her views," Mrs. Porne went on.

"Skilled labor by the day--food sent in--. He says if she cooked it he

wouldn't care if it came all the way from Alaska! She certainly can

cook! I wish she'd set up her business--the sooner the better."

Mrs. Weatherstone nodded her head firmly. "She will. She's planning.

This was really an interruption--her coming here, but I think it will be

a help--she's not had experience in large management before, but she

takes hold splendidly. She's found a dozen 'leaks' in our household

already."

"Mrs. Thaddler's simply furious, I hear," said the visitor. "Mrs. Ree

was in this morning and told me all about it. Poor Mrs. Ree! The home

is church and state to her; that paper of Miss Bell's she regards as

simple blasphemy."

They both laughed as that stormy meeting rose before them.

"I was so proud of you, Viva, standing up for her as you did. How did

you ever dare?"

"Why I got my courage from the girl herself. She was--superb! Talk of

blasphemy! Why I've committed _lese majeste_ and regicide and the

Unpardonable Sin since that meeting!" And she told her friend of her

brief passage at arms with Mrs. Halsey. "I never liked the woman," she

continued; "and some of the things Miss Bell said set me thinking. I

don't believe we half know what's going on in our houses."

"Well, Mrs. Thaddler's so outraged by 'this scandalous attack upon the

sanctities of the home' that she's going about saying all sorts of

things about Miss Bell. O look--I do believe that's her car!"

Even as they spoke a toneless voice announced, "Mr. and Mrs. Thaddler,"

and Madam Weatherstone presently appeared to greet these visitors.

"I think you are trying a dangerous experiment!" said Mrs. Thaddler to

her young hostess. "A very dangerous experiment! Bringing that young

iconoclast into your home!"

Mr. Thaddler, stout and sulky, sat as far away as he could and talked to

Mrs. Porne. "I'd like to try that same experiment myself," said he to

her. "You tried it some time, I understand?"

"Indeed we did--and would still if we had the chance," she replied. "We

think her a very exceptional young woman."

Mr. Thaddler chuckled. "She is that!" he agreed. "Gad! How she did

set things humming! They're humming yet--at our house!"

He glanced rather rancorously at his wife, and Mrs. Porne wished, as she

often had before, that Mr. Thaddler wore more clothing over his domestic

afflictions.

"Scandalous!" Mrs. Thaddler was saying to Madam Weatherstone. "Simply

scandalous! Never in my life did I hear such absurd--such

outrageous--charges against the sanctities of the home!"

"There you have it!" said Mr. Thaddler, under his breath. "Sanctity of

the fiddlesticks! There was a lot of truth in what that girl said!"

Then he looked rather sheepish and flushed a little--which was needless;

easing his collar with a fat finger.

Madam Weatherstone and Mrs. Thaddler were at one on this subject; but

found it hard to agree even so, no love being lost between them; and the

former gave evidence of more satisfaction than distress at this

"dangerous experiment" in the house of her friends. Viva sat silent,

but with a look of watchful intelligence that delighted Mrs. Porne.

"It has done her good already," she said to herself. "Bless that girl!"

Mr. Thaddler went home disappointed in the real object of his call--he

had hoped to see the Dangerous Experiment again. But his wife was well

pleased.

"They will rue it!" she announced. "Madam Weatherstone is ashamed of

her daughter-in-law--I can see that! _She_ looks cool enough. I don't

know what's got into her!"

"Some of that young woman's good cooking," her husband suggested.

"That young woman is not there as cook!" she replied tartly. "What she

_is_ there for we shall see later! Mark my words!"

Mr. Thaddler chuckled softly. "I'll mark 'em!" he said.

Diantha had her hands full. Needless to say her sudden entrance was

resented by the corps of servants accustomed to the old regime. She had

the keys; she explored, studied, inventoried, examined the accounts,

worked out careful tables and estimates. "I wish Mother were here!" she

said to herself. "She's a regular genius for accounts. I _can_ do

it--but it's no joke."

She brought the results to her employer at the end of the week. "This

is tentative," she said, "and I've allowed margins because I'm new to a

business of this size. But here's what this house ought to cost you--at

the outside, and here's what it does cost you now."

Mrs. Weatherstone was impressed. "Aren't you a little--spectacular?"

she suggested.

Diantha went over it carefully; the number of rooms, the number of

servants, the hours of labor, the amount of food and other supplies

required.

"This is only preparatory, of course," she said. "I'll have to check it

off each month. If I may do the ordering and keep all the accounts I

can show you exactly in a month, or two at most."

"How about the servants?" asked Mrs. Weatherstone.

There was much to say here, questions of competence, of impertinence, of

personal excellence with "incompatibility of temper." Diantha was given

a free hand, with full liberty to experiment, and met the opportunity

with her usual energy.

She soon discharged the unsatisfactory ones, and substituted the girls

she had selected for her summer's experiment, gradually adding others,

till the household was fairly harmonious, and far more efficient and

economical. A few changes were made among the men also.

By the time the family moved down to Santa Ulrica, there was quite a new

spirit in the household. Mrs. Weatherstone fully approved of the Girls'

Club Diantha had started at Mrs. Porne's; and it went on merrily in the

larger quarters of the great "cottage" on the cliff.

"I'm very glad I came to you, Mrs. Weatherstone," said the girl. "You

were quite right about the experience; I did need it--and I'm getting

it!"

She was getting some of which she made no mention.

As she won and held the confidence of her subordinates, and the growing

list of club members, she learned their personal stories; what had

befallen them in other families, and what they liked and disliked in

their present places.

"The men are not so bad," explained Catharine Kelly, at a club meeting,

meaning the men servants; "they respect an honest girl if she respects

herself; but it's the young masters--and sometimes the old ones!"

"It's all nonsense," protested Mrs. James, widowed cook of long

standing. "I've worked out for twenty-five years, and I never met no

such goings on!"

Little Ilda looked at Mrs. James' severe face and giggled.

"I've heard of it," said Molly Connors, "I've a cousin that's workin' in

New York; and she's had to leave two good places on account of their

misbehavin' theirselves. She's a fine girl, but too good-lookin'."

Diantha studied types, questioned them, drew them out, adjusted facts to

theories and theories to facts. She found the weakness of the whole

position to lie in the utter ignorance and helplessness of the

individual servant. "If they were only organized," she thought--"and

knew their own power!--Well; there's plenty of time."

As her acquaintance increased, and as Mrs. Weatherstone's interest in

her plans increased also, she started the small summer experiment she

had planned, for furnishing labor by the day. Mrs. James was an

excellent cook, though most unpleasant to work with. She was quite able

to see that getting up frequent lunches at three dollars, and dinners at

five dollars, made a better income than ten dollars a week even with

several days unoccupied.

A group of younger women, under Diantha's sympathetic encouragement,

agreed to take a small cottage together, with Mrs. James as a species of

chaperone; and to go out in twos and threes as chambermaids and

waitresses at 25 cents an hour. Two of them could set in perfect order

one of the small beach cottage in an hour's time; and the occupants,

already crowded for room, were quite willing to pay a little more in

cash "not to have a servant around." Most of them took their meals out

in any case.

It was a modest attempt, elastic and easily alterable and based on the

special conditions of a shore resort: Mrs. Weatherstone's known interest

gave it social backing; and many ladies who heartily disapproved of

Diantha's theories found themselves quite willing to profit by this very

practical local solution of the "servant question."

The "club girls" became very popular. Across the deep hot sand they

ploughed, and clattered along the warping boardwalks, in merry pairs and

groups, finding the work far more varied and amusing than the endless

repetition in one household. They had pleasant evenings too, with

plenty of callers, albeit somewhat checked and chilled by rigorous Mrs.

James.

"It is both foolish and wicked!" said Madam Weatherstone to her

daughter-in-law, "Exposing a group of silly girls to such danger and

temptations! I understand there is singing and laughing going on at

that house until half-past ten at night."

"Yes, there is," Viva admitted. "Mrs. James insists that they shall all

be in bed at eleven--which is very wise. I'm glad they have good

times--there's safety in numbers, you know."

"There will be a scandal in this community before long!" said the old

lady solemnly. "And it grieves me to think that this household will be

responsible for it!"

Diantha heard all this from the linen room while Madam Weatherstone

buttonholed her daughter-in-law in the hall; and in truth the old lady

meant that she should hear what she said.

"She's right, I'm afraid!" said Diantha to herself--"there will be a

scandal if I'm not mighty careful and this household will be responsible

for it!"

Even as she spoke she caught Ilda's childish giggle in the lower hall,

and looking over the railing saw her airily dusting the big Chinese

vases and coquetting with young Mr. Mathew.

Later on, Diantha tried seriously to rouse her conscience and her common

sense. "Don't you see, child, that it can't do you anything but harm?

You can't carry on with a man like that as you can with one of your own

friends. He is not to be trusted. One nice girl I had here simply left

the place--he annoyed her so."

Ilda was a little sulky. She had been quite a queen in the small

Norwegian village she was born in. Young men were young men--and they

might even--perhaps! This severe young housekeeper didn't know

everything. Maybe she was jealous!

So Ilda was rather unconvinced, though apparently submissive, and

Diantha kept a careful eye upon her. She saw to it that Ilda's room had

a bolt as well as key in the door, and kept the room next to it empty;

frequently using it herself, unknown to anyone. "I hate to turn the

child off," she said to herself, conscientiously revolving the matter.

"She isn't doing a thing more than most girls do--she's only a little

fool. And he's not doing anything I can complain of--yet."

But she worried over it a good deal, and Mrs. Weatherstone noticed it.

"Doesn't your pet club house go well, 'Miss Bell?' You seem troubled

about something."

"I am," Diantha admitted. "I believe I'll have to tell you about

it--but I hate to. Perhaps if you'll come and look I shan't have to say

much."

She led her to a window that looked on the garden, the rich, vivid,

flower-crowded garden of Southern California by the sea. Little Ilda,

in a fresh black frock and snowy, frilly cap and apron, ran out to get a

rose; and while she sniffed and dallied they saw Mr. Mathew saunter out

and join her.

The girl was not as severe with him as she ought to have been--that was

evident; but it was also evident that she was frightened and furious

when he suddenly held her fast and kissed her with much satisfaction.

As soon as her arms were free she gave him a slap that sounded smartly

even at that distance; and ran crying into the house.

"She's foolish, I admit," said Diantha,--"but she doesn't realize her

danger at all. I've tried to make her. And now I'm more worried than

ever. It seems rather hard to discharge her--she needs care."

"I'll speak to that young man myself," said Mrs. Weatherstone. "I'll

speak to his grandmother too!"

"O--would you?" urged Diantha. "She wouldn't believe anything except

that the girl 'led him on'--you know that. But I have an idea that we

could convince her--if you're willing to do something rather

melodramatic--and I think we'd better do it to-night!"

"What's that?" asked her employer; and Diantha explained. It was

melodramatic, but promised to be extremely convincing.

"Do you think he'd dare! under my roof?" hotly demanded Madam

Weatherstone.

"I'm very much afraid it wouldn't be the first time," Diantha

reluctantly assured her. "It's no use being horrified. But if we could

only make _sure_--"

"If we could only make his grandmother sure!" cried Madam Weatherstone.

"That would save me a deal of trouble and misunderstanding. See here--I

think I can manage it--what makes you think it's to-night?"

"I can't be absolutely certain--" Diantha explained; and told her the

reasons she had.

"It does look so," her employer admitted. "We'll try it at any rate."

Urging her mother-in-law's presence on the ground of needing her

experienced advice, Mrs. Weatherstone brought the august lady to the

room next to Ilda's late that evening, the housekeeper in attendance.

"We mustn't wake the servants," she said in an elaborate whisper. "They

need sleep, poor things! But I want to consult you about these

communicating doors and the locksmith is coming in the morning.--you see

this opens from this side." She turned the oiled key softly in the

lock. "Now Miss Bell thinks they ought to be left so--so that the girls

can visit one another if they like--what do you think?"

"I think you are absurd to bring me to the top floor, at this time of

night, for a thing like this!" said the old lady. "They should be

permanently locked, to my mind! There's no question about it."

Viva, still in low tones, discussed this point further; introduced the

subject of wall-paper or hard finish; pointed out from the window a tall

eucalyptus which she thought needed heading; did what she could to keep

her mother-in-law on the spot; and presently her efforts were rewarded.

A sound of muffled speech came from the next room--a man's voice dimly

heard. Madam Weatherstone raised her head like a warhorse.

"What's this! What's this!" she said in a fierce whisper.

Viva laid a hand on her arm. "Sh!" said she. "Let us make sure!" and

she softly unlatched the door.

A brilliant moon flooded the small chamber. They could see little Ilda,

huddled in the bedclothes, staring at her door from which the key had

fallen. Another key was being inserted--turned--but the bolt held.

"Come and open it, young lady!" said a careful voice outside.

"Go away! Go away!" begged the girl, low and breathlessly. "Oh how

_can_ you! Go away quick!"

"Indeed, I won't!" said the voice. "You come and open it."

"Go away," she cried, in a soft but frantic voice. "I--I'll scream!"

"Scream away!" he answered. "I'll just say I came up to see what the

screaming's about, that's all. You open the door--if you don't want

anybody to know I'm here! I won't hurt you any--I just want to talk to

you a minute."

Madam Weatherstone was speechless with horror, her daughter-in-law

listened with set lips. Diantha looked from one to the other, and at

the frightened child before them who was now close to the terrible door.

"O please!--_please!_ go away!" she cried in desperation. "O what shall

I do! What shall I do!"

"You can't do anything," he answered cheerfully. "And I'm coming in

anyhow. You'd better keep still about this for your own sake. Stand

from under!" Madam Weatherstone marched into the room. Ilda, with a

little cry, fled out of it to Diantha.

There was a jump, a scramble, two knuckly hands appeared, a long leg was

put through the transom, two legs wildly wriggling, a descending body,

and there stood before them, flushed, dishevelled, his coat up to his

ears--Mat Weatherstone.

He did not notice the stern rigidity of the figure which stood between

him and the moonlight, but clasped it warmly to his heart.--"Now I've

got you, Ducky!" cried he, pressing all too affectionate kisses upon the

face of his grandmother.

Young Mrs. Weatherstone turned on the light.

It was an embarrassing position for the gentleman.

He had expected to find a helpless cowering girl; afraid to cry out

because her case would be lost if she did; begging piteously that he

would leave her; wholly at his mercy.

What he did find was so inexplicable as to reduce him to gibbering

astonishment. There stood his imposing grandmother, so overwhelmed with

amazement that her trenchant sentences failed her completely; his

stepmother, wearing an expression that almost suggested delight in his

discomfiture; and Diantha, as grim as Rhadamanthus.

Poor little Ilda burst into wild sobs and choking explanations, clinging

to Diantha's hand. "If I'd only listened to you!" she said. "You told

me he was bad! I never thought he'd do such an awful thing!"

Young Mathew fumbled at the door. He had locked it outside in his

efforts with the pass-key. He was red, red to his ears--very red, but

there was no escape. He faced them--there was no good in facing the

door.

They all stood aside and let him pass--a wordless gauntlet.

Diantha took the weeping Ilda to her room for the night. Madam

Weatherstone and Mrs. Weatherstone went down together.

"She must have encouraged him!" the older lady finally burst forth.

"She did not encourage him to enter her room, as you saw and heard,"

said Viva with repressed intensity.

"He's only a boy!" said his grandmother.

"She is only a child, a helpless child, a foreigner, away from home,

untaught, unprotected," Viva answered swiftly; adding with quiet

sarcasm--"Save for the shelter of the home!"

They parted in silence.

WE EAT AT HOME

RONDEAU

We eat at home; we do not care

Of what insanitary fare;

So long as Mother makes the pie,

Content we live, content we die,

And proudly our dyspepsia bear.

Straight from our furred forefather's lair

The instinct comes of feeding there;

And still unmoved by progress high

We eat at home.

In wasteful ignorance we buy

Alone; alone our food we fry;

What though a tenfold cost we bear,

The doctor's bill, the dentist's chair?

Still without ever asking why

We eat at home.

OUR ANDROCENTRIC CULTURE; or, THE MAN-MADE WORLD

IX.

"SOCIETY" AND "FASHION"

Among our many naive misbeliefs is the current fallacy that "society" is

made by women; and that women are responsible for that peculiar social

manifestation called "fashion."

Men and women alike accept this notion; the serious essayist and

philosopher, as well as the novelist and paragrapher, reflect it in

their pages. The force of inertia acts in the domain of psychics as

well as physics; any idea pushed into the popular mind with considerable

force will keep on going until some opposing force--or the slow

resistance of friction--stops it at last.

"Society" consists mostly of women. Women carry on most of its

processes, therefore women are its makers and masters, they are

responsible for it, that is the general belief.

We might as well hold women responsible for harems--or prisoners for

jails. To be helplessly confined to a given place or condition does not

prove that one has chosen it; much less made it.

No; in an androcentric culture "society," like every other social

relation, is dominated by the male and arranged for his convenience.

There are, of course, modifications due to the presence of the other

sex; where there are more women than men there are inevitable results of

their influence; but the character and conditions of the whole

performance are dictated by men.

Social intercourse is the prime condition of human life. To meet, to

mingle, to know one another, to exchange, not only definite ideas,

facts, and feelings, but to experience that vague general stimulus and

enlarged power that comes of contact--all this is essential to our

happiness as well as to our progress.

This grand desideratum has always been monopolized by men as far as

possible. What intercourse was allowed to women has been rigidly hemmed

its by man-made conventions. Women accept these conventions, repeat

them, enforce them upon their daughters; but they originate with men.

The feet of the little Chinese girl are bound by her mother and her

nurse--but it is not for woman's pleasure that this crippling torture

was invented. The Oriental veil is worn by women, but it is not for any

need of theirs that veils were decreed them.

When we look at society in its earlier form we find that the public

house has always been with us. It is as old almost as the private

house; the need for association is as human as the need for privacy.

But the public house was--and is--for men only. The woman was kept as

far as possible at home. Her female nature was supposed to delimit her

life satisfactorily, and her human stature was completely ignored.

Under the pressure of that human nature she has always rebelled at the

social restrictions which surrounded her; and from the women of older

lands gathered at the well, or in the market place, to our own women on

the church steps or in the sewing circle, they have ceaselessly

struggled for the social intercourse which was as much a law of their

being as of man's.

When we come to the modern special field that we call "society," we find

it to consist of a carefully arranged set of processes and places

wherein women may meet one another and meet men. These vary, of course,

with race, country, class, and period; from the clean licence of our

western customs to the strict chaperonage of older lands; but free as it

is in America, even here there are bounds.

Men associate without any limit but that of inclination and financial

capacity. Even class distinction only works one way--the low-class man

may not mingle with high-class women; but the high-class man may--and

does--mingle with low-class women. It is his society--may not a man do

what he will with his own?

Caste distinctions, as have been ably shown by Prof. Lester F. Ward, are

relics of race distinction; the subordinate caste was once a subordinate

race; and while mating, upward, was always forbidden to the subject

race; mating, downward, was always practiced by the master race.

The elaborate shading of "the color line" in slavery days, from pure

black up through mulatto, quadroon, octoroon, quinteroon, griffada,

mustafee, mustee, and sang d'or--to white again; was not through white

mothers--but white fathers; never too exclusive in their tastes. Even

in slavery, the worst horrors were strictly androcentric.

"Society" is strictly guarded--that is its women are. As always, the

main tabu is on the woman. Consider carefully the relation between

"society" and the growing girl. She must, of course, marry; and her

education, manners, character, must of course be pleasing to the

prospective wooer. That which is desirable in young girls means,

naturally, that which is desirable to men. Of all cultivated

accomplishments the first is "innocence." Beauty may or may not be

forthcoming; but "innocence" is "the chief charm of girlhood."

Why? What good does it do _her?_ Her whole life's success is made to

depend on her marrying; her health and happiness depends on her marrying

the right man. The more "innocent" she is, the less she knows, the

easier it is for the wrong man to get her.

As is so feelingly described in "The Sorrows of Amelia," in "The Ladies'

Literary Cabinet," a magazine taken by my grandmother; "The only foible

which the delicate Amelia possessed was an unsuspecting breast to lavish

esteem. Unversed in the secret villanies of a base degenerate world,

she ever imagined all mankind to be as spotless as herself. Alas for

Amelia! This fatal credulity was the source of all her misfortunes."

It was. It is yet.

Just face the facts with new eyes--look at it as if you had never seen

"society" before; and observe the position of its "Queen."

Here is Woman. Let us grant that Motherhood is her chief purpose. (As

a female it is. As a human being she has others!) Marriage is our way

of safeguarding motherhood; of ensuring "support" and "protection" to

the wife and children.

"Society" is very largely used as a means to bring together young

people, to promote marriage. If "society" is made and governed by women

we should naturally look to see its restrictions and encouragements such

as would put a premium on successful maternity and protect women--and

their children--from the evils of ill-regulated fatherhood.

Do we find this? By no means.

"Society" allows the man all liberty--all privilege--all license. There

are certain offences which would exclude him; such as not paying

gambling debts, or being poor; but offences against womanhood--against

motherhood--do not exclude him.

How about the reverse?

If "society" is made by women, for women, surely a misstep by a

helplessly "innocent" girl, will not injure her standing!

But it does. She is no longer "innocent." She knows now. She has lost

her market value and is thrown out of the shop. Why not? It is his

shop--not hers. What women may and may not be, what they must and must

not do, all is measured from the masculine standard.

A really feminine "society" based on the needs and pleasures of women,

both as females and as human beings, would in the first place accord

them freedom and knowledge; the knowledge which is power. It would not

show us "the queen of the ballroom" in the position of a wall-flower

unless favored by masculine invitation; unable to eat unless he brings

her something; unable to cross the floor without his arm. Of all blind

stultified "royal sluggards" she is the archetype. No, a feminine

society would grant _at least_ equality to women in this, their

so-called special field.

Its attitude toward men, however, would be rigidly critical.

Fancy a real Mrs. Grundy (up to date it has been a Mr., his whiskers hid

in capstrings) saying, "No, no, young man. You won't do. You've been

drinking. The habit's growing on you. You'll make a bad husband."

Or still more severely, "Out with you, sir! You've forfeited your right

to marry! Go into retirement for seven years, and when you come back

bring a doctor's certificate with you."

That sounds ridiculous, doesn't it--for "Society" to say? It is

ridiculous, in a man's "society."

The required dress and decoration of "society"; the everlasting eating

and drinking of "society," the preferred amusements of "society," the

absolute requirements and absolute exclusions of "society," are of men,

by men, for men,--to paraphrase a threadbare quotation. And then, upon

all that vast edifice of masculine influence, they turn upon women as

Adam did; and blame _them_ for severity with their fallen sisters!

"Women are so hard upon women!"

They have to be. What man would "allow" his wife, his daughters, to

visit and associate with "the fallen"? His esteem would be forfeited,

they would lose their "social position," the girl's chance of marrying

would be gone.

Men are not so stern. They may visit the unfortunate women, to bring

them help, sympathy, re-establishment--or for other reasons; and it does

not forfeit their social position. Why should it? They make the

regulation.

Women are to-day, far more conspicuously than men, the exponents and

victims of that mysterious power we call "Fashion." As shown in mere

helpless imitation of one another's idea, customs, methods, there is not

much difference; in patient acquiescence with prescribed models of

architecture, furniture, literature, or anything else; there is not much

difference; but in personal decoration there is a most conspicuous

difference. Women do to-day submit to more grotesque ugliness and

absurdity than men; and there are plenty of good reasons for it.

Confining our brief study of fashion to fashion in dress, let us observe

why it is that women wear these fine clothes at all; and why they change

them as they do.

First, and very clearly, the human female carries the weight of sex

decoration, solely because of her economic dependence on the male. She

alone in nature adds to the burdens of maternity, which she was meant

for, this unnatural burden of ornament, which she was not meant for.

Every other female in the world is sufficiently attractive to the male

without trimmings. He carries the trimmings, sparing no expense of

spreading antlers or trailing plumes; no monstrosity of crest and

wattles, to win her favor.

She is only temporarily interested in him. The rest of the time she is

getting her own living, and caring for her own young. But our women get

their bread from their husbands, and every other social need. The woman

depends on the man for her position in life, as well as the necessities

of existence. For herself and for her children she must win and hold

him who is the source of all supplies. Therefore she is forced to add

to her own natural attractions this "dance of the seven veils," of the

seventeen gowns, of the seventy-seven hats of gay delirium.

There are many who think in one syllable, who say, "women don't dress to

please men--they dress to please themselves--and to outshine other

women." To these I would suggest a visit to some summer shore resort

during the week and extending over Saturday night. The women have all

the week to please themselves and outshine one another; but their array

on Saturday seems to indicate the approach of some new force or

attraction.

If all this does not satisfy I would then call their attention to the

well-known fact that the young damsel previous to marriage spends far

more time and ingenuity in decoration than she does afterward. This has

long been observed and deprecated by those who write Advice to Wives, on

the ground that this difference is displeasing to the husband--that she

loses her influence over him; which is true. But since his own

"society," knowing his weakness, has tied him to her by law; why should

she keep up what is after all an unnatural exertion?

That excellent magazine "Good Housekeeping" has been running for some

months a rhymed and illustrated story of "Miss Melissa Clarissa McRae,"

an extremely dainty and well-dressed stenographer, who captured and

married a fastidious young man, her employer, by the force of her

artificial attractions--and then lost his love after marriage by a

sudden unaccountable slovenliness--the same old story.

If this in not enough, let me instance further the attitude toward

"Fashion" of that class of women who live most openly and directly upon

the favor of men. These know their business. To continually attract

the vagrant fancy of the male, nature's born "variant," they must not

only pile on artificial charms, but change them constantly. They do.

From the leaders of this profession comes a steady stream of changing

fashions; the more extreme and bizarre, the more successful--and because

they are successful they are imitated.

If men did not like changes in fashion be assured these professional

men-pleasers would not change them, but since Nature's Variant tires of

any face in favor of a new one, the lady who would hold her sway and

cannot change her face (except in color) must needs change her hat and

gown.

But the Arbiter, the Ruling Cause, he who not only by choice demands,

but as a business manufactures and supplies this amazing stream of

fashions; again like Adam blames the woman--for accepting what he both

demands and supplies.

A further proof, if more were needed, is shown in this; that in exact

proportion as women grow independent, educated, wise and free, do they

become less submissive to men-made fashions. Was this improvement

hailed with sympathy and admiration--crowned with masculine favor?

The attitude of men toward those women who have so far presumed to

"unsex themselves" is known to all. They like women to be foolish,

changeable, always newly attractive; and while women must "attract" for

a living--why they do, that's all.

It is a pity. It is humiliating to any far-seeing woman to have to

recognize this glaring proof of the dependent, degraded position of her

sex; and it ought to be humiliating to men to see the results of their

mastery. These crazily decorated little creatures do not represent

womanhood.

When the artist uses the woman as the type of every highest ideal; as

Justice, Liberty, Charity, Truth--he does not represent her trimmed. In

any part of the world where women are even in part economically

independent there we find less of the absurdities of fashion. Women who

work cannot be utterly absurd.

But the idle woman, the Queen of Society, who must please men within

their prescribed bounds; and those of the half-world, who must please

them at any cost--these are the vehicles of fashion.

ONLY AN HOUR

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven," said the Second Hand, and

then he lost count. "One, two, three, four, five--" It was no use.

"There is no end to it," said he, under his breath. "Hundreds of times

I do it! Thousands! Millions! A positive eternity--in constant

action. What a thing Life is!"

The Minute Hand was very patient with him. "My dear little Busybody,"

he said. "Look at me and learn some dignity. See, you have to make

those little jumps sixty times before I move! Sixty times!" And the

Minute Hand took a short step. "There--now you begin again, while I

wait. Watch me, take courage! If you can count up to sixty you will

understand Life!" And he took another short step.

The Hour Hand smiled. He was too proud to talk with the Minute

Hand--considering him to have a Limited Intellect. As for the Second

Hand, he did not acknowledge his existence. "I am no microscopist!" he

would say if you pointed out that there was a Second Hand.

No, the Hour Hand did not converse, he Mused. He mused much upon life,

as was natural. "Twelve of them!" he thought to himself--"twelve of

these long long waits, these slow terrible advances. And then twelve

more--before Life is over. I can count. I have an intellect. I am not

afraid. I can think around Life." And he kept on thinking.

*

The man pulled out his watch and looked at it; yawned, took an easier

position on the car seat. "Bah!" he said. "Only an hour gone!--And I

can't get there till the day after to-morrow!"

COMMENT AND REVIEW

The first thing that struck me in reading this novel was the style. Not

often, in a first publication, is this the main impression.

There is a delicate finished personal touch in Mrs. Schoonmaker's work,

that would indicate years of application. Next I slowly gathered

interest in the story; not at once--it grew gradually--but later on,

when the characters were well placed and a grave danger threatened the

lives of several.

The flat, peaceful, limited life of rural Kentucky and its contented

inhabitants is drawn in soft assured touches--the reader feels the

sweetness and peace as well as the deadly dulness.

The picture of life among the studios of Paris hints at more than is

said, much more; indicating a philosophic judgment; yet withholding it.

There is a restraint, an economy of expression throughout; even where

the writer feels most strongly.

As to the heroine--her young life-struggle is part and parcel of that

universal stir and uprising among the women of to-day; so much of it

blind and undirected; so much wasted and lost in reaction; so much in

lines of true long-needed social evolution. This girl's share in it

will be differently judged by different readers. Many of our young

college women will sympathize with it most, I fancy.

THE ETERNAL FIRES

By Nancy Musselman Schoonmaker,

Broadway Pub. Co., N. Y.

*

Dr. Stanton Coit, prominent in ethical and social advance in England, is

a valuable supporter of the woman's movement. His booklet, "Women in

Church and State," is a concise and impressive presentation of her

position in those great social bodies. He treats of the militant

movement in England, its wise period of quiescence, and offers

reasonable suggestions as to further policy.

The attitude of the church toward women, from the miserable past up

through the changing present to the hopeful future, is given succinctly,

and the unfortunate reaction of a servile womanhood upon the church is

shown.

It is a clear presentation of the relation of woman to the state, in

politics, education, marriage and the home.

This booklet is for sale, in England, as one of the Ethical Message

Series, at 6d. net; and may be rebound for American circulation, at 15c.

WOMAN IN CHURCH AND STATE

By Stanton Coit, Ph.D.,

West London Ethical Society,

Queen's Road, Bayswater, England.

*

The ethical movement of the last twenty years is a strong proof of

humanity's natural bent toward the study and practice of that first of

sciences, the science of conduct.

How to behave, and Why, are universal questions; decided first by

conditions, then by instinct, then by custom and tradition, then by

religion, then by reason. We are rapidly reaching the reasoning stage;

hence the popularity of ethics, and of such papers as The Ethical World.

We have ethical publications in this country, good ones, but it is

inspiring to get from other lands the vivid sense of that common

movement which so marks the uniting of the world.

Mere verbal language was necessary to the faintest human development;

written language, in the permanent form of books, established the long

roots of our historic life, with its sense of continuity; today the

multiplication of periodic literature, widely specialized, speaks our

social consciousness. We no longer have to think alone, but the

smallest cult has its exponent, giving to each member the strength of

all.

In the issue of March 15th of this paper, Dr. Stanton Coit has an

article on "The Group Spirit," which treats sympathetically that marvel

of social dynamics, "the interpenetrating Third," appearing where two or

three are gathered together.

I should like to have discussed with Sir James Mackintosh, however, his

contention that moral principles are stationary. They are not, but vary

from age to age in accordance with conditions.

PERSONAL PROBLEMS

A friend and subscriber writes me thus:

"There are one or two questions I want to ask--not because I disagree,

but because I want to be able to meet objections.

"Those who believe in restricting "Woman's Sphere" to its present--no,

its former narrow boundaries may say,--"Yes, man is the only species

which keeps the female--or tries to--in the home and restricts her to

the strictly female functions and duties. But it is just because man is

higher than the other animals, and because the period of infancy is so

much longer for human babies. The animal mother bears her young,

nourishes them a short time, and is no longer needed. The human mother

is something more than an agent of reproduction and a source of

nourishment. By just so much as her motherhood is more and higher than

that of the ewe, it must take more of her time, her strength, her life.

How can a woman who is giving birth to a child every two or three years

for a period of ten years, for example, and "mothering," in the fullest

sense of the word, those children, find time or strength for anything

else?

"Then, too, what you call "Androcentric Culture" has existed by your own

statement practically ever since our historic period began--that is,

since man first advanced from savagery to human intelligence and

civilization. Is it not fair to assume that a condition of affairs

non-existent among lower animals, but co-existent with the development

of the intelligence and civilization of mankind is a higher condition

than that found among the animals?"

Here we have five premises:

1. Man is the only species which segregates the female to maternal

functions and duties.

2. Man is higher than the other animals.

3. The human period of infancy is longer.

4. The human mother has to devote longer time to maternal cares.

5. The Androcentric Culture is coexistent with the period of progress.

On these premises,two questions are based: On the first four:

A. How can the human mother find time or strength for anything else?

On the fifth:

B. Is not the Androcentric Culture evidence and conditions of our

superiority?

To clearly follow and answer this line of reasoning requires close

attention; but it is well worth doing; for this inquirer fairly puts the

general attitude of mind on this matter.

Premise one we may grant. It is true as applied to all higher species.

There are some low ones where the female is a mere egg-layer; but with

those creatures the male is not much either.

Premises two and three we grant freely.

Premises three and four require consideration.

Is the existence of human infancy accompanied by a similar extension of

maternal cares?

Our Children are infants in the eyes of the law till they reach legal

majority; and in the arts, professions, and more complex businesses, a

boy of twenty-one is still an infant.

To bring a young animal up to the age where it can take care of itself

is a simple process and can be accomplished by the mother alone; but to

bring up a young human creature to the age where he or she can fitly

serve society is a complex process and cannot be performed by the mother

alone. Our prolongation of infancy is a result of social progress, and

has to be met by social cares; is so met to some degree already.

The nurse and the teacher are social functionaries, performing the

duties of social motherhood. The female savage can suckle her child and

teach her to prepare food, tan hides, make baskets and clothing, and

decorate them. The male savage can teach his child to hunt and trap

game, to bear pain and privation, to put on warpaint and yell and dance,

to fight and kill.

But the civilized mother and father cannot teach their children all that

society requires of its citizens. When trades went from father to son

they were so taught; and the level of progress in those trades was the

level of personal experience. Our real progress has coincided with our

educational processes, in which suitable persons are selected to teach

children what society requires them to know, quite irrespective of their

parent's individual knowledge. Should the learning of the world, the

discoveries and inventions, be limited to what each man can find out for

himself and teach his son?

No one expects the father's wisdom to be the limit of his son's

instruction; nor the mother's either. She loves her child as much as

ever; and for its own sake is willing to have it learn of

music-teachers, dancing-teachers, and all the allied specialists of

school and college.

In all higher and more special cases, it is clear that the mother is not

required to parallel her attentions to our "period of infancy," but

perhaps it will still be contended that in the simpler and more

universal tasks of earlier years she is indispensable; and that these

years so overlap that she is practically confined to the home during her

whole period of child-bearing.

The answer to this is, first; that the simpler and more universal the

tasks the more there may be found capable of performing it. As a matter

of fact we are so accustomed to take this view that we cheerfully

entrust the most delicate personal services of our babies to hired

persons of the lowest orders; as in our Southern States the proud white

mother gives her baby often to be suckled and always to be tended by a

black woman.

It is idle to talk of the indispensability of the mother's care in the

first years when any mother who can afford it is quite willing to share

or delegate that care to women admittedly inferior. If the human race

has got on as well as it has with the care of its lower class children

solely ignorant mothers, and the care of its higher class children given

mainly by ignorant servants; why should we dread to have the care of all

children given mainly by high-class, skilled, educated, experienced

persons, of equal or superior grade to the parents?

The answer to this usually is the child needs the individual mother's

love and influence. This is quite true. The baby should be nourished

by his own mother--if she is healthy--and nothing can excuse her from

the loving cares of parentage. But just as an ordinary unskilled

working woman loves and cares for her child--and yet does ten hours of

housework, to which no one objects; or just as an ordinary rich woman

loves and cares for her child--and yet does ten or twelve hours of

dancing, dining, riding, golfing, and bridge playing (to which no one

objects!)--so could a skilled working woman spend six or eight hours at

an appropriate trade, and still love and care for her child. A normal

motherhood does not prevent the mother from suitable industry. In other

words: The prolongation of human infancy does not demand an equal

prolongation of maternal services; but does demand specialized social

services. When these services are properly given our children will be

far better cared for than now.

The best answer of all is simply this. Almost all mothers do work, and

work hard, at house service; and are healthier than idle wholly

segregated women; yet there are many kinds of work far more compatible

with motherhood than cooking, scrubbing, sweeping, washing and ironing.

The fifth premise, and its accompanying question also calls for study.

It is true that our Androcentric Culture is co-existent with human

history and modern progress, with these qualifications:

Practically all our savages are decadent, and grossly androcentric.

Their language and customs prove an earlier and higher culture, in which

we may trace the matriarchate. Among the less savage savages--as our

Pueblos--the women are comparatively independent and honored.

Almost all races have a "golden age" myth; faint traditions of a period

when things were better; which seems to coincide with this background of

matriarchal rule. The farther back we go in our civilization the more

traces we find of woman's power and freedom, with goddesses, empresses,

and woman-favoring laws.

Again in our present Age, the most progressive and dominant races are

those whose women have most power and liberty; and in the feeblest and

most backward races we find women most ill-treated and enslaved.

The Teutons and Scandinavian stocks seem never to have had that period

of enslaved womanhood, that polygamous harem culture; their women never

went through that debasement; and their men have succeeded in preserving

the spirit of freedom which is inevitably lost by a race which has

servile women. Thus while it is admitted that roughly speaking the

period of Androcentric Culture corresponds with the period of progress,

these considerations show that the coincidence is not perfect. Even if

it were, there remains this satisfying rejoinder:

The lit space in our long life-story begins but a short time ago

compared with the real existence of human life on earth. On the

conditions preceding history we know little save that they were

matriarchal as to culture and of an industrious, peaceful and friendly

nature. Of the conditions brought about by the androcentric culture we

know much, however.

We have developed some degree of peace and prosperity; marked progress

in intelligence, learning, and specialized skill; immense material and

scientific development and increased wealth.

But we have also developed an array of diseases, follies, vices, and

crimes, which distinguish us from the other animals as markedly as does

our androcentric culture.

Not all of these disadvantages con be clearly traced to its door; but

these three are plainly due to it; prostitution, with all its

devastation of its ensuing diseases; drug habits of all sorts, as

alcohol, tobacco, opium--which are preponderantly masculine; and

warfare; with its loss of life and wealth; its cruelty and waste; its

foolish interference with true social processes.

If the matriarchal period can be shown to have produced worse evils than

these then it was a blessing to lose it. If at all the splendid gains

we have made under man's rule can be traced to his separate influence

then we might say even these world injuries may be borne for the sake of

the benefits not otherwise obtainable. But if it can be shown that real

progress is always paralleled by improvement in the conditions of women;

that the most valuable human qualities are found in women as well as

men; that these three worst evils of our present day are clearly of a

masculine nature and removable by the extension of feminine

influence--then our inquirer's last question is easily answered; the

existence of our androcentric culture during our period of modern

progress distinctly does not prove that it is a necessary condition of

that Progress.

*

A number of most interesting Personal Problems have come in this month,

but the length of the above, postponed from June, prevents due answers

in this issue. This one had to be long, its questions were so general.

The earnest friend who asks as to the right attitude of a mother toward

her children, born and unborn, asks too much. No explicit "answers" can

be given to such life-covering queries. One may reply epigrammatically

(and unsatisfactorily) as this:

The first duty of a mother is to be a mother worth having.

The second duty of a mother is to select a father worth having.

The third duty of a mother is to bring up children worth having--and to

have children worth bringing up!

Motherhood is a personal process, Child-culture is a social process.

A vigorous well-placed wisely working woman should take her

child-bearing naturally, not make too much ado about it. But

child-rearing--that is another matter.

We can advise as to one wanting a gardener, "Get a good one."

If there are none--then it is not time we made some?

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THE FORERUNNER

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a clear, consistent view of human life and how to live it.

_Is it a Woman's magazine?_ It will treat all three phases of our

existence--male, female and human. It will discuss Man, in his true

place in life; Woman, the Unknown Power; the Child, the most important

citizen.

_Is it a Socialist Magazine?_ It is a magazine for humanity, and

humanity is social. It holds that Socialism, the economic theory, is

part of our gradual Socialization, and that the duty of conscious

humanity is to promote Socialization.

_Why is it published?_ It is published to express ideas which need a

special medium; and in the belief that there are enough persons

interested in those ideas to justify the undertaking.

AS TO ADVERTISING:

We have long heard that "A pleased customer is the best advertiser."

The Forerunner offers to its advertisers and readers the benefit of this

authority. In its advertising department, under the above heading, will

be described articles personally known and used. So far as individual

experience and approval carry weight, and clear truthful description

command attention, the advertising pages of The Forerunner will be

useful to both dealer and buyer. If advertisers prefer to use their own

statements The Forerunner will publish them if it believes them to be

true.

AS TO CONTENTS:

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

new name:--

_"Our Androcentric Culture."_ this is a study of the historic effect on

normal human development of a too exclusively masculine civilization.

It shows what man, the male, has done to the world: and what woman, the

more human, may do to change it.

_"What Diantha Did."_ This is a serial novel. It shows the course of

true love running very crookedly--as it so often does--among the

obstructions and difficulties of the housekeeping problem--and solves

that problem. (NOT by co-operation.)

Among the short articles will appear:

"Private Morality and Public Immorality."

"The Beauty Women Have Lost"

"Our Overworked Instincts."

"The Nun in the Kitchen."

"Genius: Domestic and Maternal."

"A Small God and a Large Goddess."

"Animals in Cities."

"How We Waste Three-Fourths Of Our Money."

"Prize Children"

"Kitchen-Mindedness"

"Parlor-Mindedness"

"Nursery-Mindedness"

There will be short stories and other entertaining matter in each issue.

The department of "Personal Problems" does not discuss etiquette,

fashions or the removal of freckles. Foolish questions will not be

answered, unless at peril of the asker.

AS TO VALUE:

If you take this magazine one year you will have:

One complete novel . . . By C. P. Gilman

One new book . . . By C. P. Gilman

Twelve short stories . . . By C. P. Gilman

Twelve-and-more short articles . . . By C. P. Gilman

Twelve-and-more new poems . . . By C. P. Gilman

Twelve Short Sermons . . . By C. P. Gilman

Besides "Comment and Review" . . . By C. P. Gilman

"Personal Problems" . . . By C. P. Gilman

And many other things . . . By C. P. Gilman

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

THE FORERUNNER

CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN'S MAGAZINE

CHARLTON CO., 67 WALL ST., NEW YORK

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

_____ 19___ to _____ 19___

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THE FORERUNNER

A MONTHLY MAGAZINE

BY

CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN

AUTHOR, OWNER & PUBLISHER

1.00 A YEAR

.10 A COPY

Volume 1. No. 10

AUGUST, 1910

Copyright for 1910

C. P. Gilman

Each mother, separately, owes a duty to her child.

Do not mothers, collectively, owe a duty to their children? What is it?

THE EARTH'S ENTAIL

No matter how we cultivate the land,

Taming the forest and the prairie free;

No matter how we irrigate the sand,

Making the desert blossom at command,

We must always leave the borders of the sea;

The immeasureable reaches

Of the windy wave-wet beaches,

The million-mile-long margin of the sea.

No matter how the engineers may toil,

Nature's barriers and bulwarks to defy;

No matter how we excavate and spoil,

De-forest and denude and waste the soil,

We must always leave the mountains looming high;

No human effort changes,

The horizon-rolling ranges

Where the high hills heave and shoulder to the sky.

When a child may wander safely, east or west,

When the peaceful nations gossip and agree.

When our homes are set in gardens all at rest,

And happy lives are long in work loved best,

We can leave our labor and go free;

Free to go and stand alone in,

Free for each to find his own in.

In the everlasting mountains and the sea.

THE COTTAGETTE

"Why not?" said Mr. Mathews "It is far too small for a house, too pretty

for a hut, too--unusual--for a cottage."

"Cottagette, by all means," said Lois, seating herself on a porch chair.

"But it is larger than it looks, Mr. Mathews. How do you like it,

Malda?"

I was delighted with it. More than delighted. Here this tiny shell of

fresh unpainted wood peeped out from under the trees, the only house in

sight except the distant white specks on far off farms, and the little

wandering village in the river-threaded valley. It sat right on the

turf,--no road, no path even, and the dark woods shadowed the back

windows.

"How about meals?" asked Lois.

"Not two minutes walk," he assured her, and showed us a little furtive

path between the trees to the place where meals were furnished.

We discussed and examined and exclaimed, Lois holding her pongee skirts

close about her--she needn't have been so careful, there wasn't a speck

of dust,--and presently decided to take it.

Never did I know the real joy and peace of living, before that blessed

summer at "High Court." It was a mountain place, easy enough to get to,

but strangely big and still and far away when you were there.

The working basis of the establishment was an eccentric woman named

Caswell, a sort of musical enthusiast, who had a summer school of music

and the "higher things." Malicious persons, not able to obtain

accommodations there, called the place "High C."

I liked the music very well, and kept my thoughts to myself, both high

and low, but "The Cottagette" I loved unreservedly. It was so little

and new and clean, smelling only of its fresh-planed boards--they hadn't

even stained it.

There was one big room and two little ones in the tiny thing, though

from the outside you wouldn't have believed it, it looked so small; but

small as it was it harbored a miracle--a real bathroom with water piped

from mountain springs. Our windows opened into the green shadiness, the

soft brownness, the bird-inhabited quiet flower-starred woods. But in

front we looked across whole counties--over a far-off river-into another

state. Off and down and away--it was like sitting on the roof of

something--something very big.

The grass swept up to the door-step, to the walls--only it wasn't just

grass of course, but such a procession of flowers as I had never

imagined could grow in one place.

You had to go quite a way through the meadow, wearing your own narrow

faintly marked streak in the grass, to reach the town-connecting road

below. But in the woods was a little path, clear and wide, by which we

went to meals.

For we ate with the highly thoughtful musicians, and highly musical

thinkers, in their central boarding-house nearby. They didn't call it a

boarding-house, which is neither high nor musical; they called it "The

Calceolaria." There was plenty of that growing about, and I didn't mind

what they called it so long as the food was good--which it was, and the

prices reasonable--which they were.

The people were extremely interesting--some of them at least; and all of

them were better than the average of summer boarders.

But if there hadn't been any interesting ones it didn't matter while

Ford Mathews was there. He was a newspaper man, or rather an

ex-newspaper man, then becoming a writer for magazines, with books

ahead.

He had friends at High Court--he liked music--he liked the place--and he

liked us. Lois liked him too, as was quite natural. I'm sure I did.

He used to come up evenings and sit on the porch and talk.

He came daytimes and went on long walks with us. He established his

workshop in a most attractive little cave not far beyond far beyond

us--the country there is full of rocky ledges and hollows, and sometimes

asked us over to an afternoon tea, made on a gipsy fire.

Lois was a good deal older than I, but not really old at all, and she

didn't look her thirty-five by ten years. I never blamed her for not

mentioning it, and I wouldn't have done so, myself, on any account. But

I felt that together we made a safe and reasonable household. She

played beautifully, and there was a piano in our big room. There were

pianos in several other little cottages about--but too far off for any

jar of sound. When the wind was right we caught little wafts of music

now and then; but mostly it was still--blessedly still, about us. And

yet that Calceolaria was only two minutes off--and with raincoats and

rubbers we never minded going to it.

We saw a good deal of Ford and I got interested in him, I couldn't help

it. He was big. Not extra big in pounds and inches, but a man with big

view and a grip--with purpose and real power. He was going to do

things. I thought he was doing them now, but he didn't--this was all

like cutting steps in the ice-wall, he said. It had to be done, but the

road was long ahead. And he took an interest in my work too, which is

unusual for a literary man.

Mine wasn't much. I did embroidery and made designs.

It is such pretty work! I like to draw from flowers and leaves and

things about me; conventionalize them sometimes, and sometimes paint

them just as they are,--in soft silk stitches.

All about up here were the lovely small things I needed; and not only

these, but the lovely big things that make one feel so strong and able

to do beautiful work.

Here was the friend I lived so happily with, and all this fairy land of

sun and shadow, the free immensity of our view, and the dainty comfort

of the Cottagette. We never had to think of ordinary things till the

soft musical thrill of the Japanese gong stole through the trees, and we

trotted off to the Calceolaria.

I think Lois knew before I did.

We were old friends and trusted each other, and she had had experience

too.

"Malda," she said, "let us face this thing and be rational." It was a

strange thing that Lois should be so rational and yet so musical--but

she was, and that was one reason I liked her so much.

"You are beginning to love Ford Mathews--do you know it?"

I said yes, I thought I was.

"Does he love you?"

That I couldn't say. "It is early yet," I told her. "He is a man, he

is about thirty I believe, he has seen more of life and probably loved

before--it may be nothing more than friendliness with him."

"Do you think it would be a good marriage?" she asked. We had often

talked of love and marriage, and Lois had helped me to form my

views--hers were very clear and strong.

"Why yes--if he loves me," I said. "He has told me quite a bit about

his family, good western farming people, real Americans. He is strong

and well--you can read clean living in his eyes and mouth." Ford's eyes

were as clear as a girl's, the whites of them were clear. Most men's

eyes, when you look at them critically, are not like that. They may

look at you very expressively, but when you look at them, just as

features, they are not very nice.

I liked his looks, but I liked him better.

So I told her that as far as I knew it would be a good marriage--if it

was one.

"How much do you love him?" she asked.

That I couldn't quite tell,--it was a good deal,--but I didn't think it

would kill me to lose him.

"Do you love him enough to do something to win him--to really put

yourself out somewhat for that purpose?"

"Why--yes--I think I do. If it was something I approved of. What do

you mean?"

Then Lois unfolded her plan. She had been married,--unhappily married,

in her youth; that was all over and done with years ago; she had told me

about it long since; and she said she did not regret the pain and loss

because it had given her experience. She had her maiden name again--and

freedom. She was so fond of me she wanted to give me the benefit of her

experience--without the pain.

"Men like music," said Lois; "they like sensible talk; they like beauty

of course, and all that,--"

"Then they ought to like you!" I interrupted, and, as a matter of fact

they did. I knew several who wanted to marry her, but she said "once

was enough." I don't think they were "good marriages" though.

"Don't be foolish, child," said Lois, "this is serious. What they care

for most after all is domesticity. Of course they'll fall in love with

anything; but what they want to marry is a homemaker. Now we are living

here in an idyllic sort of way, quite conducive to falling in love, but

no temptation to marriage. If I were you--if I really loved this man

and wished to marry him, I would make a home of this place."

"Make a home?--why it _is_ a home. I never was so happy anywhere in my

life. What on earth do you mean, Lois?"

"A person might be happy in a balloon, I suppose," she replied, "but it

wouldn't be a home. He comes here and sits talking with us, and it's

quiet and feminine and attractive--and then we hear that big gong at the

Calceolaria, and off we go stopping through the wet woods--and the spell

is broken. Now you can cook." I could cook. I could cook excellently.

My esteemed Mama had rigorously taught me every branch of what is now

called "domestic science;" and I had no objection to the work, except

that it prevented my doing anything else. And one's hands are not so

nice when one cooks and washes dishes,--I need nice hands for my

needlework. But if it was a question of pleasing Ford Mathews--

Lois went on calmly. "Miss Caswell would put on a kitchen for us in a

minute, she said she would, you know, when we took the cottage. Plenty

of people keep house up here,--we, can if we want to."

"But we don't want to," I said, "we never have wanted to. The very

beauty of the place is that it never had any house-keeping about it.

Still, as you say, it would be cosy on a wet night, we could have

delicious little suppers, and have him stay--"

"He told me he had never known a home since he was eighteen," said Lois.

That was how we came to install a kitchen in the Cottagette. The men

put it up in a few days, just a lean-to with a window, a sink and two

doors. I did the cooking. We had nice things, there is no denying

that; good fresh milk and vegetables particularly, fruit is hard to get

in the country, and meat too, still we managed nicely; the less you have

the more you have to manage--it takes time and brains, that's all.

Lois likes to do housework, but it spoils her hands for practicing, so

she can't; and I was perfectly willing to do it--it was all in the

interest of my own heart. Ford certainly enjoyed it. He dropped in

often, and ate things with undeniable relish. So I was pleased, though

it did interfere with my work a good deal. I always work best in the

morning; but of course housework has to be done in the morning too; and

it is astonishing how much work there is in the littlest kitchen. You

go in for a minute, and you see this thing and that thing and the other

thing to be done, and your minute is an hour before you know it.

When I was ready to sit down the freshness of the morning was gone

somehow. Before, when I woke up, there was only the clean wood smell of

the house, and then the blessed out-of-doors: now I always felt the call

of the kitchen as soon as I woke. An oil stove will smell a little,

either in or out of the house; and soap, and--well you know if you cook

in a bedroom how it makes the room feel differently? Our house had been

only bedroom and parlor before.

We baked too--the baker's bread was really pretty poor, and Ford did

enjoy my whole wheat, and brown, and especially hot rolls and gems. it

was a pleasure to feed him, but it did heat up the house, and me. I

never could work much--at my work--baking days. Then, when I did get to

work, the people would come with things,--milk or meat or vegetables, or

children with berries; and what distressed me most was the wheelmarks on

our meadow. They soon made quite a road--they had to of course, but I

hated it--I lost that lovely sense of being on the last edge and looking

over--we were just a bead on a string like other houses. But it was

quite true that I loved this man, and would do more than this to please

him. We couldn't go off so freely on excursions as we used, either;

when meals are to be prepared someone has to be there, and to take in

things when they come. Sometimes Lois stayed in, she always asked to,

but mostly I did. I couldn't let her spoil her summer on my account.

And Ford certainly liked it.

He came so often that Lois said she thought it would look better if we

had an older person with us; and that her mother could come if I wanted

her, and she could help with the work of course. That seemed

reasonable, and she came. I wasn't very fond of Lois's mother, Mrs.

Fowler, but it did seem a little conspicuous, Mr. Mathews eating with us

more than he did at the Calceolaria.

There were others of course, plenty of them dropping in, but I didn't

encourage it much, it made so much more work. They would come in to

supper, and then we would have musical evenings. They offered to help

me wash dishes, some of them, but a new hand in the kitchen is not much

help, I preferred to do it myself; then I knew where the dishes were.

Ford never seemed to want to wipe dishes; though I often wished he

would.

So Mrs. Fowler came. She and Lois had one room, they had to,--and she

really did a lot of the work, she was a very practical old lady.

Then the house began to be noisy. You hear another person in a kitchen

more than you hear yourself, I think,--and the walls were only boards.

She swept more than we did too. I don't think much sweeping is needed

in a clean place like that; and she dusted all the time; which I know is

unnecessary. I still did most of the cooking, but I could get off more

to draw, out-of-doors; and to walk. Ford was in and out continually,

and, it seemed to me, was really coming nearer. What was one summer of

interrupted work, of noise and dirt and smell and constant meditation on

what to eat next, compared to a lifetime of love? Besides--if he

married me--I should have to do it always, and might as well get used to

it.

Lois kept me contented, too, telling me nice things that Ford said about

my cooking. "He does appreciate it so," she said.

One day he came around early and asked me to go up Hugh's Peak with him.

It was a lovely climb and took all day. I demurred a little, it was

Monday, Mrs. Fowler thought it was cheaper to have a woman come and

wash, and we did, but it certainly made more work.

"Never mind," he said, "what's washing day or ironing day or any of that

old foolishness to us? This is walking day--that's what it is." It was

really, cool and sweet and fresh,--it had rained in the night,--and

brilliantly clear.

"Come along!" he said. "We can see as far as Patch Mountain I'm sure.

There'll never be a better day."

"Is anyone else going?" I asked.

"Not a soul. It's just us. Come."

I came gladly, only suggesting--"Wait, let me put up a lunch."

"I'll wait just long enough for you to put on knickers and a short

skirt," said he. "The lunch is all in the basket on my back. I know

how long it takes for you women to 'put up' sandwiches and things."

We were off in ten minutes, light-footed and happy, and the day was all

that could be asked. He brought a perfect lunch, too, and had made it

all himself. I confess it tasted better to me than my own cooking; but

perhaps that was the climb.

When we were nearly down we stopped by a spring on a broad ledge, and

supped, making tea as he liked to do out-of-doors. We saw the round sun

setting at one end of a world view, and the round moon rising at the

other; calmly shining each on each.

And then he asked me to be his wife.--

We were very happy.

"But there's a condition!" said he all at once, sitting up straight and

looking very fierce. "You mustn't cook!"

"What!" said I. "Mustn't cook?"

"No," said he, "you must give it up--for my sake."

I stared at him dumbly.

"Yes, I know all about it," he went on, "Lois told me. I've seen a good

deal of Lois--since you've taken to cooking. And since I would talk

about you, naturally I learned a lot. She told me how you were brought

up, and how strong your domestic instincts were--but bless your artist

soul dear girl, you have some others!" Then he smiled rather queerly

and murmured, "surely in vain the net is spread in the sight of any

bird."

"I've watched you, dear, all summer;" he went on, "it doesn't agree with

you.

"Of course the things taste good--but so do my things! I'm a good cook

myself. My father was a cook, for years--at good wages. I'm used to it

you see.

"One summer when I was hard up I cooked for a living--and saved money

instead of starving."

"O ho!" said I, "that accounts for the tea--and the lunch!"

"And lots of other things," said he. "But you haven't done half as much

of your lovely work since you started this kitchen business, and--you'll

forgive me, dear--it hasn't been as good. Your work is quite too good

to lose; it is a beautiful and distinctive art, and I don't want you to

let it go. What would you think of me if I gave up my hard long years

of writing for the easy competence of a well-paid cook!"

I was still too happy to think very clearly. I just sat and looked at

him. "But you want to marry me?" I said.

"I want to marry you, Malda,--because I love you--because you are young

and strong and beautiful--because you are wild and sweet and--fragrant,

and--elusive, like the wild flowers you love. Because you are so truly

an artist in your special way, seeing beauty and giving it to others. I

love you because of all this, because you are rational and highminded

and capable of friendship,--and in spite of your cooking!"

"But--how do you want to live?"

"As we did here--at first," he said. "There was peace, exquisite

silence. There was beauty--nothing but beauty. There were the clean

wood odors and flowers and fragrances and sweet wild wind. And there

was you--your fair self, always delicately dressed, with white firm

fingers sure of touch in delicate true work. I loved you then. When

you took to cooking it jarred on me. I have been a cook, I tell you,

and I know what it is. I hated it--to see my wood-flower in a kitchen.

But Lois told me about how you were brought up to it and loved it--and I

said to myself, 'I love this woman; I will wait and see if I love her

even as a cook.' And I do, Darling: I withdraw the condition. I will

love you always, even if you insist on being my cook for life!"

"O I don't insist!" I cried. "I don't want to cook--I want to draw!

But I thought--Lois said--How she has misunderstood you!"

"It is not true, always, my dear," said he, "that the way to a man's

heart is through his stomach; at least it's not the only way. Lois

doesn't know everything, she is young yet! And perhaps for my sake you

can give it up. Can you sweet?"

Could I? Could I? Was there ever a man like this?

WHOLESALE HYPNOTISM

We are beginning to see some glimmering of new truth concerning the art

of suggestion.

Here is some one with a strong will who imposes upon you a definite

idea--"This napkin is a peach; a luscious, ripe peach," insists the

hypnotizer; and the hypnotized bites at the napkin with every appearance

of delight.

It is said that those once thoroughly hypnotized, surrendering their own

observation and judgement and submitting absolutely to the ideas

impressed upon their minds by others, become thereafter less able to

think and act for themselves, and more and more open to suggestion.

We begin to see this of the individual mind, but we have not yet seen

its application to the race mind.

Suggestion is a force acting upon us all, as is well known to the

politician and the advertiser, but it acts most strongly upon the weak

and those unaccustomed to using their own minds, as is completely shown

in children.

It is the susceptibility to suggestion which makes children so easily

swayed by the influence of their companions; so ready to follow the

leader who says "let's play" this or that: nearly all join in, and a

group of children used to such leadership will stand about rather

helplessly if deprived of it.

It is that extreme susceptibility which makes the church say "Give us

the first five years of a child's life, and he will never outgrow our

influence!" Children, of all people, are most open to the power of

suggestion.

Now observe the cumulative action of this power, applied to the youth of

humanity, and in each generation further applied to each individual

youth. Certain ideas first grasped in ages of dark savagery, or even

previous to that, and then believed to be of supreme importance, were

forcibly impressed upon the minds of children, all children, generation

after generation. To select one simple instance, observe the use of the

fear-motive in controlling the young.

Among animals there are two main modifiers of conduct, desire and fear.

They act either to gratify a desire or to avoid a danger.

The young animal does not know his dangers, and it is imperative that he

should know them. In those higher species where parental education is

developed, the mother shows her young what things are good for it, and

teaches it the terror necessary. The little bird or beast must squat

and be still, must stay in the cave or lie hid in the grass; lest the

fox, hawk, lion, or whatever enemy is to be dreaded should pounce upon

it. And this pre-human method of culture has come down to its through

long lines of savages with their real and fancied bugaboos to terrorize

the young; through ancient and modern races; through the warrior mothers

and nurses using "Napoleon" or "The Black Douglas" as the impending

danger, to the same primitive, ignorant custom to-day--"The Goberlins

'll git yer, if you don't watch out"!

The "pain economy" and "fear economy" of the beast and savage are long

left behind, but we preserve and artificially enforce the fear

instinct--by suggestion. We hypnotize our children generation after

generation, with disciplinary dread, and rely so wholly upon it to

enforce good behavior that our citizens see no preventive of crime

except fear of punishment.

Similarly we impress on the helplessly receptive minds of our children,

whose earliest years are passed under the influence of uneducated

house-servants, the ancient, foolish prejudices and misconceptions of

our dark past. If the expanding mind of the little child could be

surrounded by the influences of our highest culture, instead of our

lowest; and above all things be taught to _use its own power_--to

observe, deduce, and act accordingly, and be carefully shielded from the

cumulative force of age-old falsehood and folly, we should have a set of

people who would look at life with new eyes. We could see things as

they are, and judge for ourselves what conduct was needed, whereas now

we see things as we have been taught they are; and believe, because we

have been told so, that we cannot alter conditions.

It is not lack of mental capacity which blinds us; not lack of power

which chains us; but we are hypnotized--and have been for a thousand

thousand years--with carefully invented lies.

"You can't alter human nature." Who says so? _Is it true?_ Is there

no difference between the nature of the modern American and the nature

of a Fiji Islander? Do they respond alike under the same conditions?

Are their impulses and governing tendencies the same?

Human nature has altered from its dim beginnings, under the action of

changed conditions, just as dog-nature has altered from fierce wolf and

slinking jackal to the dear loved companion of mankind.

There are some properties common to all natures; some common to each

race and species; some common to special strains and families; but of

all "natures" human nature, the broadest, most complex, most recent, is

_most easily_ alterable.

Let that sink in. Be hypnotized the other way for awhile!

You Can Alter Human Nature!

We are naturally displeased with human nature as we see it about us. It

so inert--so subservient--so incredibly dull.

Put yourself in the place of a bright youngster, two hundred years

hence, looking back at these suffering times. Suppose he is studying

"ancient history," and has been given pictures and books describing the

life of our day. "But _why_ did they live so?" he will ask. "Weren't

they people like us? Couldn't they see--hear--feel? Hadn't they arms

and hands and brains? Here's this--this--what do you call it?

'Overcrowding in cities.' What made them overcrowd?" Then the

professor will have to explain. "It was their belief that governed

them. They believed that economic laws necessitated all that kind of

thing. Everybody believed it."

"But how _could_ they believe it? They had intelligence; look at the

things they invented, the scientific discoveries they made, the big

businesses they managed! What _made_ them believe it?" And unless the

professor understands the peculiar effect of race-hypnotism he will be

pushed for an answer.

What indeed makes us believe that so many human beings have to remain

inferior to so few; that this kind of animal cannot be improved and

elevated like any other kind? What makes us believe that because one

man is inferior to another, therefore the other must take advantage of

him? What makes us believe that while the wide earth responds

submissively to our modifying hand; while we master arts and sciences,

develop industries, probe mysteries, achieve marvels; we are, and must

ourselves remain a set of helpless, changeless undesirables?

"But," the professor will say to the child, "they _felt_ thus and so,

you see." "Felt!" that sturdy son of the future will say, "Didn't they

know that feeling could be changed as easy as anything?"

It will be hard indeed, when human nature is altered a little more, to

make it patient with the besotted conviction of unalterableness that

paralyzes it now.

A baby's opening mind should be placed among the most beautiful and

rational conditions, specially arranged for easy observation and

deduction. It should be surrounded by persons of the best wisdom now

ours; and whatever it may lack of what we do not yet know to be true, it

should be religiously guarded from what we do know to be false.

Every college should have its course in Humaniculture, and the most

earnest minds should be at work to steadily raise the standard of that

new science.

New concepts, broad and beautiful, should be implanted in each young

mind; this mighty power of suggestion being used by the highest, to lift

us up, instead of by the lowest, to keep us down.

What a simple process! What a blessed change! At present the child

mind is entrusted to the most ignorant, and taught the oldest lies.

Soon we shall entrust it only to the most wise and teach it the newest

truths.

[Untitled]

Sit up and think!

The life in you is Life--unlimited!

You rose--you'll sink--

But Life goes on--that isn't dead.

THE KITCHEN FLY

The ills that flesh is heir to are not all entailed.

We used to think that diseases were special afflictions sent by God, to

be borne with meek endurance. Now we have learned that some of them

grow in us like plants in a garden, that some we give to one another as

presents, and some we keep as pets.

Many little go-betweens we have discovered, with legs and wings, who

operate as continual mischief-makers, and among these at last looms

large and deadly, that most widespread and intimate of pests--the Common

Fly.

The House Fly is his most familiar name, but that should be changed. He

is not of his own nature a parlor fly, nor a library fly, nor a bedroom

fly; an attic fly nor a hall and stair fly; but he is _par excellence_

the Kitchen Fly.

Flies are not perennial bloomers. They have to be born--hatched from

eggs, and the resultant larva have to have a Congenial Medium to be born

in. The careful mother fly does not leave her little flock on a

mahogany center table. Flies have to eat; they eat all the things we

do, and many that we don't!

There are two main nurseries for the Common Fly in all our cities, yes,

and in our country homes as well--the Stable and the Kitchen.

Unless stables are kept with the most absolute cleanliness flies are

bred there.

Unless kitchens are kept in the most absolute cleanliness flies are bred

there--or therefrom! Moreover the smell of hot food draws flies from

afar; a kitchen even though spotless and screened is a constant bait for

flies.

I was once visiting in a fine clean summer camp in the Adirondacks,

where friends in combination did the work. In the main room of this

place was a wide long window--one great picture, framing the purple

hills. It was a good deal of work to clean that window, and we took

turns at it. One day this window was laboriously polished inside and

out by an earnest gentleman of high ideals. Then--in the kitchen--some

one cooked a cabbage. Forthwith that front-room window was black with

flies--big, bumping, buzzing, blue-bottle flies. To slay them was a

carnage--and they were carried out by the dustpanful.

In the country, by screening every window and door, by constant watch

upon each article of food to keep it covered, one may keep one's own

flies bumping vainly on the outside of one's own house--except when

people go in and out, and the ever-ready buzzer darts in before the

swing-door shuts.

But in the city, where a million homes maintain their million

fly-baiting kitchens, and each kitchen maintains its garbage pail, the

problem becomes more serious.

Let us face this fact. In the residence part of a city the kitchen is

almost the only source of dirt.

The kitchen-stove furnishes its quota of coal-dust, coal-gas and coal

ashes. But for the kitchen a heating plant could warm many blocks of

houses, and keep that source of dirt at a minimum, thus clearing our

streets of the ash-can and ash-cart nuisances.

The kitchen is wholly responsible for the garbage pail; each area or

alley gate offering for inspection and infection its unsavory

receptacle; and beyond that, the kitchen is in large measure responsible

for the stable. In the quiet streets where people live, the horses

which defile those streets, which break the quiet, wear the pavement,

and wring the hearts of lovers of animals, are almost all kitchen

horses.

At early dawn the milkman's horse--many milkmen's horses. Then the

baker's horse--many bakers' horses. Then the iceman's horse, the

fishman's horse, the market man's horse, the vegetable man's horse, the

grocer's horse, the confectioner's horse; with, of course, the ashman's

horse, the garbage man's horse, and the coal man's horse. All these

horses and their various stables, help to maintain the breeding of

flies; and the kitchen maintains them.

Nobody ever liked flies. The rigorous housewife has long pursued them

with waving towel and flapping paper; dark plates of fly poison are set

on high places where the children can only occasionally get it; and the

dreadful "tanglefoot" hangs here and there, agonizing our ears with the

frantic buzzing of its slow-dying victims.

The housewife objected to the fly because he made work for her,

speckling all things offensively; and the house-husband objected to him

because he walked on his face, or his bald spot, and woke him from

needed slumber.

Also no one likes flies floating dankly in the soup, disguised as

currants, or sacrificing their legs to the butter. But these distastes

are as nothing to the new Terror of the Fly. He is now seen to be a

purveyor of disease--we might say _the_ purveyor of disease.

The cat and the dog, the rat and the mouse and their small parasites are

responsible for some diseases. The deadly Anopheles only brings

malaria, even the Stegonyia has but one fever in his gift, albeit a

yellow one; but Musca Domestica deposits on our food, on our clothing,

on our pillows, on our very faces, according to the N. Y. Medical

Journal, the germs of "tuberculosis, leprosy, cholera, summer diarrhea

of children, plague, carbuncle, yaws, tapeworm, swine-plague and typhoid

fever."

Now that is a nice beast to have in the house! And more especially that

is a nice beast to breed in the house, to maintain, feed, shelter, and

encourage.

When shall we be willing to face the simple fact that the preparation of

food is not a suitable process for the home?

The vegetarian will say that if we eliminate meat all will be well; let

him read again my tale of the Cabbage and the Bluebottle. But meat is

unquestionably the worst of our food supply as far as flies are

concerned. The fly delights in the voluminous cow, even while alive;

thrives in her stable, makes free with her milk, and follows her from

steak to soup with ceaseless interest. If we had no meat, no fish, no

milk, no cheese, no butter, no eggs, we should reduce our bait a little;

but there would still remain plenty of fly provender, and also the

horses to bring it to our myriad doors.

Why not keep the food and leave out the fly?

Let us for once fairly face the possibility of a home without a kitchen.

Look at it--a real house, in no way different from any other house in

front. But it does differ in the back--for it has no back! Its back is

another front, just as pretty, just as dignified, just as _clean._

There is a dining-room in this house, cool, sweet, well-screened from

passing, vagrant winged things, but that is all; no kitchen, no

kitchen-sink, no raw meat coming in and garbage going out, no grease, no

smell of frying.

But how shall we get our food into our dining-rooms?

It will be delivered, cooked, in shining aluminium receptacles hot and

steaming, cold and fresh--all this _has been done._ And it and its

dishes, will go away again, tight-closed, leaving you to brush up the

crumbs and fold the tablecloth. If you want your own elaborate sets of

china enough to wash dishes, that is quite permissible, a butler's

pantry will take care of that.

There is no more reason why a civilized family should cook its own food

in its own kitchen than kill its own pig in its own backyard.

Then rises the pathetic cry about not liking it. Of course some people

won't like it. Some people never like any new way of doing things.

Food habits are proverbially hard to change.

But I can tell you who will like it--that is the woman who is tired of

planning meals, tired of ordering meals, tired of managing servants, or

tired--deadly tired--of her own cooking.

And one generation of children, growIng up in kitchenless homes, eating

food that is prepared by trained experts and not by "greenhorns," used

to science and art in the food supply instead of affection and

ignorance--they will like it.

We like what we are used to, and if we have been used to it for a

thousand years we like it more intensely. But that proves nothing at

all except that we are used to it. It does not prove the thing is good

for us--nor that we can not get used to something better and like that,

in course of time, just as devotedly. One would think, observing the

attitude of most of us toward any proposed change, that so far we had

never changed at all.

But with all history behind us; with that long, long flight of little

steps we took so many centuries to climb, and then, closer, the swiftly

heightening large steps we have been taking in these later years ever

more swiftly; what then accounts for our always clinging so desperately

to the one behind, and resisting so furiously being forced up one more!

It is like the old story of the liberal-minded Grandma and the

combination suit. She visited her daughter in New York, resolved to

keep up with Progress.

They took her to hear Ignatius Donnelly with his Baconian theory;

Ingersoll hammering at Moses, and Jenness-Miller with her Reformed

Clothes for Women.

Then the old lady broke away and returned to her rural home. "They took

away my Shakespeare, and they took away my God," said she; "but when

they took away my chemise I couldn't stand it."

We have seen the home robbed and depleted as years have passed; with

struggle and objection, no doubt, but inevitably shrinking. Out went

the shears and the carders, out went the dye tub and the

spinning-wheels; big wool wheel, little flax wheel, all gone. Out went

the clattering loom; out went the quilting-frame, the candle-mould, the

little mallet to break up the tall blue-papered "sugar loaves."

Some of us have seen all these. In long remote places they are still to

be found. In the neighborhood of Chicago's Hull House was found a woman

to whom the spinning-wheel was a wonderful modern invention! She spun

with a spindle--like Clotho.

Now why do reasoning people, seeing all this behind them, so dread and

resist the next step before them--the eliminating of the kitchen? Shall

we never learn, that as a means of feeding the world it is not a

success? It does not bring health and happiness. Every competent woman

is not a competent cook and never will be; any more than every man is a

competent carpenter. The preparation of food is too important a task to

be left to a private servant--whether hired or married.

There are reasons, many, and good, why the kitchen must go; reasons of

health, of economy, of happiness; but this last reason is a good

accelerator--the Horror of the Fly.

Here he is by millions and millions: Here She is, by trillions. Their

hairy feet, their whiskered probosces, slop and paddle in every foul and

nauseous thing. They sit twiddling their paws on the pauper's sickbed;

and then twiddle those same paws on our warm chocolate-cake.

And every home that keeps a kitchen, with its attendant stables, helps

to maintain and disseminate this scourge of humanity, this universal

purveyor of infectious disease--The Kitchen Fly.

ALAS!

Have those in monstrous hats no glimmering dream

Of the high beauty of the human head,

House of the brain: seat of the sentient soul;

Haloed for sainthood; crowned for royalty;

Bright-ringed with roses, wreathed with noble bays,

Most beautifully bound with shining hair.

Alas for the soft glory they have lost!

Alas for the Ashantee wigs they wear!

Nor plait nor coil nor ringlet, but a mass

Of shorn dead hair from poorer women's heads.

Of bulging wire and hard, stiff, glittering bands.

A heap no loving hand would long to touch.

This body is the glory of the world;

The head the body's crown; but we on this

Plant like a fool's-cap these preposterous forms.

Alas for women's folly; and alas

For man, who likes his women to be fools,

And carefully has bred them to this end.

HER PETS

She saw the pleasant living creatures; bright birds, scattering music in

the air, fish like darting lights in the dark water; beasts with soft

eyes and softer fur. Therefore to her house she brought them, in chains

and cages and glaring jails of glass she kept them, prisoners and exiles

all.

Out of the plenteous, pure water, freshened by free air, darkened by

shadowing leaves and hidden ledges; away from pleasant chase of food

desired; come the gold-red fish she loves; come to foul airless water,

scant and warm, where they gasp faintly to and fro, in dim distress;

come to the stale monotonous food that falls to them inert; come with

their lidless eyes to the round high-placed globe of glass, set in a

window in the sun, reflecting and refracting the fierce light from every

side;--even as the Carthaginians tortured their prisoners she tortures

the gold-red fish she loves.

Out of the billowing green boughs of the forest, the endless oceans of

bright air, the refreshing rain, the winds that lift and rush and fill

with wild rejoicing; out of the whispering darkness of deep leaves, the

wide sweet light of sunlit hill and valley; away from pleasant chase of

food desired; come the yellow song birds which she loves; come over land

and sea in small tight wicker cells; come to prisons of gilded wires

scarce larger; come to the smothering house air, the dull constant

dreary walls, the sick heat, the smell of coal gas and the smoke of oil;

to such stale monotonous food as falls to them inert; to hop and hop and

hop, to sing madly to no end, and dream of flight,--to this come the

birds she loves.

Out of his long wild past; lifted to be assistant in the chase, house

guardian, brother shepherd; comes the friend of man to be the pet of

woman. Down, down, he sinks; no shepherd, no hunter, no guardian now;

far from the pleasant chase of food desired; only a pet, her pet.

Dwarfed, distorted, feeble; a snub-nosed monsterling; ears cropped, tail

cut, hair shaved in ludicrous patches; collared and chained; basketed,

blanketed, braceleted, _dressed,_--O last and utter ignominy!--stuffed

on unnatural food till he waddles grossly, panting and diseased; so

comes the dog she loves.

Of bird and beast and fish, her pets, what sacrifice is asked? They

must first lose freedom, the essential joy of every life; fresh air,

fresh water, the daily need of every life. They must lose the search

and chase of natural food, the major occupation of every animal,

deprived of which they are deprived of function; nerve, muscle,

brain,--all must deteriorate, disused. They must lose the joy of long

adaptation to environment; no few generations in houses can overcome the

longings bred in countless ages for sky and river, forest and plain and

hill.

They must lose--and has the mother of the world no pity?--the free use

of nature's overwhelming instincts, they must be denied the strongest

desire of life. The sorrowful mother of drowned kittens mourns under

the caressing hand that robbed her; the tumbling puppies are gone and

their mother finds no comfort, the little hen bird frets over a

scattered thread or feather, vainly striving to build a useless nest;

the little yellow-feathered lover shrills his heart out for the mate he

never sees.

The piercing clamor of bachelorhood enforced makes our nights hideous

with voices of sufferers free on roof and fence, or chained in yard and

kennel; and even--exquisite outrage! we surgically prepare for their

high position the pets we love.

Men, too, have pets, sometimes; men who are invalids, prisoners,

dwellers in lonely cabins; but not free human beings, working gladly in

a free human world.

WHAT DIANTHA DID