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AFTERNOONS 
 
 BY 
 
 Mrs. Julia F. Snow 
 
 DEDICATED TO 
 
 MY PLEASANT NEIGHBORS OF 
 
 ROSE H I I, I, 
 
 BUFFALO, N. Y. 
 1910 
 
T5-3S31 
 
 Copyright, 1910, by 
 Mrs. JULIA F. SNOW 
 
 ©CI A 2734 56 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Introduction, 4> 
 
 The Average Person, 5 
 
 Subdivisions of Society, 11 
 
 "a Citizen of No Mean City," 20 
 
 The Expressions of Houses, 25 
 
 The Duty of Common Sense, 44 
 
 Things Which Do Not ''Just Happen," 48 
 
 A Few of the Behefs and Practices of the Society of 
 
 Friends, Known as Quakers, 52 
 
 The Owl and the Chicken, 6l 
 
 On the Passing of Tenderness, 64 
 
 The Fairy Tales of Science, 71 
 
 The By-products of Charity, 75 
 
 Concerning the Duties, Obligations, and Privileges ot 
 
 "Others," 80 
 
 From the Dolls Booth (Polly Dolly Adeline and Sister 
 
 May), 83 
 
 Concerning Painless Charity, 85 
 
 Concerning Wedding Gifts, 88 
 
 Christmas — Two Different Lights, 93 
 
 A Post-Christmas Word, 102 
 
 The Joy of Life, 107 
 
 Indian Summer, Il6 
 
 [33 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 THESE little essays and talks are really the 
 crystallization of the opinions, observations, 
 and experiences of many years of a rather 
 busy life — awaiting a convenient season for 
 expression. Some have been printed before, and 
 most of them were written during a delightful 
 summer spent in most pleasant environment at 
 Rose Hill, Canada. 
 
 So much of the book was the result of the 
 veranda life of that summer that I have dedi- 
 cated it to my charming neighbors of Rose Hill. 
 
 [4] 
 
THE AVERAGE PERSON, OR A PLEA 
 FOR MEDIOCRITY 
 
 IF there were not so niany of us, we must be 
 above or below the average. But as it is, we 
 really need a kind word of encouragement. 
 
 Mediocrity does not mean uniformity, nor 
 does it mean inferiority. It is a snug and com- 
 fortable region of achievement, rather than of 
 stern effort or aspiration. 
 
 Emerson foolishly suggests as a help toward 
 aspiration that we "hitch our wagon to a star"; 
 but just think for a moment of the feelings of 
 the star! Supposing you were a star; how would 
 you like to have a clumsy earthly wagon lump- 
 ing and lumbering after you through space, and 
 fancy the condition of its load, strewn through 
 the atmosphere and smashing on the earth 
 below! 
 
 But if you are an average person, and have 
 the luck to possess a wagon, try to keep on terra 
 firma, observe the rules of the road, and get 
 your load to its destination safely and in good 
 condition, without attempting aerial flights of 
 any sort. 
 
 Mediocrity does not mean inferiority, for 
 while there are so many of us not quite as good 
 as the others, some are really much better, and, 
 in spite of the "rules of the Union," do excellent 
 work. The odd part of it is, that the average 
 persons seldom realize the special thing in which 
 they are best, and often aspire to be credited 
 with work in which they are really inferior. It 
 is not only poor earth-born souls, altogether, 
 who make this mistake. Who ever reads the 
 
 [5] 
 
prose works of Milton, who esteemed them above 
 'Paradise Lost"? And Bunyan thought much 
 more of his dull, limping verses than that glori- 
 ous lamp of Christendom, the "Pilgrim's Prog- 
 ress." Some who can cook delightfully aspire to 
 music or painting, of which they make a doleful 
 failure. Some one who can sew beautifully as- 
 pires to be a nurse, or a born nurse insists on 
 writing poor stories. And a snug, comfortable 
 darling of a girl, with whom you delight to 
 spend an evening, has burning aspirations for 
 social distinction, and longs for a "salon" of 
 her own. 
 
 And so it goes. 
 
 One of the proverbial fallacies is, that "what- 
 ever is worth doing, is worth doing well," and 
 "whatever one does at all should be done with 
 all one's might and strength," etc. Not exactly 
 so, for a light hand, a dexterous touch, a gift of 
 discrimination and execution (often of omission) 
 is often better for some things than the whole 
 soul's tasking. A good many things can be left 
 out altogether and the world will not suffer. I 
 saw one of these over-conscientious women hem- 
 ming dish-towels with a French hem, and a 
 friend of mine says that she omits to ask her 
 friends to a cup of tea because she feels that 
 before doing it she ought to clean the attic 
 thoroughly. (N. B. — Slie has since learned 
 better.) 
 
 But the average person generally has a house 
 clean and comfortable, and ready for a friend's 
 visit in a spare hour, and the average meal is 
 good, clean, comfortable, and paid for. The 
 average person is quite capable of most things 
 that need to be done. He pays his bills and sends 
 his children to school, clean, well equipped, and 
 
 [6] 
 
well clothed. He treats his family well and 
 usually goes to church, and, in general, follows 
 the Golden Rule of neighborliness. He has a 
 great dislike for debt, although the "woes of 
 life o'ertake him," sometimes, and debts, as well 
 as other trials, may be his. He does not expect 
 or strive to be president, although he holds 
 small but important offices (in fact, he must to 
 be an Average Person). He votes regularly on 
 election day, and knows why he prefers this or 
 that candidate. He sleeps well at night, although 
 he does not object to taking his turn with a 
 sick child, or even a sick neighbor. He enjoys 
 his meals, sometimes relishes onions, but from 
 pure neighborliness refrains before going into 
 company. He neither expects nor longs to be 
 Paderewski, but he relishes the music of the 
 Saeno-erbunds and deliohts in the Park concerts, 
 and loves the music of the schools which his 
 children attend. He has no wish to be a great 
 artist, but likes to go to the art galleries on a 
 holiday once in a while. If he has pictures, they 
 are good of their sort. There is a choice, even 
 in chromos. But the Average Person generally 
 chooses good photographs for his walls. And it 
 is much better to know a little music and art 
 than none at all, and the taste grows and im- 
 proves with indulgence. 
 
 Some of them are dishonest and steal the 
 money which they count or collect or receive. 
 But the Average Man is honest, "or the State 
 totters." Society cannot exist unless most of the 
 people are honest and pay debts. 
 
 The Average Man is fairly ambitious; would 
 like to be a little richer, and looks forward to 
 better days and more holidays; but, like Gov- 
 ernor B — of the Bigelow papers, "He stays to 
 
 [7] 
 
his hum and looks arter his folks," till he can 
 take some of them with him for holidays. 
 
 He is seldom led astray by the charms of an 
 opera dancer, and the microbe of divorce passes 
 him by. Nor does his wife stray from the path 
 of virtue. She knows John better than even the 
 Recording Angel, faults and all. But woe to any 
 one who suggests that he has any faults! 
 
 She seldom eats onions, but will cook them, 
 uncomplainingly, for him. And has love a 
 stronger test.^ 
 
 What would the Republic be without the 
 Average Man, who votes and is patient (often 
 too much so), and his wife, who is his helpmate ? 
 
 We love the Average Man. We live with him 
 and insist that he is far above the great average, 
 as, indeed, he is certain to be in one, two, or 
 three things. There is some one place in which 
 he is indispensable, and whose wheels refuse to 
 go 'round properly if he is ill or disabled. He is 
 the pillar of the church, maybe, and, although 
 his subscriptions are moderate, they are faith- 
 fully paid. 
 
 No one else keeps a better set of books and 
 he is not afraid of the bank expert. But although 
 he is perfectly competent in his bookkeeping, 
 and is perfectly willing to help his little boy in 
 his arithmetic lesson, he cannot do it, for now- 
 adays it is all "figure work" and **they do not 
 teach us that way in our school." Still he is a 
 help in all untechnical ways, and likes to go 
 a-fishing with the boy, and make him willow 
 whistles. 
 
 The Average Person does all work fairly well, 
 in all that is important. I am speaking of the 
 Average American, although he may be a native 
 of some other country, being an American. 
 
 [8] 
 
He is never an anarchist, and he is an active 
 partisan of good roads, whether he rides a bi- 
 cycle, wagon, carriage, buggy, or motor car. 
 As yet he is only interested in air-carriages as 
 an interesting show. He is a good family man. 
 ("A good provider," it used to be called before 
 women did the marketing.) A good customer, a 
 good salesman (and, when he has a chance to 
 be, all prefer him to the shop-girl behind the 
 counter). A good, helpful, but unobtrusive neigh- 
 bor. We can trust him, we love him, and his 
 wife too. His heart is right and his brain clear. 
 Sometimes he is slangy, and his English phe- 
 nomenal, but the speech is sensible and friendly 
 and the meaning unmistakable. 
 
 We found out many of these things years ago, 
 when secession was at work and the Union 
 trembled. The Average Man who would "not 
 stand any such nonsense." The army was organ- 
 ized and he did it, and fought and suffered in it. 
 The Average Woman helped him in all ways. 
 She took care of the children while he was gone 
 (and often he did not come back) ; organized and 
 worked in hospitals ; and out of it all came organ- 
 ized hospitals and trained nursing. The Repub- 
 lic was saved and the Average Man and Woman 
 did it, and the average was higher ever after. 
 
 The Geniuses are few, but powerful ; the 
 Average Person numerous and, in the long run, 
 reliable, and even if the State totters, it is not 
 to its fall. 
 
 The Genius is master of all the days and 
 hours, the devisor, maybe the waster, of revenues 
 and resources. Everything stands aside for him. 
 He may succeed — and when he does, oh! the 
 beauty and the glory of it all ! And he is immor- 
 tal. That is his reward. 
 
 [9] 
 
But thank God for the Average Person ! It is 
 sad to wander through the world and see the 
 waste of average material in the vain effort to 
 achieve great things. But a little music is better 
 than none ; a little drawing is a great help ; a fair 
 skill with a needle is better than poor pictures ; 
 a loving and faithful hand in one's own family 
 and among needy neighbors than irrational zeal 
 in alien and foreign work. A wise justice in 
 dealing with one's family and friends than pub- 
 lic orations (badly given), and platform issues, 
 not too well managed. 
 
 Let us be glad of the Average Person, who 
 knows not Chopin or Greig, but who willingly 
 plays for the young people's dancing; who 
 doesn't try to paint, but can make shadow pic- 
 tures on the wall, which make the young ones 
 scream with delight; who is smiling, not seduc- 
 tive ; comfortable, not dramatic nor destructive ; 
 merry without levity, religious without cant, and 
 patriotic without fanaticism. 
 
 The Average Person does not expect a monu- 
 ment to him. He does his work well, — better, — 
 best — loving, helping, caring for all, bearing 
 his pain with patience, his life with a smile, and 
 with kindly smiles and the daily joy of living 
 for his reward, and his monument is the respect 
 of his acquaintances, the love of his friends, and 
 the tender tears of love from his beloved, when 
 he leaves us for the better world whose average 
 is one of eternal happiness and progress. 
 
 [10] 
 
SUBDIVISIONS OF SOCIETY 
 
 OF these there are many, and in the order 
 of their importance to the world at large 
 they follow each other something in this 
 order : 
 
 Relatives, Associates, 
 
 Lovers, Duties, 
 
 Friends, Habits, 
 
 Acquaintances, Neighbors. 
 
 relatives 
 
 They are of various degrees and countless in 
 numbers. 
 
 In order to exist at all, a pair of a more or 
 less well-selected parents is absolutely essential. 
 They continue to be of more or less importance 
 through life. They are the direct source of our 
 existence and one's later advantage. One can- 
 not do without a Father and Mother to begin 
 with. Everybody has them, but has no choice in 
 their selection. 
 
 After them, the degree of relationship and 
 number of relatives vary so much that one can- 
 not classify, with any accuracy, degrees of im- 
 portance, morally, socially, financially, or other- 
 wise. There is the greatest choice in them, but 
 you have no privilege of selection. There are 
 relatives by blood and by law. Some of them 
 are very nice, almost as nice as one's self. And 
 others — well 
 
 They are a wise provision of Providence to 
 prevent the growth of conceit within the family 
 circle, and, although sometimes they are very 
 proud of one, they seldom mention it to the 
 
 [11] 
 
person most interested. Some do not think it is 
 good taste to do so. You had better not attempt 
 any frivolous pleasantry with a relative. The 
 sense of humor in the direction of law or con- 
 sanguinity is limited, and the perspective seems 
 wrong for that sort of thing. That is the real 
 trouble with relatives, a wrong perspective. 
 
 A serious view is much more successful. I 
 have nothing to say against relatives. I have 
 been a relative myself of several sorts all my 
 life. 
 
 As for Lovers, they are really the most inter- 
 esting of all the subdivisions, even with regard 
 to outsiders. To themselves and each other they 
 are all absorbed and absorbing. In their inter- 
 course with others, they are indifferent and per- 
 functory and appeal to others from a sentimental 
 or spectacular point of view. You cannot talk 
 with them, and they are oblivious to the simplest 
 form of family or social life. They only discover 
 how much so they are when, after years of mar- 
 ried life, their own young people treat them in 
 the same way, and they recall past years with a 
 certain humiliation. 
 
 Everybody is a good deal tired, bored, and 
 bothered with them, but, remembering that the 
 condition is but temporary, universal, and al- 
 most inevitable, bear it all with loving patience 
 until the transformation is complete and the 
 pretty pair of butterflies float off into the sum- 
 mer atmosphere. (This is a figure of speech; it 
 is often very different.) Lovers think that it is 
 nobody's business but their own, and are quite 
 indifferent to all outside opinions, of all outside 
 spectators. This view constitutes the chronic 
 mistake of lovers, for a good, happy, successful 
 marriage is a matter of rejoicing in a whole 
 
 [12] 
 
community, and an ill-mated, mistaken mar- 
 riage is a public calamity, whose possible con- 
 sequences shadow the future for years and for 
 ages to come. However, no one can exactly fore- 
 tell, and it may be better than seems possible 
 at first, for nature is strong and has a good deal 
 to say about results. 
 
 Respecting Friends, there is much to say. 
 The world has a loose way of talking about 
 friends when they mean only familiar acquaint- 
 ances, greatly misleading one to confuse all sorts 
 of associates with the holy relation of Friend. 
 
 For there is a holy Friendship. Moses was 
 the Friend of God, and Christ enjoyed the closest 
 and most intimate and affectionate friendships. 
 "A friend is made for adversity." "There is a 
 Friend that sticketh closer than a brother." 
 
 But with earthly friendships there is a great 
 difference in friends. He is more than kin and 
 more than kind, and he may change. Adversity 
 is not a crucial test. The world is not as meanly 
 affected by adversity as is supposed. Strangers 
 are often kinder in adversity than friends. It is 
 a simple Christian duty to show kindness to the 
 afflicted, who may be strangers themselves with 
 no claim to friendship, and the withdrawal of 
 association with those in adversity may be a 
 mere matter of leisure, or the want of it. Friend- 
 ship implies equality, sympathy, and a certain 
 amount of similarity of tastes, habits, and ac- 
 quisitions. One wishes to share pleasures and 
 benefits with friends, and does not wait until 
 the crape is on the door to show its love and 
 sympathy. One feels like this in real friend- 
 ship. 
 
 "How^ John would enjoy this trip! Can't we 
 get him to join us .^" 
 
 [13] 
 
*'Tom likes this kind of music. We must get 
 him to go with us next time Josefy plays." 
 
 "The H.'s are just the kind of people that 
 Ned likes. Let us invite him with them to 
 dinner." 
 
 And so a life-long good will, delightful even- 
 ings, and all sorts of pleasant opportunities mul- 
 tiply themselves from this kind of friendship. 
 
 Friends need not confide in each other, al- 
 though they can if they will. They need not 
 always explain themselves, for they trust each 
 other too much to need to do so. (It would often 
 be better if they did, however.) 
 
 They need not even talk. Friendly silence is 
 the best thing of all. They are happy together, 
 but friendship can bear the test of absence. 
 
 If sorrow comes, they will not be far apart, 
 but it need not be their introduction as they 
 come together with outstretched hands, moist 
 eyes, and silent speech. 
 
 This is the real kind. And I have noticed that 
 it thrives in outdoor life, with walks, drives, 
 rides, or even a quiet hour on the veranda or 
 "under the greenwood tree" — a good, whole- 
 some sort, too. 
 
 There is a curious phase of friendship not 
 altogether spurious, but odd. Some do not be- 
 lieve in its existence, but it does exist. The)^ are 
 such good friends that they are sure you will 
 not mind any sort of treatment, any sort of 
 commission or omission. They slight the ones 
 that they really love best, in favor of all sorts 
 of more or less desirable acquaintances who do 
 not care a rap whether they are included or 
 excluded, while the shut-out friend really does 
 care and suffers, although he pretends not to. 
 
 The real secret of friendship is the feeling of 
 
 [14] 
 
companionship, of being needed by each other. 
 It is not necessary to have illusions of perfec- 
 tion in friends. But it needs lots of patience, 
 love, and loyalty to endure and often ignore the 
 hard, literal fact of faults and defects in each 
 other, whether of temper, temperament, or even 
 of temperature, for ventilation is a point which 
 has parted the best of friends, and is of far more 
 importance to the permanence and enjoyment 
 of friendship than a difference in beliefs in 
 religion, politics, or even of social caste. 
 
 Nothing can ever make up for a lost friend. 
 You must lose parents and relatives. You may 
 lose husband or wife, and, in part, the loss be 
 restored or made up to you, and sometimes more 
 and better than before. But each friend is 
 unique, and the loss leaves a permanent void 
 and scar. 
 
 That is one reason why Acquaintances are so 
 very important. There can be so many. There 
 are so many of them; hundreds, perhaps even 
 more. They present every variety of human 
 character; good, bad, dull, spicy, restful, quiet, 
 stimulating — all sorts. 
 
 Provided that one has the usual stock of good 
 manners and good temper, one can enjoy almost 
 any or all of them by turns ; and if for any rea- 
 son you do not enjoy certain of them, beyond 
 the decencies of life, you need not trouble them 
 much, or they you, for always there are others. 
 
 There are wonderful possibilities in every ac- 
 quaintance, the more utterly charming because 
 not fully tested, for at any time they may become 
 anything, everything, or nothing — to you. 
 
 There is, so to speak, a limited demand for 
 lovers (one at a time is usually sufficient) and 
 friends, a small circle, because of the exquisite 
 
 [15] 
 
delicacy of the position and the relation. But 
 your acquaintance really demands little, and 
 permits everything in the sunshine of congenial 
 opportunity. In that, they may become "friends, 
 countrymen, and lovers," at any time and become 
 as necessary to life as relatives, tender as lovers, 
 and loyal as friends, and they can be transformed 
 into any and all of these. But they do not insist 
 upon it, although the conditions may be life- 
 long, and what is more sweet and tender than 
 "mine auld acquaintance," which is always so 
 pleasantly "brought to mind.'^" 
 
 This variety is often found most pleasantly 
 established among one's Associates. 
 
 This species is found everywhere, although 
 seldom of our own selection, and under all cir- 
 cumstances, and even in our household help, 
 our church, our club, our charity boards, com- 
 mittees, societies, and assistants of all sorts. 
 Those whom we meet daily on trains, cars, in 
 hospitals, offices, banks — everywhere. 
 
 No one ever knows their fellow-beings as well 
 as your Associates, in these ways, know each 
 other. There are no delicate concealments, no 
 private weaknesses, no sheltered deficiencies. 
 All is open to the fierce white light that beats 
 into the office or committee room. But you 
 rather like it. It is no worse for you than for 
 the others. You all take your turn, and if faults 
 show, so do the better qualities, and you know 
 just how, when, and where to take each other, 
 and you work together to the best advantage. 
 This is true of charitable and club work, the 
 arrangements of entertainments, as well as keep- 
 ing house, entertaining guests, or running a 
 great business house of any kind. 
 
 Then, there are also Dependents — both vol- 
 
 [16] 
 
untary and involuntary. "Some to which one is 
 born, some achieved, and some thrust upon 
 one," all requiring your utmost tact and delicacy 
 in their treatment. And they may belong to any 
 or all of the classes mentioned before, or they 
 may be simply derelicts, bereft of sailing or 
 steering gear, heavily loaded, too light to sink, 
 too heavy to float, deserted, water-logged. Can 
 you tow them in .^ Can you lighten them ? Or 
 must you avoid and desert them for self and 
 family preservation ? Of these, each one is a 
 lesson in wisdom, tact, kindness, or justice and 
 sternness, too, if need be. 
 
 The most inscrutable of all are our Habits. 
 You cannot always remember when you acquired 
 them or how. They may be any of the others, 
 but all faded out and only the habit remaining. 
 You see them about so often, and neither you 
 nor they care much about it. You cannot do 
 much for each other, nor are you fond of each 
 other. Sometimes the intercourse is irksome, 
 sometimes disagreeable, and you vow you will 
 never go there again. 
 
 But you do! That is what makes it a habit. 
 And when the Inevitable happens, and the 
 Releaser from Trials and the Destroyer of 
 Delight takes them away, and the Habit is 
 broken, you cannot understand the feeling of 
 loss and loneliness which comes to you. There 
 was, perhaps, no real reason why the Habit 
 was formed in the beginning, but for that very 
 reason it is hard to have it broken. 
 
 The Duty is sometimes like the Habit, but 
 there is a real reason for it, and a definite reason 
 is a great help. Besides, Duty may be com- 
 pleted and ended, may be only temporary, and 
 that gives a brisk vitality to the matter while it 
 
 [17] 
 
lasts, and a clear, vigorous satisfaction when 
 ended. 
 
 But best and sweetest of all our elective asso- 
 ciations is the heaven-sanctioned one, "Our 
 Neighbor." Half of the Tables of our Lord are 
 given to regulating our treatment of Him. 
 Christ's own Commandment enjoins our love of 
 Him, and the holiest of rewards come to those 
 who love Him as they love themselves, their own 
 exquisite Ego — our involuntary Ideal. 
 
 They may live next door to you, or not, and 
 often they do so. But such close proximity is 
 not really needed and cannot be, because there 
 are so many of them. Proximity certainly does 
 not do it, for such are often farther oil than 
 neighbors across the seas. 
 
 But the real neighbor who is never in the way 
 and never out of the way, with whom you share 
 your privileges and your helps, does not take 
 coarse liberties with your house, room, or gar- 
 den, or walk into the house uninvited and 
 through private entrances, and reveal private 
 matters thus accidentally made known, or ap- 
 propriate books and goods unasked. This last is 
 not the kind of neighbor whom I mean. But the 
 one who knows when you are alone and lonely, and 
 drops in, or alone and tired, and stays away, is 
 your real neighbor. You withhold nothing from 
 each other, and you do not forget your benefits, 
 but return them in season, and you are ready 
 with open hand, even at some personal incon- 
 venience. They do not intrude into your secrets. 
 You have a great sorrow — a trial — even dis- 
 grace. They know it, or suspect it, but they do 
 not touch your wound. They will pour in oil 
 and wine, but will not probe it. Perhaps all your 
 neighbors know it, but they keep a golden 
 
 [18] 
 
silence toward you and each other. The tragedies 
 of a quiet neighborhood are known and pitied, 
 but not talked over. To a real Neighbor you can 
 talk or be silent. You can try a little pleasantry 
 or even talk nonsense. A wise silence seals the 
 lips to the trials of others. From such neighbors 
 nothing is withheld but blame and harsh criti- 
 cism. One may go to heaven because one loves 
 one's neighbors. But one really deserves little 
 credit when one loves such neighbors. It is so 
 easy, so pleasant, so joyous to live near them, 
 that it is already almost heaven, as if the Pearly 
 Gates stood wide open and the Golden Streets 
 were daily trodden by our beloved Neighbors. 
 
 [19] 
 
"A CITIZEN OF NO MEAN CITY" 
 
 SO said and claimed St. Paul. But Tarsus is 
 forgotten, except for its glorious citizen, 
 whose fame has filled the whole world. It 
 is the citizen who ennobles the city, and not the 
 city — the dwellers within its bounds. 
 
 What is citizenship ? And what are its rights 
 and duties.? 
 
 At the time of the New Year municipalities 
 change officers. New lords and new laws take 
 their places and oaths are sworn to support 
 the charters, constitutions, and by-laws, etc. 
 The average good citizen makes more or less 
 numerous good resolutions, to be more or less 
 well kept. 
 
 Citizenship grows constantly more and more 
 complicated. Good citizenship has many more 
 obligations than to vote regularly and to keep 
 out of jail. In fact, voting is not so much a duty 
 as a restricted privilege, neither possessed nor 
 deserved by all residents, and is quite aside from 
 the more essential functions of good citizenship. 
 
 The privileges of good citizenship include 
 orderly conduct, neighborly behavior, the pro- 
 tection of the police and fire department, public 
 lights, care and improvement of streets, roads, 
 and highways, drainage, rights of way, and 
 rules of the road. All of these, and more, are the 
 blessed rights of citizens, and constantly help to 
 make life better worth having and living. And 
 each resident man, woman, child (and even 
 animals), have duties as well as privileges, 
 which, when performed, make the city the dear 
 and well-beloved possession of its citizens. 
 
 [20] 
 
The French Revolution abolished every title, 
 every distinction, and most possessions, but it 
 dared not take away the title of "Citizen." That 
 survived even the Terror. 
 
 Every accomplishment, every gift and grace, 
 every well-performed duty, every kindly and 
 pleasant act, and the beauty, taste, good breed- 
 ing, and hospitality of "all who dwell below the 
 skies" is a most valuable asset, and adds im- 
 measurably to the value and importance of 
 every town and village. When it is said of that 
 town, "Blankville is such a delightful town; 
 such charming people! such hospitable and 
 kindly families reside there! They make their 
 homes so pleasant to strangers and even to their 
 neighbors!'^ 
 
 When these things are said, who can reckon 
 how much this kindly verdict adds to the civil, 
 even the commercial, value of Blankville! 
 
 Concord (Mass.) is a rather pretty, not very 
 important. New England village, and there are 
 many such. But Concord shines forever in the 
 glory of Emerson, Hawthorne, Lowell, the Al- 
 cotts, and the other illuminatii of that period. 
 
 It is not fair to compare the greatness and 
 glory of Roman citizenship with ours of this 
 period. Rome was built for its citizens, not by 
 them, and its glory pertains to its Rulers, the 
 conquerors of the whole known world, who built 
 their cities and (not inviting immigration) gra- 
 ciously conferred their privileges upon the sub- 
 jects — soldiers and slaves — who, being com- 
 pelled to reside within their limits, received the 
 boon of Roman citizenship. 
 
 But we are not Rome. We have created our 
 own cities, built them of such material as lay at 
 hand, and made them fit habitations for men 
 
 [21] 
 
and their families, and, in spite of defects and 
 undevelopment, improved them from time to 
 time and made the name of "American citizen'* 
 respected the world over. But the citizens came 
 first, and the city later, to receive its image and 
 superscription, its value and estimation from 
 the qualities of the men and women who built it. 
 
 For every man, woman, and child (even every 
 animal permitted within its boundaries) belongs 
 to the commonwealth of that borough. Every 
 well-built house, every well-kept lawn or garden, 
 every conveniently planned home, every grand 
 old tree, every strong and thrifty young tree adds 
 its value. Even the green triangle at the cross 
 streets, with its clump of shi-ubbery and maybe 
 its fountain or wayside seat, multiplies the treas- 
 ures of memory in recalling the charms and 
 attraction of the place. How much more 
 the character or attainment of its favored resi- 
 dents ! 
 
 Residents ? That is the word. It is well to go 
 to and fro in the earth that health may be bene- 
 fited and knowledge be increased, and to share 
 in the "give and take" of the world's goods. 
 But long absences not only detract from the 
 value of the citizenship, but detach the citizen 
 from the city, and interest and affection both 
 suffer. 
 
 When a handsome new house is built, finished 
 and furnished, and the eyes of friendly regard 
 are fixed upon it, and the desire of all hearts is 
 moved toward it, then the owners pick up and 
 pack up and start off for long journeys and 
 absences over the earth perhaps for a year, 
 maybe more. This is great fun, maybe, but 
 poor citizenship. Such a house, when deserted, 
 is most desolate, and positively impairs the uses 
 
 [22] 
 
and dignity of the town. Compare this period 
 of absence with the owner's return! The rooms 
 are lighted, the supply carts make their daily 
 visits, horses, carriages, and motors go about 
 the streets, and the young folks stroll about the 
 lawns and gardens. The income of the owner 
 and resident is spent in the town for improve- 
 ments, labor, and supplies, and in worship, 
 charities, education, hospitality, and comfort. 
 The good results from even one well-conditioned 
 family spending its income within the limits of 
 the town itself may make a vast difference in the 
 well-being of its other residents. 
 
 All the world knows the effect of absenteeism 
 upon Ireland, whose soil-won money is drained 
 off into the hands of strangers and their lands 
 and homes are left unto them desolate. Ireland's 
 misery is largely owing to century-long course 
 of "absent treatment." 
 
 The simple presence of good, wise, cultivated, 
 and interested citizens, who live and work for 
 the benefit of their own town, is of incalculable 
 benefit to all of its other citizens. 
 
 It is this principle which is recognized in the 
 value of the "College Settlement" work. Now, 
 why not try real settlement work among one's 
 reputable and even respectable neighbors ? 
 
 When all the children go to one school, that 
 school is apt to be good. And so with the 
 churches, libraries, lyceums, and all other means 
 of education. The elegant manners and deport- 
 ment of a real lady will affect the culture of a 
 generation of younger folks. But it cannot be 
 wholly so if the stately mansion is always closed 
 and abandoned "in the sweet o' the year" for 
 seashore, sea voyage, the mountains, and the 
 palm grove. A pleasant fireside or a veranda, 
 
 [23] 
 
**now and then, is relished by the best of men," 
 perhaps the worst. 
 
 Hospitality is most beautiful and most impor- 
 tant and most enjoyable. But the feeling that 
 you have the privilege of a frequent hour with 
 a real neighbor is worth many receptions, 
 delightful as they may be. 
 
 [24] 
 
THE EXPRESSIONS OF HOUSES 
 
 AS I passed through the streets of a great 
 A\ city it seemed to me, being a stranger, 
 as if there was a message to me in the 
 outsides of all the houses by which I passed. 
 The houses were most of them old, antedat- 
 ing by many years their present occupants. 
 There was often a cruel uniformity in their 
 street fronts, but that in itself was a message. 
 Could it be that the senseless bricks and 
 mortar and stones were informed with intelli- 
 gence, and yearned to communicate with my 
 spirit ? Although no hospitable door was opened 
 to me, the message grew plainer and plainer at 
 every step. 
 
 I am speaking now of houses. Homes will 
 come hereafter. Nor do we discuss the evolution 
 of architecture, from the cave-dwellers to huts, 
 
 — to tents, — to pyramids ; from Egyptian and 
 even older art to Greek, — to Roman, — to 
 Gothic; from the Renaissance to the Mixed 
 Modern, or every-man-his-own-builder (for of 
 architecture there is none) , — each had its lesson 
 
 — its message. 
 
 The long, uniform, continuous rows and 
 blocks of houses, so common in large and old 
 cities, are a grievous necessity of their crowded 
 condition. Economy, of space, of walls, and ma- 
 terials, of light, paving, and drainage forces the 
 rule upon land owners and builders. These 
 buildings are dwellings, not houses. They may 
 be homes, for the blessed principles of family 
 life are not confined to any style of domicile. 
 But long rows of houses, like those in Philadel- 
 
 [25] 
 
phia (so like each other that even their tenants 
 sometimes mistake their neighbors' houses for 
 their own), convey to the mind an impression 
 of a sort of communism, while it is at the same 
 time a complete separation. It is a weariness to 
 the spirit and a fatigue to the flesh, "grinding 
 men's souls to a pale unanimity." This is the 
 message and expression of long, uniform blocks 
 of dwellings. Sometimes, of course, they do ac- 
 quire an individual quality. 
 
 I remember once, in Philadelphia, having 
 occasion to pass through a certain street for 
 several days in succession and at the same hour. 
 The parlor blinds were open and the sunshine 
 streamed in. On the window ledge slept a large 
 gray cat. Lying there asleep, she conveyed to me 
 a distinct message that she was a privileged 
 intruder, and that the people were gentle and 
 kindly folks; that they were generous and hos- 
 pitable, for the blinds stood open wide, and the 
 cat was plump and well fed. They must have 
 been careful to dust and keep clean that window 
 seat, for a cat dislikes a dusty place (always 
 excepting the coal-bin). They were sensible, for 
 she had no ribbon on her neck. They trusted 
 their neighbors, for she wore no collar and 
 badge of ownership. I saw absolutely nothing 
 of the interior, only a gray cat asleep in the 
 window, but she plainly told me all this at a 
 glance. After all, the city block is only a crude 
 collection of dwellings. 
 
 Houses are different. A house has four or 
 more walls to itself, roof, cellar, and separate 
 individual entrance. It has its stairs to itself, 
 that great problem in house architecture. Dante 
 says, "There is no labor half so hard as going 
 up and down another's stairs." You do not need 
 
 [26] 
 
to see the people to understand the house. It 
 speaks for itself. 
 
 "Every man's house is his castle," says John 
 Bull. This was good and true in the days when 
 a castle was the only safe dwelling for a man, 
 and more especially for his family, and when 
 defense was so important that nothing could be 
 left unguarded. But private dwellings built in 
 the style of castles in these days are anachron- 
 isms. The huge, heavy arches and narrow arrow- 
 slit windows have only Apollo's arrows to keep 
 out, and they ought to be welcomed, not ex- 
 cluded, in our day and climate. Rounded towers 
 of solid masonry and fortress-like corners and 
 entrances are as much out of place in our 
 smiling and neighborly avenues as the brave 
 old Ritter himself would be, booted and spurred, 
 in our aesthetic drawing-rooms. The expression 
 of the outside of such a house would be a chal- 
 lenge: "Come in if you dare! Your reception 
 will be a hot one!" 
 
 The expression of that modern house, with its 
 countless modifications, which, for want of a 
 better name, we call Queen Anne, is very differ- 
 ent. It says: "Come in by all means. Your 
 welcome will be a warm and kindly one." It 
 represents what in England is called the villa 
 style, and permits the largest liberty of design 
 and adaptation to one's purse (be the same 
 more or less full) as well as to family or con- 
 dition. 
 
 But English conditions of villa life are very 
 different from ours. Theirs almost suppose a 
 country, or, at least, a suburban location, and a 
 certain seclusion very dear to an Englishman, 
 but nearly impossible to Americans, and seldom 
 desired, as may be seen hereafter. The family 
 
 [27] 
 
are not of necessity known at all to their neigh- 
 bors. They have many or few friends, but they 
 are of their own selection. There is a high fence 
 or a hedge or wall which protects the family 
 seclusion, and one might live a lifetime so near 
 as to touch, and so far as to scarcely know each 
 other's names. It is their way, and they like it. 
 As the Englishman said of his queen, "She is 
 our whim. We pay for her, and it is nobody's 
 business." Nor is it. But just now we are speak- 
 ing of ourselves and about our ways, and we 
 feel exactly as he felt. 
 
 There is a beautiful and beloved city in my 
 mind's eye to-day, where all who pass through 
 its miles of homes can enjoy the fair, green 
 lawns stretching from doorway to pavement, 
 with no intervening hedge or fence. If there is 
 any, it is of lace-like wire, an invisible barrier 
 to dogs. The little twirling sprinkler scatters its 
 tiny rainbow over the grass, which is emerald 
 velvet, unless it is buried in snow in winter. 
 Almost every house has its veranda. Sometimes 
 it nearly surrounds the house. Behind its shad- 
 ing vines, or gaily striped awning are pleasant 
 faces, both young and old, in the summer days 
 and evenings. There are chairs of all shapes, 
 sometimes tables for books or work, sometimes 
 hammocks, and sometimes steamer chairs, and 
 the language of these houses is something like 
 this: 
 
 "Come into this pleasant outdoor parlor! It 
 is not because it is scant and uncomfortable in- 
 doors that we sit here, but here is sunshine and 
 shade, and both coolness and warmth, and 
 simple kindness toward neighbor and friend." 
 
 In that city, this life is so much a matter of 
 course that no more comment is excited than 
 
 [28] 
 
would be by ladies and gentlemen walking along 
 the streets — nay, not so much. The expression 
 of the whole street is that of candor and security, 
 of sincerity and good will. No plot nor intrigue 
 could exist in such open-air life — such frank 
 domesticity. Distant far be the day when tramp 
 or bully shall put to flight this sweet outdoor 
 life, and send those fair faces, white with fear, 
 to hide behind curtains, and to look out only 
 upon fenced gardens. 
 
 Upon these green lawns one seldom finds 
 flowers, but many flowering vines on the ve- 
 randas. Flowers need seclusion and protection, 
 while one shares but does not tempt in planting 
 a flowering vine. 
 
 In America, as yet, there are few great coun- 
 try houses. Our cities and our dwellings have 
 been our ancestral homes for only a few years. 
 We do a great deal better. For one great titled 
 (or otherwise distinguished) family, with an 
 army of servants, and all the pride, pomp, and 
 circumstance of hereditary country residence 
 for hundreds of years, with not far away a 
 shabby, tumble-down, fever-stricken village, we 
 have in and about our fair city thousands of 
 homes, each detached from its neighbor, and 
 yet with the friendliest feeling toward its neigh- 
 bor; each with a bit of individual grass or 
 garden, and a roof and cellar, four walls and a 
 veranda, all to itself. The city stretches miles 
 away to the country, into which it melts imper- 
 ceptibly, to give space for these homes and their 
 environments. Many men have toiled hard, 
 many women denied themselves much, to possess 
 them. A flat may be a need and a convenience 
 of a great city, but it can never be more than a 
 substitute for an independent house. 
 
 [29] 
 
The best expression of a house is: "We who 
 dwell here are happy, clean, and good. We are 
 happy and glad to be here." And sometimes 
 this is added: "As we are happy here, as we 
 are comfortable, clean, and good, we make you 
 welcome to share these good things with us. 
 Come in, and share with us. In fact, it is largely 
 for you that we built it thus." 
 
 There are some modest little houses that say : 
 "We have but little, but you are welcome. Even 
 at some small inconvenience to ourselves, be 
 welcome." But the worst that can be said is 
 (alas! that it should ever be said): "We are 
 here and we mean to stay. We like it well 
 enough for ourselves, but if you have any busi- 
 ness with us, get it over and go, for there is 
 little room and no welcome for any but our- 
 selves." 
 
 There are houses in our streets that, simply 
 as houses, bear each of these messages in their 
 outside brick and mortar, stone and wood, 
 doors, windows, and garden walks. You feel it 
 in every fiber before you have turned into the 
 walk or put your hand on the door-bell. It does 
 not depend upon elegance and cost or the lack 
 of it. 
 
 There was a charming expression of hospital- 
 ity and welcome, we are told, in the houses of the 
 Southern planters — a free and easy cordiality 
 and lavish generosity. That is of the past, and 
 it is suflBcient to say that the circumstances of 
 those days made it easier to exercise a lavish 
 hospitality than those of our own day. But we 
 are speaking of houses — a Colonial house, new, 
 but true. Now here is a real house. The kindly 
 doors almost open of themselves, and in summer 
 often do stand wide open. You cannot resist its 
 
 [30] 
 
message of welcome. There is a wide square 
 hall, a wide open grate or fireplace, and a great 
 square staircase. If you go no farther, there is 
 a gentle friendliness in that open fire, before 
 which you pause for a moment. Those wide 
 square turns of the staircase sweep upward 
 with a wave of welcome. There are no hidden 
 horrors of untidy bedrooms in the sweet seclu- 
 sion of those fair chambers. There is warmth 
 everywhere, light everywhere, fresh air every- 
 where. The windows are large and clear. Per- 
 haps the draperies are cheap, but they are cer- 
 tainly clean. The chairs are of varied sizes and 
 shapes, for all ages are welcome here. There is 
 a friendly daemon doing our bidding in the 
 cellar, which creates a climate of gentle summer 
 throughout the house. There is no longer the 
 excuse for bad housekeeping that it was "too 
 cold to stay upstairs long enough to be very 
 particular." It is as easy to keep house in winter 
 as in summer. The warm bath is always ready, 
 and a house so well planned in all its details is 
 not hard to care for. There is not always an 
 attic, but the modern idea is that what one 
 family does not need or wish to use, another 
 family does, and that moths are no assistance 
 to our ideas of veneration. In the ground floor 
 there may be, and should be, sliding doors be- 
 tween the rooms, but the portieres secure space 
 and ventilation. They may be beautiful and 
 graceful, and they express candor and innocence, 
 for who could be wicked or intriguing in rooms 
 open as the day to the eyes and ears of all 
 comers .^ It is a wonder that those who dwell in 
 these lovely homes should ever be willing to 
 leave them. They do leave them, but are very 
 glad to get home again. 
 
 [31] 
 
Fifty years ago it was very different. Homes 
 are a very old-fashioned subject, and one may 
 get a little prosy talking of them. A home at 
 that time, within the meaning and the reach of 
 average people of modest means, was a house 
 of five or six rooms, of which the two front 
 rooms in the front of the house — the parlor 
 and front chamber, better furnished and ap- 
 pointed than any others in the house — were 
 solemnly set apart and closed to all but infre- 
 quent, half-welcome, and wholly formal visitors. 
 It cost a good deal to furnish these rooms. They 
 were very neat, and were kept most scrupulously 
 clean. At rare intervals a visitor was admitted 
 to these dim glories. All parlors of that period 
 had much in common, except, of course, the 
 item of cost, which varied. They all had good 
 carpets of bright and hopelessly permanent 
 colors, a great square haircloth sofa, six mahog- 
 any and haircloth chairs exactly alike, one or 
 two rocking chairs to match, a center table, 
 sometimes marble topped, containing a lamp 
 hung with cut-glass prisms and standing upon 
 a worsted-worked mat, the proud achievement 
 of the young lady of the family. There were 
 also two or three very brightly bound annuals, 
 and often a big and handsome family Bible. 
 On the mantelpiece (very high, and often 
 beautiful) stood lamps or girandoles with prisms, 
 or two flower jars exactly alike, but never all 
 of them. In a handsome parlor the windows 
 were hung with heavy damask curtains over 
 lace, over holland shades, over tightly-closed 
 windows, with closed and outside green shutters. 
 
 This owl's paradise was slightly warmed by 
 occasional opening of the door of communica- 
 tion with the back room, of which more anon. 
 
 [32] 
 
Sometimes, if there were young people in the 
 family, there was a stove, or a grate, or a fire- 
 place, but more frequently in cold weather fire 
 was disused altogether. There were always some 
 pictures on the walls, sometimes portraits, oftener 
 engravings of some solemn and instructive sub- 
 ject, often a death-bed scene of some excellent 
 celebrity. 
 
 The plainer parlors often possessed ornaments 
 of wax flowers, hair wreaths (in memoriam), 
 framed needlework, and even a silver-plated 
 coffin plate framed upon a black velvet back- 
 ground. It didn't make much difference, how- 
 ever, for it was quite too dark to see anything 
 clearly, if Raphaels or Titians had hung upon 
 the walls. 
 
 But somewhere in the house there was a room 
 into which all that represented the daily life of 
 the family was crowded. It was often in the 
 basement, and served for dining-room, sitting- 
 room, sewing-room, nursery, study, library. 
 (Sometimes on a Monday night, after a rainy 
 washing day, it filled a vacancy as a drying 
 room.) Here sat grandmother with her snuff 
 and her knitting, and grandfather with pipe and 
 newspaper, and the sick child, and the busy 
 mother; and here the children rushed in, glow- 
 ing from school and snowballing. This room 
 was not always well ventilated, seldom so, in 
 fact ; not always dry or wholesome or roomy. 
 Sometimes the members of the family got very 
 cross with each other, not from lack of love, 
 but lack of space and oxygen. But it served its 
 purpose, whether front basement or back parlor, 
 for it "kept things together and saved the farlor!" 
 Saved it! — and for what.? A funeral, some- 
 times several of them; perhaps a wedding, and 
 
 [33] 
 
little else. In the evening, when the children 
 had gone to bed, and the grandparents had dozed 
 off into dreamland, and the hard-worked father 
 read his paper and warmed his stockinged feet, 
 in kindly but wearied-out silence, the good wife 
 finished the mending, wound the clock, set back 
 the chairs, put the light out, and all was silence 
 after nine o'clock. With occasional breaks and 
 slight variations, this was average local life fifty 
 or sixty years ago. 
 
 About that time a few — a very few — houses 
 were built "double"; that is, the house was 
 entered by a hall in the middle, and there were 
 two front rooms, a survival of the colonial 
 "mansion house." One of these rooms was, of 
 course, the parlor. The other was spared for 
 the sitting-room. A few of these families were 
 blessed with small collections of standard books 
 and neat bookcases, which at once dignified 
 these rooms with the title of "Library." 
 
 There was not much in these bookcases to 
 tempt any but an omniverous reader. As yet, 
 Dickens and Thackeray were only beginners. 
 Longfellow, Whittier, Tennyson, Carlyle, Holmes, 
 and many of our household friends were as yet 
 unborn into literary life. There was no Atlantic, 
 no Harper, no weeklies, no Century, no Scrib- 
 ner. We had the Knickerbocker and Godey's 
 Ladies' Book, and that was nearly all. Not that 
 it mattered; one could get books (and we did) 
 from the Public Library. Reading was the last 
 thing we thought of doing in the library. Noth- 
 ing but a three-days' snow storm or a sprained 
 ankle reduced us to the domestic bookcase. 
 There were only holland shades at the library 
 windows, and it was light. There was an open 
 fire, rocking chairs, a big table, and the freedom 
 
 [34] 
 
of the family. It was a great step to be familiar 
 with the back of books, and to learn that there 
 were other books than the vivid annual and the 
 big Bible for domestic reading and possession. 
 On the whole, we all liked better to talk than 
 to read. The kindly atmosphere of the room 
 was in itself an education. Anybody could come 
 in, even on a wet day. It was a court of the 
 Gentiles separating the outside world from the 
 inner glories of the closed and sacred parlor. 
 Here one could write letters (make Christmas 
 presents of fancy work, "secret, sweet, precious"), 
 gossip with the girls, or chat with grandmother 
 of blessed memory, while the darkened splendors 
 of the parlor were left to the solemn feast of 
 marriage or death. 
 
 Of course, it was not important to have many 
 such libraries. As a matter of fact, all the young 
 people of the neighborhood gathered together 
 wherever there was one, and other houses were 
 quite deserted of an afternoon or evening, while 
 the library of this or that neighbor was full of 
 young people. 
 
 In the course of time, there was a young girl 
 with a bright idea. She was going to be married 
 to what was then called "a likely young man," 
 meaning a man in whose future there were 
 excellent probabilities and possibilities. There 
 was not much money on either side. Nobody 
 expected it on the girl's side, so it was very well 
 that she had her bright idea. There was a 
 library in her father's house where most of the 
 sweet hours of courtship had been spent. So, 
 one Sunday evening in May, just before the 
 wedding, Mary remarked to John, as they sat 
 in the library: 
 
 "John, I have about made up my mind 
 
 [35] 
 
that I don't care about having a Parlor in our 
 house." 
 
 If Mary had remarked that she was fond of 
 the toothache, or didn't care about going to 
 heaven when she died, she could not have sur- 
 prised John any more. He gasped out : 
 
 "What are you going to do without one.?" 
 
 "I am thinking we'll just have a Library. 
 You see we never go into our parlor, and all 
 the girls and boys come right in here, anyhow. 
 Now we'll just make believe that the parlor is 
 across the hall, and we'll have a bookcase with 
 a desk" (they used to call them secretaries), 
 *'and it will be convenient for you to write at. 
 Then we'll have a good sized table. It need not 
 be an expensive one, for we'll have a nice, large 
 table spread. Then we will get some comfort- 
 able chairs, if we can find them, and have an 
 open fire, and on the table we'll keep our books 
 and my work basket, and the back room will be 
 our dining-room, and when meals are over we'll 
 come in here to rest. The lamp will shine out 
 into the street and show that we are at home 
 if any one wants to come and see us, and we 
 will be very comfortable if they don't. Then we 
 will not have the dining-room crowded up with 
 all sorts of things, and " 
 
 "But we haven't got any books," remarked 
 the practical John. 
 
 "That doesn't make any difference. We have 
 a few, and they'll come if we have a place for 
 them. Besides, everybody puts green silk cur- 
 tains in a bookcase, anyhow, so nobody will 
 know the difference." 
 
 So, of course, she carried her point, and they 
 saved several hundreds of dollars, much wear 
 and tear of mind, body and estate ; made them- 
 
 [36] 
 
selves and their friends comfortable, and actually- 
 lived in their own house, instead of just working, 
 eating, and sleeping in it, being at all times their 
 own much-honored guests. 
 
 This idea of living, really living, in one's own 
 house, has been helped greatly by the use of the 
 furnace, that gentle descendant of the ancient 
 hypocaust. By this means, all parts of the house 
 are comfortable in all weathers, and a small 
 house serves the purpose of a larger one, utilizing 
 all parts of it. When properly built, it secures 
 excellent ventilation, and prevents suffering from 
 cold and draughty floors. "The only objection,'* 
 says the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, "to 
 the completely built and fitted house of to-day 
 is that forlorn, wizened, and sickly children do 
 not die out as once they did, but live and hinder 
 the survival of the fittest." But if the sanitation 
 is so complete, they will cease to be forlorn, 
 wizened, and sickly, and grow strong and well 
 and rosy. So, with great deference to that high 
 authority, I demur. Next, a good thick carpet 
 all over the floor and an open fire, purely for 
 sentiment and ventilation. There is no com- 
 forter like an open fire — no cheer, no sympathy 
 like it. It ought to be compulsory that each 
 house should have at least one fireplace. It 
 doesn't matter much about the fuel — coal, logs, 
 maple-wood, pine knots, driftwood, or gas jets. 
 The cheerful blaze is what is wanted. But it 
 will not do in this climate to dispense with the 
 furnace. 
 
 The furnace being built, acting satisfactorily, 
 and an end made of shutting up any part of 
 your house, people found out how easy it is to 
 make one's friends welcome. The closed doors 
 opened, and soft and rich portieres made divisions 
 
 [37] 
 
instead of partitions. The tender half -tints of 
 modern coloring came in with restful influence, 
 and upon wall and carpet, drapery and furni- 
 ture, were pleasant colors that did not dispute 
 or chide each other. They did not "match"; 
 they did better — they agreed. It became pos- 
 sible to use a single vase or jar here and there. 
 There were chairs for different ages, and the 
 shape bore some reference to the curves of one's 
 spinal column. The sofa invited one to sit down, 
 and the heaps of pillows suited one's varying 
 mood. China, which was not flower vases, nor 
 yet dogs and shepherdesses, began to be found 
 in drawing-rooms. Etchings and water colors, 
 and, in some instances, paintings took the place 
 of family portraits and celebrated death-beds. 
 It was entirely too pretty to keep to one's self. 
 It was easier to have company than not to have 
 it. 
 
 One afternoon, somewhere, somebody said, 
 "Afternoon tea!" The idea caught like fire to 
 tow. It was so simple! So pleasant! One could 
 use beautiful, odd, old cups and saucers and 
 teapots. It was not needful to have great num- 
 bers of them all alike of stupid white china. 
 One could dress as one pleased either to call or 
 receive — so many pretty, original ideas were 
 possible. One could give quite a numerous tea 
 reception with only a boy at the door and one's 
 own maid in the kitchen and a friend at the 
 tea urn. One could do it often and go often, 
 perhaps to several in one afternoon. Seeing one's 
 pleasantest friends so often and so easily, made 
 the feminine world more and more gracious 
 toward each other. It suited the young ladies 
 whose complexions would bear daylight well, 
 and who wanted the evening for gayer enjoy- 
 
 [38] 
 
ments. It suited the matrons who wished to be 
 at home for the six o'clock dinner. It suited the 
 old ladies and the delicate ones who could not 
 bear night air. Those who drove liked to end 
 with a tea, and so did those who walked, for a 
 street dress was suitable; and it pleased the 
 dressy ones, for they are always sure of their 
 welcome everywhere. 
 
 And so it was agreed unanimously to endorse 
 "the afternoon tea." Everybody accepted, for 
 most people like a crowd, whatever they may 
 say against it. There were elegant brides, and 
 dignified mothers with budding or blossoming 
 daughters, gay young matrons, bright, cheery 
 old maids, cheerful widows, and dear old ladies 
 who seldom went out except to the houses of 
 old friends. At first, gentlemen were not invited. 
 Afterwards, the hostesses relented and some 
 gentlemen accepted, but, as a rule, the after- 
 noon tea of America was in feminine hands 
 alone. 
 
 It seemed as though the great social problem 
 v*as solved. In the days of the haircloth sofa 
 and the dark parlor, of the great evening party, 
 with all its discomforts, and the mixture of "Mr. 
 Dombey's set" and "Mrs. Dombey's set," the 
 men had said (and the truth was on their side) 
 that great parties were a bore, and when, for 
 various reasons, chiefly the hunger for social life 
 of some sort, their wives dragged them into these 
 companies, the husbands stood about and sulked 
 and voted the thing a bore. 
 
 These great parties were given at long inter- 
 vals in the few great houses that the town 
 afforded. They were costly and dull, except to 
 the young dancers — hopelessly dull. People who 
 meet so rarely do not feel at ease with each other. 
 
 [39] 
 
Let us draw a veil over the horrors of those 
 evenings which contained a maximum of misery 
 to a minimum of enjoyment, and for further 
 particulars read in "Elsie Venner" the descrip- 
 tion of "Col. Sprowle's party." 
 
 When teas came in and Madame said, "I am 
 going to Mrs. Blank's tea this afternoon," and 
 added, "only ladies invited," after a season of 
 real relief. Monsieur began to wonder about it 
 a little, and to feel as if "Mr. Dombey's set" 
 and "Mrs. Dombey's set" assimilated much 
 better when represented only by a female con- 
 stituency. They found out each other's good 
 points and certain discordant elements were left 
 out of the combination. They grew into genuine 
 friendliness and good understanding under the 
 genial influence of the social teacup. 
 
 The Colonial dames brought out old silver 
 teapots, and the daughters of the Revolution, 
 who had safely hidden their precious teacups 
 through the storms of the great Tea Party, 
 brought them forth to tell their tales, and old 
 families with brine in their blood showed real 
 Chinese china, which had rounded the Cape in 
 old ships, with leathery old captains in the last 
 century but one, and the new family who had 
 not the conservative salt in its veins bought new 
 ones, just as good and far prettier, of the new 
 wares and the choice patterns. The golden age 
 blossomed again. It transformed alike the Colo- 
 nial mansion, the Queen Anne cottage, and all 
 the ugly intermediates, the stately stone resi- 
 dence and the cottages (?) on the park and 
 lake, and it did us one and all a world of good. 
 
 Of course, there are dances for the young and 
 drives for everybody, and dinners will always 
 be the perfect flower of civilization, and lunch- 
 
 [40] 
 
eons are almost as fine, and card parties will 
 always exist for those who like them, and read- 
 ings and lectures, etc., must be. But the after- 
 noon tea, with its elastic possibilities, its endless 
 opportunities, seems the solution of so many- 
 difficult problems that the wonder of it is that 
 it was not sooner devised. All other entertain- 
 ments are, in the nature of space and oppor- 
 tunities, limited — not so a tea. Portieres trans- 
 form many rooms into one. Coming and going, 
 all are not crowded together at once. There are 
 so many advantages, that it is really too good 
 to last. 
 
 The simplest form is best — without music, 
 which is an impertinence if you hear it, and a 
 superfluity if you do not, without "readings, 
 lectures, or talks." The simplest form of social 
 visit is the best. The others are all good, but 
 *' that's another story." It is the easy, graceful 
 opportunity to meet and greet each other, to 
 say something if you have it to say, and not be 
 expected to say it if you have nothing to say, 
 to be epigrammatic if you like, or friendly, 
 which is best of all. 
 
 This form of entertainment has done much 
 for the social world. It has added an easy grace 
 to the old-fashioned houses and helped make 
 them habitable to a younger generation. It has 
 helped the none-too-rich young housekeeper to 
 feel that a beautiful social life was easily within 
 her reach if only she had a welcome ready for 
 her friends. It has done much to express the 
 true pleasantness of American life in the close 
 of this century, which dawned so darkly for the 
 American Republic. 
 
 Does it occur to any one how^ much better 
 housekeeping we have now than we did years 
 
 [41] 
 
ago? The work was well done then, but the 
 housekeeper was worn out with it. The houses 
 are better kept, the cooking is far better, and 
 the table better arranged and served. That it is 
 far prettier, speaks for itself. 
 
 People are less selfish and more kindly than 
 formerly, because they know each other better. 
 They are better read and better talkers, and do 
 not talk so much as they did years ago. They 
 are better practical Christians, better nurses, 
 better cooks. Thewomen, especially, are stronger, 
 fairer, and healthier, and the days when the 
 *' little woman" was the power in the land are 
 of the past. It is not inevitable, nowadays, that 
 a plain girl or woman is unattractive, for good 
 health and dress have changed all that. Women 
 are not yet perfect. They have much to learn. 
 More consideration for those whose care and 
 love and labor have provided them with these 
 glorious privileges is among the virtues still to 
 be attained. They could never have done all 
 these beautiful things without help, without love 
 and much self-sacrifice from the men who are 
 their protectors. But much has been done, a 
 nobler side of womanhood has developed. It has 
 been shown that the want of sympathy with each 
 other, of which women used to be so often 
 accused, was, or at least is, a fallacy. It even 
 goes too far the other way. And much of all 
 this is from the houses they live in. 
 
 It is a long way from the cave-dwellers to a 
 Queen Anne cottage, but it is a straight line, a 
 direct evolution. It is a long run from the Arab's 
 salt to the Golden Rule, but a straight line, a 
 direct evolution. The result of both is seen in 
 our homes, our dwellings, the expressions of our 
 houses and our streets. The stones cry aloud to 
 
 [42] 
 
us with their messages. It is the second and 
 greatest commandment, "Thou shalt love thy 
 neighbor as thyself." 
 
 [43] 
 
THE DUTY OF COMMON SENSE 
 
 AN impression was borne in on my mind not 
 
 /A^ long ago of the wonderful economic value 
 
 ■^ -^ of amiability and unselfishness, and others 
 
 of the less reputable virtues, industry, economy, 
 
 etc. 
 
 A family consisting of mother and two un- 
 married daughters and a married son and w^ife 
 were forced to make two households for no 
 other reason than "incompatibility of temper." 
 The married pair, whose rights were undisputed ; 
 the mother, whose rights were moral and senti- 
 mental; and the sisters, who did something for 
 a living and had no rights at all, only certain 
 privileges, were all divided in feelings, opinions, 
 etc. Neither party had enough to live upon 
 separately in any sort of comfort, but the house 
 was the son's. Had they been amiable and self- 
 sacrificing, they could have lived together in 
 comfort. But by no means would either division 
 give up their own little tempers, although one 
 moderate-sized dwelling ought certainly to ac- 
 commodate five persons, if only a spirit of love 
 and self-sacrifice and helpfulness prevailed. 
 
 If only some one would decide. 
 
 Madame must give up the habit of criticising 
 the wife of her son, however much she deserves 
 it. 
 
 Daughters must give up the habit of finding 
 fault with the sister-in-law, and the daughter-in- 
 law must give up the habit of general fault- 
 finding with the rest, and sisters must give up 
 social rights and privileges in their brother's 
 house. 
 
 [44] 
 
So they separated, and suffered, and I wonder 
 which way they would have suffered most. The 
 house, so small for five, was rather large for one 
 pair of hands to care for, and when the baby 
 came it would have helped a great deal if the 
 grandmother and sisters had been there to 
 "help out." And the mother and daughters 
 were a good deal cramped in room and purse, 
 in the tiny domicile in which they could afford 
 to live. And I do not know that either household 
 was perfectly happy, either. .- 
 
 A great light broke in upon me, and showed 
 that whatever economic advantage was pos- 
 sessed by amiability, renunciation, etc., there 
 was much more to life than renunciation and 
 close packing, and that the amiable and unself- 
 ish ones were at an awful disadvantage before 
 unreason and selfishness. 
 
 Of course, it was very convenient and eco- 
 nomical that Mary and Lucy should share the 
 same room and nearly everything else. That 
 Mary should nearly always have the new gown 
 and help a little to make over the old one for 
 Lucy. But when Kate and Caroline tackled the 
 same problem it was different. It wasn't right 
 for one to give up to others all the time. They 
 just hated those dreadful old stories of John 
 
 fiving up his girl because Tom wanted her, and 
 ane giving up Tom because Mary wanted him. 
 Why should little Betty almost live on the stairs 
 because Eleanor was too busy or feeble or lazy 
 to wait on herself .? Why should Tom give up 
 his new suit for his sister's evening dress ? And 
 why should Jane give up everything for John's 
 benefit ? Why is there no justice in this world ? 
 Well, there mostly isnt. That's all. But when 
 justice is withheld, when the innocent suffer for 
 
 [45] 
 
the guilty and stupid and, most of all, the incon- 
 siderate, why isn't there an opening for Common 
 Sense ? 
 
 It isn't as impressive or magnificent a virtue 
 as Renunciation, to be sure, but after all, Com- 
 mon Sense is the Universal Solvent. 
 
 Betty is quite willing to wait on Eleanor, but 
 she needs her play, her lessons, and her rest; 
 and most times Eleanor could wait on herself, if 
 common sense (in the person of the mother) 
 had taught her to do so. 
 
 If the house is small and two or more must 
 occupy the same room, let each one do her own 
 share in keeping the room tidy and well aired. 
 It isn't Common Sense for one to do all, or none, 
 and we hold these truths to be self-evident. 
 
 If there can be but one new gown, or even 
 one good gown, in a family, why not sometimes 
 buy two or more of a cheaper stuff, and all work 
 jointly in making them up, sharing cheerfully, 
 and not one have all or bear all ? 
 
 As for the ennobling effects upon the mind of 
 Renunciation and Self-denial, I am willing to 
 go into court and swear to the souring effect of 
 injustice (vvhich is sure to come in somewhere). 
 
 One of Miss Edgeworth's stories tells of a 
 benevolent young lady bestowing on a beggar 
 a sum of money given to her by her father to 
 buy a handsome dress for some very important 
 occasion in which she was a conspicuous char- 
 acter. One can fancy the mortification of the 
 father to see his daughter appear in a shabby 
 old gown, and he wasn't sustained by a high 
 sense of self-denial as she was. I should be 
 tempted to call it priggishness, myself, for such 
 generosity is rarely confined to the actual giver. 
 The money was not really hers, but given her 
 
 [46] 
 
for a special purpose, and the giver of the money 
 was the real sufferer, not the girl, who, after all, 
 may have looked very well in the old gown, or 
 thought she did, which was all the same to her. 
 
 When you are going to make some great 
 sacrifice of yourself, stop to think if some other 
 person is not involved in it, equally, or even 
 more than yourself — someone who has a right 
 to be considered, someone entitled to the use of 
 the universal solvent! 
 
 To be sure, unselfishness is not so very com- 
 mon a virtue, (or weakness,) and the self-sacri- 
 ficing hero or heroine exists mostly in old-fash- 
 ioned stories. But, then, is common sense so very 
 common after all ? Or perhaps you like to call 
 it Justice. 
 
 But it is, after all, just common sense that is 
 needed; just the plain, common variety, ripe 
 and ready for plucking, or, perhaps, you prefer 
 to call it Justice. It is like Jacques' melancholy, 
 and is "compounded of many simples"; it 
 requires information, proportion, promptness, 
 fair-mindedness, and fair dealing to all. For the 
 judicial mind is much rarer than the legal mind, 
 which sees only the cause of the client; while 
 Justice, i. e.. Common Sense, sees equally the 
 good of all concerned. 
 
 Let Common Sense take the chair and keep 
 order in the meeting! 
 
 [47] 
 
THINGS WHICH DO NOT "JUST 
 HAPPEN" 
 
 Good Parents and Christian Lives, 
 
 Children, Good Neighbors, 
 
 Good Housekeeping, Business and Professional 
 
 Happy Marriages, Success. 
 
 A ND yet people talk as if they were all a 
 /A matter of course. It is true that in the 
 •*' ^ merciful scheme of life all these good 
 things are quite usual, and the average person 
 attains, often, to many of them. But not one is 
 attained without much labor and pain, much 
 self-sacrifice and self-denial. "A fortuitous com- 
 bination of atoms" cannot be depended upon 
 to bring about the best results, even if the 
 phrase did once express a ^reat philosopher's 
 idea of the scheme of the creation of the Universe. 
 Happy marriage is almost too delicate a sub- 
 ject to touch upon in these days of high explo- 
 sives — 
 
 For Death is cheated, ofttimes by Divorce, 
 A fact which gives an equivocal force 
 To that beautiful phrase ' Forever ' ! " 
 
 — Thomas Hood. 
 
 But what happy and permanent marriage was 
 ever the result of anything but the patient taking 
 of great pains ? 
 
 Love is good, but not enough. Wealth is good, 
 but often fails. Social position is good, but is 
 sometimes a snare to the heedless and indiscreet. 
 And so of all good things — almost. But to 
 most of these detriments, the taking of pains — 
 to please others — and of cultivating one's own 
 
 [48] 
 
sense of enjoyment, of avoiding all waste of 
 happy opportunities of enjoyment, will neutralize 
 the poison of egotism and selfishness which lies 
 at the bottom of most troubles. 
 
 Certainly good housekeeping does not come 
 of itself, unless, for a brief and heavenly period, 
 when things seem to go one's own way. Think- 
 ing, planning, watching and not wasting, spend- 
 ing and taking care of unconsidered trifles, until 
 the final adjustment is so good that it seems 
 automatic. All these are required in the manage- 
 ment of a household, and even with the most 
 faithful care the saving grace of charm and 
 humor may be lacking and "the well-conducted 
 household" be as dry and uninteresting and 
 tasteless as a machine shop. And these do not 
 come of themselves always, nor without effort. 
 
 Doctor Holmes says that to produce a suc- 
 cessful character one must begin with one's 
 grandmother. Good, but difficult. But we may 
 begin with our grandchildren's grandmother, 
 and by self-culture and self-restraint produce 
 good grandmothers to our possible grandchildren. 
 Many of us know some charming old people. All 
 of us know many charming young folks. And 
 we cannot believe that these delightful, kind, 
 sweet, and tender young people are going to 
 degenerate into the dreadful old men and 
 women that we sometimes see. They need not, 
 and we hope that they will not. But it is going 
 to take lots of pain and care and trouble all 
 through life to produce this charming result. 
 And maybe you cannot do it. 
 
 The little pig with the curly tail 
 And his satiny skin all pinky-pale, 
 Is a very different thing by far 
 To the lumps of iniquity big pigs are." 
 
 [49] 
 
Christian lives do not grow into sweetness and 
 holiness simply by joining a church and giving 
 liberal checks to worthy objects, nor by giving 
 out-of-season clothes to the worthy poor, nor 
 even talking well in religious meetings, although 
 these are all good things, but by "the snapping 
 up of unconsidered trifles" of word, act, and 
 lire which go to make this world fit to live in 
 and the next world the abode of all that is good 
 and pure. 
 
 You may do all and more than is laid down 
 in any law or gospel, and spoil it all in a moment 
 by a sour look and wicked word, a cruel neglect. 
 You may be a technical Christian, but if you 
 are a disagreeable one, you are worse than a 
 tinkling cymbal — if there is such a thing. 
 
 What good children I have known! Too good 
 for their own and their parents' good, spoiling 
 the dear old people with their self-denial, and 
 letting them grow into habits of self-indulgence, 
 by looking on their care and love and sacrifice 
 as a matter of course, and allowing them to 
 waste youth and opportunity. It costs incalcu- 
 lably to be such a good child {and it ought not 
 to be allowed). 
 
 When one hears of business or professional 
 failures it is common to hear it said sometimes, 
 "What bad luck So-and-So has!" Now, I do not 
 underrate the mysterious element of chance. It 
 may appear in the unpreventable form of "fire, 
 famine, or pestilence, battle, murder, or sudden 
 death." For the occurrence of these no man 
 should be blamed, unless it is a form of negli- 
 gence by which it appears ; but when untidiness 
 and wastefulness, disorder, carelessness, extrava- 
 gance, idleness, and bad habits make for the 
 destruction of prosperity. 
 
 [SO] 
 
I once knew a nice, little, old lady who faith- 
 fully tried to earn a living by a little shop. But 
 she never knew whether she had the goods 
 desired; all the boxes and drawers and shelves 
 were in all sorts of disorder. Goods were soiled 
 by much searching and tossing about, and the 
 poor creature was discouraged and ruined by no 
 other means than her disorderly habits, for we 
 all got tired of waiting while she hunted things 
 up. So in all and greater shops, and all business 
 — nothing succeeds automatically. 
 
 "You are a good neighbor to me," said one 
 to another. "I never had a better neighbor." 
 "Yes, I know it," was the unexpected answer. 
 "I meant to be. I knew it all the time." And, 
 like every other good thing, it did not "just 
 happen." 
 
 For success in all things is, as Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds defines genius, "A capacity for taking 
 infinite pains." 
 
 [sil 
 
A FEW OF THE BELIEFS AND PRAC- 
 TICES OF THE SOCIETY OF 
 FRIENDS, KNOWN AS 
 QUAKERS 
 
 Recalled from the Memory of the Talk of My Father, James Miller, 
 of Buffalo (One of That Society), Who Died in 1877. 
 
 My Dear Friend: 
 
 YOU asked me to write down the main 
 points of the religious behefs of the "So- 
 ciety of Friends," commonly called Quak- 
 ers. This is what I remember of the speech of 
 my father, who was of that persuasion, and who 
 died in 1877. Since then I have held no conver- 
 sations with any one upon these subjects, and it 
 is simply recalled from memory. To those who 
 believe that all of the Friends' belief is com- 
 
 Frised in a broad-brimmed hat or a drab gown, 
 mention these few points of belief: 
 
 First — They speak of their own society as 
 the "Society of Friends," and of their places of 
 worship as "Meeting-houses." "The church is 
 built of up living members" and the name must 
 not be perverted to speak of buildings, the work 
 of men's hands. Their annual convention in 
 Philadelphia is "The Yearly Meeting," as all 
 others are "First day meetings," etc. 
 
 Second — The names of the months and the 
 days of the week are rejected as being those of 
 Pagan gods and idols. They speak of "First, 
 Second, Third, months, etc. ; First day. Second 
 day,^{etc." I notice that accountants of late 
 employ numbers instead of the elaborate names 
 of months and days. 
 
 [52] 
 
Third — Swearing of all sorts, even the judi- 
 cial oath, is forbidden. As a witness, an "affirm- 
 ation of the truth of which I am about to 
 speak" is permitted. But it is also forbidden to 
 a Friend to appear as a party in a lawsuit, and 
 is strictly against the "discipline of the Meeting." 
 Neither is violent language or conduct allowed, 
 nor resistance to law, order, or even disorder. 
 
 Fourth — They believe, above all, in a gospel 
 of peace, love, and non-resistance to evil of 
 law or oppression ("If one smite thee on one 
 cheek, turn the other also," etc.). All sympathy 
 of word, act, or thought in all that concerns war 
 and strife, battles or military matters of any sort 
 or kind, of aiding, abetting, or sympathy, is 
 against discipline. 
 
 Fifth — Concerning the ordinances, or sacra- 
 ments — or ceremonies — peculiar views are 
 held, and discipline enacted. Marriage is re- 
 garded as a civil contract; the contracting 
 parties take each other by the right hand, in 
 the presence of two or more witnesses, and 
 promise to live together faithfully and lovingly 
 as man and wife. No wedding ring is used, and, 
 although a certificate is allowed, it is not always 
 given. The marriage is recorded in the book of 
 the meeting and signed by witnesses. A good 
 supper is provided, and that is about all there is 
 to the marriage ceremony. It is essentially the 
 form of the "civil marriage" — which is now 
 practiced nearly all over the world, and the only 
 marriage held legal everywhere, no matter what 
 religious rites or beliefs prevail. I never heard 
 divorce mentioned, although separation in ex- 
 treme cases is allowed. (If people live together 
 in the calm, loving, self-controlled fashion of 
 the Friends, divorce ceases to be a prominent 
 
 [53] 
 
question.) A form of marriage is often held 
 before a justice, mayor, or other civil officer. 
 
 Sixth — Marriage with those of a different 
 belief is "contrary to discipline" and is pun- 
 ished by expulsion from the Society, if it takes 
 place. If only planned, it is a subject of reproof 
 and remonstrance from the Elders. 
 
 Seventh — Funerals are conducted with the 
 greatest simplicity. Personally, I never saw one, 
 but all show and pomp is forbidden. No monu- 
 ments are permitted and even headstones are dis- 
 couraged, and if allowed, contain only name and 
 date. This is a protest against the pride and 
 expense involved in such services. Mourning is 
 never worn — "Our afflictions are sent in love 
 and for one's spiritual benefit." Mourning is 
 rebellion against the removal of the happy spirit 
 and the love of the Father who doeth all thmgs 
 well, even beyond all we can ask or seek. The 
 symbol of the Lord's Supper is only recognized 
 as a symbol in memory of Him, and is observed, 
 if at all, in silence, meditation, and prayer, 
 unless the Holy Spirit moves one to a message. 
 It has been so perverted by a false doctrine that 
 symbols are discouraged as leading to perversion. 
 
 "The inward light," the gift and inspiration 
 of the Holy Spirit, is always recognized as a 
 sufficient guide of life. The religious meetings 
 are conducted in silence and sobriety, and the 
 meeting-place is of the severest plainness. Men 
 and women sit apart. The men wear their hats, 
 the women bonnets of their own peculiar shape. 
 They meditate in silence and await a message 
 of the Spirit. It may come by man or woman. 
 I think that a man would remove his hat in 
 giving it, if it came to him. A woman takes off 
 her bonnet, lays it aside, while speaking in the 
 
 [54] 
 
invariable muslin cap — '*A woman must not 
 speak uncovered in the churches." The word 
 ** church" is always to be understood as referring 
 to its living members, for the building is always 
 called the "Meeting-house." A paid preacher is 
 unheard of, but for those who have often mes- 
 sages of the Holy Spirit to deliver, and who give 
 up much time and comfort to do so, entertain- 
 ment is provided. But almost always they have 
 some regular employment or means of livelihood. 
 The hour is spent in meditation, silence, and 
 prayer, except for these so-inspired messages. 
 When the hour is spent, the two eldest men in 
 the meeting, who sit upon the front seats, rise 
 and shake hands with each other, and then with 
 the two seated nearest them. This is followed 
 by a quiet, kindly, and general handshaking 
 and a sweet and slow departure is made — 
 "Like parting friends, who linger while they 
 sever." If any strangers are present, they are 
 greeted in a friendly way, and if unaccompanied 
 by friends, they will be invited to dinner — 
 maybe more than once. They may have five or 
 six invitations before getting out of the house. 
 
 Their poor members are most carefully pro- 
 tected, but, if able to work, are not encouraged 
 in idleness. They discourage almshouses, for 
 "He setteth the solitary in families," and suit- 
 able employment is provided when it is prac- 
 ticable. I do not know about their hospitals, but 
 doubtless they exist. In the days of the simple 
 life, Friends were often called (and willingly 
 responded) to nurse the sick, and to console 
 and comfort the dying and sorrowful. 
 
 What is called "the plain language" is the 
 usual English of the seventeenth and eighteenth 
 centuries of England and afterward of the colo- 
 
 [55] 
 
nies. The "Thee and Thou" of the Quaker is 
 the "Du" of the German and the "Tutoyer" 
 of the French; as also the distinctive dress of 
 the Friends was the form prevaihng in the days 
 of the Stuarts, the somber colors and absence 
 of all ornament being the Spirit's protest against 
 the luxury, license, and extravagance of the court 
 and aristocracy of that time. Their souls (like 
 our own at times) were vexed with constant 
 change, selfishness, and licentious living. Their 
 whole lives were protests against all forms of 
 pride, pomp, ceremonial show, and extravagance, 
 and which are all contrary to the life and teach- 
 ing of Christ, who was meek, humble, simple, 
 and self-denying. 
 
 Baptism is recognized as a spiritual gift, and 
 not otherwise to be bestowed. The baptism of 
 the Essential Spirit of God having taken place, 
 the baptism of water is now superfluous and is 
 liable (as being only a symbol) to perversion in 
 its value and significance, and offering another 
 opportunity for pomp, pride, and other diver- 
 sions of the original meaning. This view is quite 
 apart from any discussion of modes of baptism, 
 as the Baptism of the Spirit is alone essential. 
 
 The special seasons of feasting (as at Christ- 
 mas) and of fasting and prayer (as at Lent, etc.) 
 are not accepted. The date of Christmas is con- 
 sidered doubtful, and the license — drunkenness 
 and gluttony — of Christmas in the seventeenth 
 and eighteenth centuries required a special pro- 
 test, which was to utterly ignore all that in 
 which Christmas differs from the other days. 
 So also with Lent — "But ye, when ye fast, 
 seem not unto men to fast." "Pray without 
 ceasing." Live a godly, pious, temperate, and 
 prayerful life at all times. What is good at one 
 
 [56] 
 
time is good at all times. What is wrong or 
 unwise at one time is so always. 
 
 In some old Quaker families the plain lan- 
 guage is used in the family almost as an endear- 
 ment, of which indeed they were not lavish. 
 This was customary with many, not Quakers, 
 one hundred years ago and less. My grand- 
 father, a priest of the Church of England, 
 habitually used "thee and thou" to his wife, 
 my grandmother, as an endearment. 
 
 The transformation of the court gallants to 
 the demure Quakers, by exclusion of color and 
 ornament, was a safeguard to the life, soul, and 
 purse of the Quaker. Music — an essential part 
 of the pleasure of world's people — was strictly 
 forbidden. Even lullabys were not encouraged. 
 This seems strange, but was a part of the self- 
 denial required. 
 
 They were fond of flowers, gardens, lawns, 
 trees, and of fruit and vegetable culture. Their 
 tables were more than abundant, and cooking 
 became a fine art, justified by their lavish hos- 
 pitality. "First day" became thus a day of hard 
 labor from the amount of visiting and good eat- 
 ing encouraged among them. Also the delicacy 
 of color and exquisite fineness of fabric, in time, 
 perverted the plain dress to a real extravagance. 
 Philadelphia is one of the gastronomical centers 
 of the world. 
 
 The more ornate forms of life and worship 
 appeal most to the young, and the complications 
 of forms and services to them, as to many of the 
 older people, is counted as righteousness. The 
 voice of priest, the pealing organ, and the song 
 of praise, not to speak of robes and emblems, 
 and days and hours of devotion, are spiritual 
 helps to many, and whatever makes for right- 
 
 [57] 
 
eousness is good. Only let us beware of taking 
 shadow for substance; symbol for truth. The 
 superfluities of religious services, as well as of 
 social and public life, lose significance as life 
 goes on. The religion of Friends is better 
 adapted to the calm period of middle life and 
 old age than to the "hot heart of youth." 
 
 And youth must guide and advance the 
 world. I am not preaching a Quaker sermon; 
 only stating a few of their most prominent doc- 
 trines. By their truth shall they stand or fall. 
 After this it is hardly needed to say that all 
 forms of worldly amusement, music, dancing, 
 play-going, circuses and playing, and everything 
 of the sort was strictly forbidden. 
 
 The Friends were fond of good horses, kept 
 them well, and did not race them or bet on 
 anything. They often were fond of fishing, and 
 were mighty men of the rod and line ; also good 
 sailors and merchants and traders — and I have 
 known them to go a-fishing even on First day, 
 if other things favored the sport, inconsistent as 
 it seemed. 
 
 Politically, the Friends have always been 
 identified with reform and advancement. Eliza- 
 beth Fry, in her work with women prisoners of 
 Newgate, opened the way to much needed 
 reform in prisons, and in the penal code of 
 England. 
 
 From the first, they opposed slavery. They 
 refused to use slave-grown cotton and sugar, 
 and well knew where the free labor could be 
 procured for its culture, and where the "free 
 cotton" and sugar and rice could be bought. 
 Many a Quaker went to jail for helping runaway 
 slaves, and every Quaker residence was a station 
 of the "Underground railroad." Female suffrage 
 
 [58] 
 
has always had its advocates among them. 
 Lucretia Mott, a famous preacher, took strong 
 ground for it. Temperance and social purity 
 have had vigorous advocacy among them. I 
 lack details or names to give much information 
 on these themes. Isaac Hopper was one of the 
 earliest to move in those directions in Philadel- 
 phia. Macaulay did his brilliant worst to blacken 
 the character of William Penn, most prominent 
 of Quakers, but later research shows that it was 
 not our William at all, but a distant and disso- 
 lute cousin of the same name. 
 
 William Penn, son of the famous Admiral 
 Penn, was intimate with court circles, their 
 usages and faults. He was on terms of personal 
 intimacy with Charles II., and, as young men, 
 they were fond of each other, and took great 
 liberties with each other. 
 
 "Take off thy hat, friend William," said 
 Charles, as the two young men were together 
 in the king's chamber. 
 
 "Not to an earthly king do I uncover, friend 
 Charles," said William. 
 
 "Then," said Charles, giving his own plumed 
 hat a toss, "here goes mine then, for only one 
 of us can wear a hat where I am." 
 
 They were always good friends, although 
 William would not take off his hat, nor Charles 
 forsake his vices, and it was owing to Charles* 
 graceful and impudent fashion of giving away 
 that which did not belong to him that the woods 
 of Penn became the property of William Penn, 
 and the scene of that famous treaty with the 
 Indians that was never broken. 
 
 "Good Quakish, no tell lie," said Red Jacket 
 to my father, long before I was born. 
 
 I have only tested my memory in giving these 
 
 [59] 
 
beliefs and practices of this most remarkable 
 people. I have not spoken with one of that 
 belief in many years. The good they did lives 
 after them, and is incorporated in what is best 
 in our government and our traditions. They 
 suffered much for their ideas of truth. But it is 
 hard to contradict much of their teachings and 
 lives. They have finished most of their work 
 and have caused others to help to do it. And 
 as the fallen trees said to the wind in the clearing : 
 
 "We have served! 
 We have served." 
 
 [60] 
 
THE OWL AND THE CHICKEN 
 
 SAID the Plymouth Rock chicken, that juve- 
 nile fowl, 
 To his elderly uncle, the great barn-owl : 
 "The sun is so bright and the barnyard so gay; 
 Why do you stay shut up this bright summer 
 
 Said the owl, with a wink and a vigorous sneeze, 
 Which seized him at once from the hay-laden 
 
 breeze, 
 "It's all very fine, and it's perfectly true, 
 That the sun shines bright, but I'm older than 
 
 you. 
 And if one cares the least little mite 
 For preserving one's beauty, and keeping one's 
 
 sight. 
 Or of having a lot of genuine fun, 
 He'll keep out of the reach of that glorious 
 
 sun. 
 When the light falls soft over treetop and field. 
 And the charm of the evening makes nature to 
 
 yield 
 To the glamour of night, and the spirit of life 
 Gains victory over the spirit of strife. 
 Then I spread my soft wings and in silence I 
 
 sail 
 By the light of the moon, on the sweet summer 
 
 _ gale. 
 While the world lies below, and the breast of the 
 
 deep 
 Softly rises and falls, with the quiet of sleep. 
 Then my eyes open w ide and I seek for my prey. 
 The small creatures that hide from the dazzle 
 
 of day; 
 
 [61] 
 
The mice that come out to nibble the wheat, 
 Or the night-bird, hungry, his supper to eat. 
 There's no joy by day like the hunt by night, 
 And no sport in the sun like my midnight flight." 
 "Oh! how charming is this!" clucked the silly 
 
 chick. 
 As he scratched up a worm, and swallowed him 
 
 quick ; 
 "I often feel that I'm smothered quite 
 In the feathers soft of my mother at night; 
 It's ever so nice to sleep under a bush 
 On a hot afternoon, far away from the rush 
 And the chatter and clatter of all other things. 
 And sleep when not even the grasshopper sings; 
 But to float on wide wings in the evening sky, 
 And sup on the moths that by twilight fly ! 
 I'll try it some night, when my mother's at rest. 
 And put the truth of these tales to the test." 
 He had eaten the seeds of the pepper, so gay. 
 It affected his head in a singular way. 
 And there came no sleep to his restless eye. 
 When the spirit of mischief, wild and sly. 
 Came into his head, and his silly brain 
 Was turned by the murmur of summer rain. 
 So he slipped from the nest so slyly and quick, 
 And was not missed from the brood of chicks. 
 It was very dark, but the rain had stopped, 
 And out in the barnyard the chicken popped ; 
 And he spread his frail wings and tried to fly. 
 When a rustling of plumage came soft from the 
 
 sky; 
 And he rose in his flight through the evening 
 
 light. 
 In the clasp of a claw that was hard and tight. 
 And he only stopped in the owl's dark nest. 
 Where his young ones dwelt — you know the 
 
 rest. 
 
 [62] 
 
MORAL 
 
 If you are a chick and your wings are frail. 
 
 Don't list to the owl's attractive tale. 
 
 Your wings are weak and your strength is small, 
 
 And your power of flight is just nothing at all. 
 
 To enjoy the fun one must be an owl, 
 
 And not a poor little biddy-fowl. 
 
 At the feast they invite you ; your only share 
 
 Is a corner dark, as an inside fare. 
 
 Those midnight joys come only to owls. 
 
 And not to common and foolish fowls. 
 
 And the only safe place for a chicken to stay 
 
 Is the nest by night and the yard by day. 
 
 [63] 
 
ON THE PASSING OF TENDERNESS 
 
 IN the repression of expression lurks danger 
 of the death of real feeling. Not in all na- 
 tures, for with some "one gains in intention 
 what one loses in extension." But in most — 
 that is, the average individual (who is chiefly 
 referred to) — expression encourages and devel- 
 ops feeling. It is not easy to those of English 
 blood to give utterance to feelings, even of the 
 most genuine and intense kind. Therefore, a 
 little encouragement along those lines is a very 
 good thing. 
 
 One of the deplorable consequences of scien- 
 tific progress is the fad which forbids caresses 
 or kisses to little children and to lovers. Of 
 course, lovers will probably take care of the 
 matter for themselves, but little children (al- 
 though something is to be said on the other 
 side) suffer for the lack of daily and hourly 
 tenderness. I quite understand that it should be 
 forbidden to allow strangers to kiss babies or to 
 meddle with them in any way. Of course, in 
 the caresses of an invalid there is often a real 
 danger. But with reasonable precaution, and 
 outside these conditions, the friendly and loving 
 caresses of a family are a heaven-sent blessing. 
 It compensates for so much that may be denied. 
 It rewards one for suffering. It encourages per- 
 sonal habits of delicacy and purity. In fact, I 
 don't see how a family can otherwise be properly 
 brought up. 
 
 "Supposing," as the children say, your baby 
 is bathed and dressed in its soft little nightgown, 
 and the little white bed is ready, just how are 
 
 [64] 
 
you going to help yourself and hinder yourself 
 from good-night hugs and kisses ? Also the phy- 
 sicians and nurses forbid any attention to the 
 child after it has gone to bed. Some of us re- 
 member the horrors of loneliness and imagination 
 which comes to a child alone in the dark, "ere 
 slumber's chain hath bound one." 
 
 Just a few minutes — just a loving caress — 
 just a lullaby — just a doll to hug — just a story, 
 maybe only the beginning of it — just a warm 
 wrap-up, or a tuck-up — and then sweet sleep ! 
 How much sweeter, no one but a lonely child 
 itself can tell. It makes all the difference in the 
 world. 
 
 The practice of putting a child down to sleep 
 and leaving it alone is not so bad, in itself, be- 
 sides being a convenience and a blessing to the 
 family. But to let it lie alone, crying and wailing 
 in helpless misery, to worry out the hour as- 
 signed to sleep (?) is outrageous cruelty, if all 
 the nurses and doctors in Christendom said to 
 the contrary. A child has no speech. Its cry is 
 its only signal of distress or need. No child finds 
 it amusing. It needs something, when it cries 
 long and persistently. It is the business of the 
 nurse or mother to find out that need, and to 
 supply the lack which the baby knows much 
 better than any one else, and would tell you if 
 it could. 
 
 I knew a dear child nearly parboiled to death, 
 because the nurse allowed and compelled her to 
 "cry it out" until the allotted hour has passed, 
 and then found the baby lying in a pool of 
 scalding water from a bursted hot-water bag 
 lying in the cradle. 
 
 And another (more than one, too), which, 
 being a "good" baby, did not cry, but slept and 
 
 [65] 
 
slept and slept, till the weak little heart stopped 
 its weary task — children with weak hearts do 
 so occasionally. 
 
 "The formation of good habits" is a sort of 
 slogan among that sort of nurse and mother. 
 How long does the best of habits endure in a 
 baby? They must vary with every growth and 
 development, frequently and constantly. 
 
 A certain regularity in feeding, sleeping, etc., 
 is desirable, of course, but the rapid growth and 
 development requires constant watching and 
 care. I knew a well-intentioned young mother 
 to nearly starve her baby to death. The doctor 
 had ordered half a pint of food a day at a certain 
 period of growth. But she faithfully kept the 
 child on a half pint a day for three months, 
 spite of the demands of the child for more, and 
 horrified the doctor by asserting that she was 
 acting on "strict orders given three months ago 
 by himself." 
 
 Well, all this only shows the need of common 
 sense, and it also shows the need of tenderness 
 and loving watchfulness. "Wise saws" are all 
 very well, but "modern instances" and their 
 application are also needed greatly. 
 
 When one remembers the millions of babies 
 who are brought up on "bread and cheese and 
 kisses," and often little besides, one cannot 
 doubt that petting and cream make a pretty 
 good diet after all, and that even kisses are not 
 wholly pernicious. 
 
 Great danger to tenderness of heart lies in 
 the doctrine of the "New Thought," or the 
 "Christian Science," and the "Mind Cure," or 
 whatever name it may be called. It is most stul- 
 tifying to emotion of pity and love, if one be- 
 lieves the suffering to be unreal. How can they 
 
 [66] 
 
pity pain which does not exist? Why should 
 men and women try to relieve a fictitious agony ? 
 To what end should anaesthetics lend aid in 
 surgery if this were true? 
 
 A disease which imagination creates may be 
 cured by imagination, not otherwise. Self-control 
 prevents the complaint from annoying others, 
 and the sufferer from being a nuisance to his 
 neighbors, but it does not spare him one pang. 
 
 Hypnotism influences pain, but pain exists — 
 the one incontrovertible fact in the whole cre- 
 ation. 
 
 Pain has its uses and its values. It is the 
 danger signal and cries out for help. It exists. 
 It often stimulates the finer qualities of mind 
 and soul. "One learns in suffering what is 
 taught in song." 
 
 Beda, the Venerable, knew that he was dying. 
 He had set himself the task of translating into 
 the vernacular English the Latin gospel of St. 
 John. Through his mortal agony, and stimu- 
 lated by it, he wrote till his pen dropped, and 
 he could only dictate to the faithful scribe who 
 wrote constantly, and with the last words: 
 
 "This is the disciple which testifies of these 
 things, and we know that his testimony is true," 
 his stainless soul departed, and the glorious gos- 
 pel belonged to the English-speaking people. 
 This was no miracle. His pain cried out greatly 
 and he used grandly all the strength he had, and 
 bore his pain, doing his Lord's will. But the 
 pain was real, and not a morbid mental attitude. 
 
 But if that scribe had said constantly: "Mas- 
 ter, you do not suffer, you have no pain. Put 
 aside the thought of it." What hardness of heart 
 would have gripped and held that young writer ? 
 
 The habit of resignation to the pain of other 
 
 [67] 
 
people may be carried too far. So far, indeed, as 
 to feel a growing habit of impatience with the 
 sufferers themselves. From that habit of impa- 
 tience with the inconvenience of age and suffer- 
 ing, to the cool discussion of the advisability of 
 shortening that period, and the wisdom of allow- 
 ing science to pass upon the ending of that 
 period by harmless anaesthesia is a very short 
 step. Granting that, with our weak vision, we 
 feel that it may be wise and kind to shorten the 
 visible suffering of our beloveds in their appar- 
 ently last hours, who, that knows the fallability 
 of human judgment, the sad deceitfulness of the 
 human heart, dares to trust to mere man, the 
 decision as to when the progress and painful 
 character of the illness justifies the kindness of 
 anaesthesia ? 
 
 That such cases exist, perhaps, is true, but 
 who shall be trusted with the Key to the Eternal 
 Peace ? 
 
 "Oh! loving Mother Ganges! to thy care we 
 leave him!" is the ascription of the tender- 
 hearted pagan who buries his living but aged 
 parent in its sacred mud, in the sight of the 
 crocodiles. 
 
 Shall not Christian men and women shudder 
 at the thought, and, instead of hastening the 
 end, comfort the declining hours to the best of 
 their ability, and thereby obtain the blessing of 
 "him who was ready to perish.?" 
 
 This is the view that the law takes. *'Life is 
 the privilege of all, unless forfeit to the law for 
 crimes." The law protects the first and last 
 hours of life, the helpless beginning and the 
 hour of death, when the terrible temptation 
 arises to shorten them. 
 
 There is none too much visible tenderness in 
 
 [68] 
 
the world. Do not let enlightenment or fads 
 come between loving hearts. The real Love 
 Spirit in the world grows. Let its exhibition 
 help to brighten the dark days. The welcome of 
 the new-born baby helps to brighten all its days. 
 Perhaps the baby does not know it, but the 
 mother does, and it leaves its impress forever 
 on her heart. 
 
 It is the privilege of women — American 
 women — to receive a world of loving attention 
 from the men who love them. It is also their 
 privilege to respond. Once in a while, I think, 
 it is not graciously done. The noblest study of 
 woman is man — mere man, and his needs, 
 which a good many put aside, and a good man 
 is apt to put aside himself and ignore himself 
 to serve his family more effectually. 
 
 "Evil is wrought by want of thought," and 
 sooner or later it appears. It is here that com- 
 mon sense steps in to the help of love and tender- 
 ness, and all must assist or the service loses its 
 flavor. For, when too much is asked of an al- 
 ready wearied body and soul, sooner or later it 
 gives out and the world wonders why. 
 
 Selfishness and unselfishness are not confined 
 to sex, although manifestations in each sex differ. 
 If a man does a thing, good or bad, he is most 
 likely to do it alone, asking neither help, sym- 
 pathy, or approval. It is narrow, but it is his 
 way. A woman, whether selfish or otherwise, 
 needs help. If a man helps some one in distress, 
 he puts his hand in his own pocket, and gives 
 up his own time and strength and money. In 
 time he comes to organization, but it is not his 
 original plan. A woman soon finds that she has 
 not the money, strength, time, or influence to do 
 very much without help, so when "A sees B in 
 
 [69] 
 
trouble, she asks C to help her" and does not 
 consider that D and E, and the rest of the alpha- 
 bet are all involved and suffer. H and J have 
 no uplift, and feel bitterly the sacrifice imposed 
 on them. These are cases where an enlightened 
 organization is needed, and the personal note is 
 often omitted. But between the members of the 
 family it is personal, and the stranger inter- 
 meddles only to their detriment. There is only 
 one John and Mary in a married pair, and each 
 heart should know its own needs and its own 
 love, and should especially consider only each 
 other and the children that God has given them. 
 And the fewer experiments that are tried to test 
 the affection and character and resistance of 
 each, the better, and the more perfect love, faith, 
 confidence, and tenderness prevails, the wiser 
 and happier the lives, even to the end of long, 
 perhaps very long, life. 
 
 [70] 
 
THE FAIRY TALES OF SCIENCE 
 
 NEVER since the days of the earliest youth 
 of the muses has there been written so 
 little of rhyme, metre, or rhythm, when 
 sweet thoughts of love and the heroic act of 
 man is so released from the worrying harness 
 imposed upon its Pegasus. Never was atmos- 
 phere of any period so filled with soul poetry. 
 
 Never has the greatest love been so fully 
 expressed, when many men lay down their lives 
 for their friends, even for their enemies. 
 
 At this moment the great procession of fully 
 armed and equipped battle ships of one of the 
 earth's greatest naval powers is passing through 
 the great Suez Canal, itself a triumph of recent 
 years, completing a peaceful and fraternal girdle 
 of a world, all at peace with its neighbors. There 
 is a message for the ships to hasten on their way. 
 To a festival ? Not so. To the help of a nation, 
 prostrate under the earthquake's heavy hand. 
 Pausing only for its message, the fleet hastens 
 with all its ample stores and equipment, its clear 
 brains and sturdy arms. It meets its own sup- 
 ply ship, the huge " Celtic," loaded, with rush- 
 ing speed and working overtime. All done in 
 forty-eight hours. For a feast ? To meet deserved 
 congratulations ? No ! For a free gift to the sur- 
 vivors of that most awful of earthly calamities, 
 the earthquake of Messina, which swept out two 
 cities into the choking straits between Sicily and 
 Italy. A calamity which sent the king and queen 
 of Italy into the wreck and ruin, if, perchance, 
 they could (as they did !) help that desolate land 
 and people to a chance for life. 
 
 [71] 
 
When the wounded and dying were carried 
 into the great halls of the Vatican, that the Pope 
 might, in person, bless and help them, where 
 was written a grander poem than that comprised 
 in these few statements, these few sentences! 
 
 In the old warlike days, before our Saviour 
 taught the blessed lesson of Love to one's 
 neighbors, how quickly would those war ships, 
 Levantine pirate or savage Viking, have de- 
 scended on those stricken shores, plundering 
 treasures and subduing all survivors to slavery 
 and subjection and captivity! 
 
 Punch shows it in "The Recent Bombardment 
 of Messina" where boxes, bales, crates, and 
 barrels are flying ashore from the guns and 
 mortars of the war ships. Has it occurred to 
 you that the world is at peace, and intends to he? 
 
 We read in the "Arabian Knights" of the 
 queer horse with a peg in his neck, and when 
 you turned the peg up you went in the air, and 
 away you went for miles and miles "strange 
 countries for to see," and back again before 
 morning if you so wished — and the magic car- 
 pet which was much the same thing. But over 
 your coffee, you see in the morning paper the 
 cold-blooded advertisement of the "Aerial Ship 
 Company," "Direct Route from Boston to 
 Washington." 
 
 Over the fleecy clouds we go ! " 
 
 It makes dull prose of Grimm's lovely swan 
 story, and the song of the Morning Stars was 
 not more far-reaching than the mysterious voice- 
 less whispers of Marconi's marvelous device, or 
 "the sound of a voice that is dead," from the 
 magical Victor. 
 
 But most wondrous of all is the mystical 
 bracelet of the "Soul Machine" of Doctor Peter- 
 
 [72] 
 
son of New York. When it is clasped on the 
 wrist of the lying witness, and the lie leaps forth 
 in a tongue of flame upon the blank record 
 before him, the Recording Angel puts his pen 
 behind his ear and whispers, "I ought to have 
 thought of that! These mortals are infringing 
 on my patent!" 
 
 Homer, in an atmosphere charged with poems 
 of all ages, pervaded with deities, gods, and 
 demi-gods, never suggested so poetical an 
 idea! 
 
 And yet it is the every-day life of this prosaic 
 nineteenth and twentieth centuries! And they 
 call the twentieth century a period of prose 
 because there is no song from the poets! The 
 Singers of the grove are silent. 
 
 The great telescopes are watching Mars, its 
 so-called canals, its changes and suggestions 
 more or less of atmosphere, and of likenesses to 
 our own planet. They all but meditate excur- 
 sions to the Red Planet. They are all but per- 
 suaded that the Martians wink at them. 
 
 Who can fit a rhyme to such thoughts ? It is 
 too vast an idea to chain to a measure. The 
 music of the Morning Stars silences mortal 
 music. 
 
 Thus far had I written when the silent, view- 
 less, wireless, sea-borne message called out of 
 the darkness and fog of the North Atlantic the 
 cry from the sinking "Republic"; the death 
 call of the great liner. Over the freezing waters 
 it sped ! Boston heard and all Nantucket shores 
 and ships responded and the outward-bound 
 steamers turned back. The fog was full of the 
 voices of ships — not one, but many ; and be- 
 fore the misty dawn had come or the cruel fog 
 had lifted, all were saved, safe — and from the 
 
 [73] 
 
last spar of the sinking ship the captain sprung 
 into the boiHng sea and was saved, too. 
 
 There were, it is said, no hysterics, no screams, 
 no selfishness, and the brave and uncomplaining 
 passengers and the brave and fearless crew 
 passed in the thick fog and darkness from the 
 broken and maimed liner to the life-boats, 
 women first, according to the stern and tender 
 law of the An^lo-Saxon race, which prefers the 
 weaker. No wild cries of fear and despair. 
 
 The steward, faithful to needs of suffering 
 passengers and watchful and faithful to needs 
 of the brave and cool operator sending, in cease- 
 less calls, for help into the fog and darkness. 
 
 There was not wanting the sense of humor so 
 strong in Americans, which helped to see the 
 grotesque, and lift the awfully tragical pressure 
 of the situation. 
 
 The heroic captain and telegrapher would not 
 even let themselves be made heroes, when the 
 men ashore would have carried them on their 
 shoulders, but escaped and hid — in a bath. 
 
 This also is poetry! 
 
 But the pace is too strong for the mincing 
 trot or gallop of rhyme and rhythm. 
 
 The breath of the whirlwind proclaims it, 
 and the wings of the morning are left behind in 
 swift flash of the electric spark. 
 
 [74] 
 
THE BY-PRODUCTS OF CHARITY 
 
 THE by-products of chemistry are such 
 agents as may be revealed in a search for 
 certain definite substances, as when smelt- 
 ing silver, lead is discovered, or silver in the 
 melting of lead ore. 
 
 In distilling or refining coal-oil or naphtha, 
 many chemical substances of great value in 
 medicine or the arts reveal themselves; some- 
 times they have proved of much greater impor- 
 tance than the objects of the original experiment. 
 Radium was (so-called) accidentally discov- 
 ered. 
 
 Sometimes such results are attained by works 
 of charity (so-called) which, undertaken solely 
 for the benefit of others, result in most valuable 
 rewards in the development of personal char- 
 acter in the doers of these good deeds. For ex- 
 ample: A corporate body is formed for one 
 single specific purpose, say, the care of aged 
 women or of orphan children. It has a presi- 
 dent, vice-president, secretary, and treasurer, 
 sundry managers and committees, such as is 
 common to all organized charity work. None of 
 the men or women have had much experience 
 in this special business. It was needed work and 
 they have gone into it in singleness of heart, 
 solely to relieve want and sorrow. 
 
 But it is by no means a simple affair. If it 
 were the management of the poor-house it 
 might be, for "Mr. and Mrs. Bumble" do not 
 permit any complications. The paupers have so 
 much (or so little) to eat and drink and wear. 
 The county pays for it, and that is all there is to 
 
 [75] 
 
it. It may be relief work. It is certainly not 
 charity. 
 
 But our friends have determined to really 
 understand what they are doing, so they listen 
 patiently to dull, sad stories, common enough, 
 but all important to the actors and the sufferers. 
 It takes patience, reticence, and sympathy. One 
 is persuaded that each experience is unique. 
 Never any one suffered as these are suffering. 
 
 When patience has had her perfect work in 
 listening, one goes to work to care for these 
 needy ones. One gives them of one's substance, 
 of one's goods, one's time and strength. Temper 
 is repressed, and kindness begins to blossom as 
 the rose. Some of these managers are plain, 
 quiet people, but soon their outlook widens. 
 Some had the impression of utter selfishness and 
 greed among the poor. Further acquaintance 
 shows how good they often are to each other, 
 how unselfish, often so self-denying. 
 
 One learns so much by being a manager of 
 such a work. There is but little money and it 
 must be managed most carefully, and by self- 
 denial, eked out to much greater efficiency. 
 There is more to do than to magnificently "draw 
 a check." One must often go into chests and 
 storeroom, attic, and cellar. Sometimes you 
 doubt which needs it most, you or they, and 
 inward grace gives the answer. One even learns 
 much of our forgotten arithmetic by planning 
 for these needs. 
 
 In the committee meetings there is much to 
 be learned. All have equal rights to courtesy, 
 attention, and interest, and before one knows it 
 one is educated, not only in politeness but 
 etiquette. 
 
 The housekeeping of such an establishment is 
 
 [76] 
 
under constant and public inspection. No hiding 
 holes are permitted. "The house was in its usual 
 good order," is the constant report, and such 
 usual good order does not "just happen so." 
 
 It means constant and exact planning, con- 
 stant, laborious care and cleaning, and other 
 happy faculties of order. This public crystalliza- 
 tion of private practices of good housekeeping is 
 a constant education of the members of the 
 board. For, while no one knows everything, 
 every one knows something, and good ideas are 
 brought forth and discussed in the weekly exec- 
 utive meetings, as it might be in a convention of 
 one of the learned professions. 
 
 Thus is developed good housekeeping, good 
 management, and often good taste. 
 
 These poor wards of ours, some feeble little 
 children, some frail old folks, many ignorant; 
 all needing, like little children, the same sweet- 
 ness and patience to manage them. The prime 
 object of the work is the comfort and happiness 
 of your needy wards. And you become the better 
 parents to your own children because of your 
 work among them. And maybe better children 
 to your own aged parents. 
 
 Men and women, especially women, come to 
 understand each other in a corporate body more 
 than in any other way, and if they are any sort 
 of good people they grow to respect each other, 
 and to work together, each according to her 
 special gifts, as the years go on, and they often 
 love each other with a love that is past under- 
 standing. Friendships grow up between them. 
 They love their poor friends, but they greatly 
 love their associates in charitable work. 
 
 Lives thus lived take on a polish in manners, 
 a courtesy and a consideration for each other 
 
 [77] 
 
not to be acquired in any social life outside of 
 this. Many who take up such work, even from 
 ennui, find their lives so full of the sadness of 
 wisdom, the sweetness of love, that never again 
 are there to them idle days or dull hours. 
 
 Thus far I have spoken only of organized 
 charity and its effect upon hitherto unformed 
 character, as well as the effects of continued 
 well-doing upon long lives and constant asso- 
 ciation with those of kindred feelings, work, and 
 opinions. 
 
 But for the precious work with the "ninety 
 and nine which went not astray" the real prepa- 
 ration must be complete before much can be 
 accomplished. One must be ready in the begin- 
 ning. Like poets, such are born, not made, or 
 the time and chance are wasted. It must be 
 learned, if at all, at the mother's knee, at the 
 home and the table. 
 
 Many, good in these ways, are not good in 
 public charity. The poor, or the suffering, or the 
 needy but utterly blameless one, is timid, often 
 proud and very sensitive, needing the most deli- 
 cate touch and the wisest tact to do anything to 
 a really good result. Your reward is paid in ad- 
 vance. Only a lady, in the finest and best sense, 
 is ready for such deeds. Painful truths must 
 often be ignored or softly handled. Especially in 
 giving, there is no need to make these trying 
 facts conspicuous. 
 
 "Why have I such good friends ?" said one of 
 these to me. "I can do nothing for them." 
 
 "But if I really needed help and you could 
 help me, you'd do it, wouldn't you.?" 
 
 Oh, indeed I would. Indeed I would." 
 
 "Well, then, let's play that it is that way, and 
 that you are doing it to me. Now, how would 
 
 [78] 
 
you like to do it ? I'm sure that yours would be 
 the best way.'* 
 
 And so it was, and so I learned how, for in 
 such ways one finds that love, and only love, 
 "is the fulfillment of the law." 
 
 [79] 
 
CONCERNING THE DUTIES, OBLIGA- 
 TIONS AND PRIVILEGES OF 
 OTHERS 
 
 IT is required of us that we act unto others 
 as we desire them to act toward us. This is 
 sufficient. It is not required that we do for 
 them things we never dreamed of them doing 
 for us. If we do this, it should be counted unto 
 us as righteousness, not a social obligation. We 
 hear so much of "our duty to others" that it 
 grows to seem as if we were swallowed up in 
 such obligations to outsiders to the annihilation 
 of all individual claims, rights, or desires. 
 
 It is quite time someone spoke on the other 
 side. It is time that "others" were a little en- 
 lightened concerning their own obligations. It 
 may be more blessed to give than to receive, but 
 the other man should also have his chance at 
 the blessing. 
 
 In nearly every large family, and many small 
 ones, there is one — possibly two, but rarely — 
 who, by common consent, gives up self, time, 
 and often much more precious belongings, from 
 a sense that these others have a claim on every- 
 thing they possess, and that it should be given 
 up without a murmur to these vampires — and 
 it really grows to be vampirism if not checked 
 in time. Wise parents check this injustice toward 
 one of their children, but all parents are not 
 wise, and, strange to say, all parents are not 
 good or kind to their children, and one of them 
 is the drudge of the rest. Sometimes it is "the 
 other way about" and the parents are the exact- 
 ing ones. I am not now speaking of those who, 
 
 [80] 
 
by reason of great age or great infirmity, require 
 great sacrifices, and accept them without thought. 
 By that time it is too late to say one word, for 
 one must do one's duty in that sphere of fife to 
 which one is called with what patience and 
 sweetness and love one can summon. I mean in 
 youth, and middle age, and elderly years before 
 the mould of character is so hopelessly set as to 
 be beyond all chance of modification. 
 
 It should not always be the same one who is 
 elected to stay at home from the tempting treat 
 that the rest may go. Let the "others" take 
 their turn as well. The one who takes the odd 
 stitches, gives up the daily paper or the new 
 book, lends her new gloves and neckwear, should 
 not always be the same one. 
 
 '*I have brought up a large family," said one 
 mother. "All are happily married but the young- 
 est. I intend to keep her at home for myself. I 
 have given up enough; one is my right." So the 
 one, who was best of all calculated to enjoy a 
 home, gave up all, and when the mother — a 
 loving and good mother, too — was taken home, 
 there was no home but that of the other sisters, 
 no children but theirs, welcoming and loving, it 
 is true — but not her own. 
 
 "Now your girls are all married but Susy," 
 said the neighbor to another mother, "you'll not 
 let her go; you'll keep her for your own old 
 age." "Susy has as good a right to a husband 
 and home as her sisters," said this mother, "and 
 if she marries I shall have another son." And 
 so she did, and sons and daughters all loved 
 and cared for her, and in the future called her 
 blessed. 
 
 With the passing of the law of primogeniture 
 from this country was born the possibility of 
 
 [81] 
 
justice to all one's children — and in every way, 
 besides the tenure of property. 
 
 It is not only the family — far from it — 
 where the tyranny of "others" is felt. If one is 
 willing to do a difficult or unpleasant thing, be 
 sure that they may do it, unless they have the 
 courage to be disagreeable and refuse outright, 
 which is not always easy or pleasant. 
 
 Equal rights are conceded. It is equal privi- 
 lege which is disputed. Nay, "others' even feel 
 that these unreasonable exactions are privileges, 
 and well-paved roads to heaven in the bargain. 
 One remembers that story of Dickens (I forget 
 its name) where a little boy was crushed under 
 the weight of a "Moloch of a baby." Poor little 
 fellow! Let us hope that when Moloch grew 
 bigger he was loving and just to his tiny nurse. 
 
 I just throw out these suggestions to those 
 who forget the rights and privileges of "others," 
 and give up more of themselves than they really 
 possess the right to dispose of. A wise and dis- 
 criminating selfishness is good for one's soul — 
 also the souls of others. It prevents them from 
 growing too selfish. In the social republic, equal 
 rights and equal privileges, equal courtesies and 
 equal self-denials, are the privileges of each and 
 all, and some day some well-bred Spartacus will 
 raise the standard of protest and revolt, and 
 politely, kindly, and generously insist upon the 
 rights of all as well as those of others. 
 
 [82] 
 
THE DOLL'S BOOTH 
 
 MISS POLLY DOLLY ADALINE is 
 going to the Fair; 
 She wants to see the minister and all the 
 
 ladies there. 
 She isn't very big and she isn't very wise, 
 But she has a pretty frock and bonny bright 
 
 blue eyes, 
 And gentle rosy cheeks and yellow curling hair; 
 So Polly Dolly Adaline is going to the Fair. 
 She's coming in good season and she'll have a 
 
 lovely time — 
 I'm going to tell the reason, in rather halting 
 
 rhyme. 
 For Polly Dolly Adaline is silent and discreet, 
 The same in joy or sorrow, submissive, too, and 
 
 sweet ; 
 Though she hasn't any feelings, and but a saw- 
 dust heart. 
 She's truer far than any, and many times as 
 
 smart ; 
 And she never hurts her friends nor turns upon 
 
 her foe; 
 She never makes complaints wherever she may 
 
 go- 
 She's going to try to help us, and do her little 
 
 share. 
 So Polly Dolly Adaline is going to the Fair. 
 
 SISTER MAY, THE NURSE 
 
 This brings to favoring notice the good nurse, 
 "Sister May." 
 
 Who offers kindly service to help our Fair to- 
 day, 
 
 [83] 
 
She does not tattle gossip from neighboring house 
 
 to house, 
 Nor yet disturbs your slumbers, for she is quiet 
 
 as a mouse. 
 She doesn't spill the broth, if she brings it to 
 
 your bed; 
 She doesn't drop the dishes, nor hurt your aching 
 
 head; 
 She hasn't any of the faults of any nurse you 
 
 know. 
 Although, in all her motions, I can't deny she's 
 
 slow. 
 But her^costume's quite correct, her habits clean 
 
 and neat; 
 You know just where to find her, her disposi- 
 tion's sweet. 
 She does her little duty all the long and weary 
 \ day. 
 
 And never tries to shirk her work, this doll, 
 
 sweet Sister May. 
 I can truly recommend her wherever she may go. 
 We're glad to hear she's doing well, signed her 
 
 patron — Mrs. Snow. 
 
 [84] 
 
CONCERNING PAINLESS CHARITY 
 
 MOST of us remember the mythological 
 story of Atlas who was condemned to 
 carry the world on his shoulders. The 
 burden was grievous and Atlas crushed to his 
 knees. He almost went on all fours and his 
 writhing produced the earthquake and his groans 
 the thunder and rumble of the earthquake pains. 
 
 Most of us carry our share of this world's load 
 in this fashion. But Elihu Vedder painted a new 
 Atlas, who, brave, strong, and joyous, stood 
 upright and bore his load lightly upon the palms 
 of his uplifted hands, high above his head. 
 
 The sight of that picture was an inspiration. 
 If one only could — still one can try, and once 
 uplifted, the load grows lighter, and blessed is 
 he who thus overcomes the world. 
 
 We often bind heavy burdens, and grievous 
 to be borne, and lay them upon other men's (and 
 women's) shoulders. We can always think of 
 something that "the other fellow" ought to do, 
 which is comparatively harmless except to our- 
 selves. The objectionable part is, that when we 
 really have the assignment of work, or duty, or 
 obligation to others, we exercise so little dis- 
 crimination in choosing for them. We usually 
 disregard their tastes, opportunities, or qualifi- 
 cations. 
 
 One man, who can give money only, is asked 
 to address a meeting, and the born orator is 
 asked for a check. A woman who is an expert 
 housekeeper and mother, with scarce a spare 
 moment to call her own, is besought to write on 
 Hindoo Missions or something of that sort, and 
 
 [85] 
 
the one who has all that literature at command, 
 and a ready pen besides, is put on a table com- 
 mittee. One who loves embroidery is asked to 
 make a cake for a sale, and the born cook is 
 made a collector and offends many; and so it 
 goes. Why is this.^ 
 
 " 'Tis no sin to labor in one's vocation," says 
 Falstaff. It seems to me that work well done is 
 just as acceptable if it chances to be that work 
 which is agreeable to the doer, and in which 
 some really good thought is expressed, as that 
 which is not agreeable and involves some special 
 and difficult preparation. 
 
 This is the secret of much of the success of 
 our Roman Catholic friends in their enterprises. 
 Each one is assigned to work "in their own 
 vocation." The matter of penance and self- 
 denial is a simple matter of discipline, intended 
 to test character and endurance. The work they 
 exact is that for which they have a certain gift. 
 It is true that they themselves do not always 
 know what they do best, for Milton valued most 
 highly his political essays, and Bunyan thought 
 no small things of his halting, stupid verses. 
 Besides this, if one's only talent is also their 
 "breadwinner, there is something else to be con- 
 sidered. " Just any little trifle you can throw off 
 in five minutes," was the modest request made 
 to a man who was paid a guinea a line for his 
 writings. For him it was better to give the 
 guinea. 
 
 But, apart from this, it seems unnecessary to 
 make duty so unpleasant, and even to refuse 
 the name of duty to anything we really like to 
 do; whereas, the pleasant duty is quite as im- 
 portant as the unpleasant one. It would serve 
 as well to believe so. 
 
 [86] 
 
Gifts differ. It is not well to ask some one to 
 address a meeting whose only gift is the making 
 of salads and creams, or to ask a recitation of a 
 singer, or a song from an elocutionist, or to 
 demand of a deaf person that she buy tickets to 
 a sacred concert, and, furthermore, attend it. 
 How pleasant it would be if committees culti- 
 vated the great and excellent thing — Painless 
 Charity! 
 
 The lack of tact in charitable work (and by 
 that I mean loving work, whether doing or giv- 
 ing) is what makes those who need help so 
 reluctant to accept it. Sometimes they feel that 
 you are doing a (more or less) disagreeable duty 
 by them, or else giving them something you 
 wish to get rid of. If they were once persuaded 
 that you liked to do it they would allow it 
 quickly enough. 
 
 When you go around with a wishing cap it 
 will meet with a joyous response, and you find 
 what they really want and not what you think 
 they need. These are those who have real need 
 of Christmas. They will never wish audibly if 
 they do not fully believe in the painless quality 
 of your gifts. 
 
 [87] 
 
CONCERNING WEDDING GIFTS 
 
 MAIDS do not forget their ornaraents or 
 brides their attire." Neither does the af- 
 fianced maid forget her possible wedding 
 gifts. It is a nice, jolly, friendly custom — as 
 old as the Patriarchs. All the world loves a lover 
 and every one looks kindly on the betrothed 
 pair. God bless them, every one! Everybody 
 feels an impulse to help build their nest, and, in 
 most cases, the well-chosen gifts do help the 
 nest-building. 
 
 There are places, I forget just where, where 
 wedding gifts are always in money, and are con- 
 tributed by the wedding guests. These are places 
 where all and everybody's circumstances are well 
 known to everybody, and where the microbe of 
 divorce is unknown, and the dear old phrase, 
 "till death do us part," is a portion of married 
 life as well as of the marriage ceremony. But I 
 am not discussing divorce or embarrassing ques- 
 tions regarding the ownership or division of 
 wedding gifts. 
 
 It requires as much diplomatic talent to be a 
 successful giver of wedding gifts as would suflBce 
 for an accredited envoy to St. Petersburg. To 
 give just the right thing, and not the wrong 
 thing; just enough, and not too much or too 
 little to suit the tastes and needs and relation- 
 ship of both giver and recipient, is the nicest of 
 performances. It means foresight and intimate 
 knowledge of the persons interested. 
 
 Mary Wilkins wrote a story of a young couple 
 about to marry, and in circumstances which ren- 
 dered such wedding gifts as they might receive 
 
 [88] 
 
of real importance. They happened to be phe- 
 nominally unsuitable. Cut-glass finger bowls to 
 a couple who habitually washed their hands at 
 the kitchen sink (and were thankful for the 
 sink, as being better than the pump). A forty- 
 dollar set of chessmen for a couple who rose 
 with the sun and retired with the same, and 
 who went to church on Sundays; elegant sofa 
 pillows and no sofa, etc. 
 
 The wise woman of the story, in a fit of des- 
 peration, returned the whole lot, explaining the 
 whyness of her action, and checks and more 
 suitable articles were substituted. It is all well 
 enough in a story, but most of those givers in 
 real life would have signed a pledge of total 
 abstinence from wedding presents for the rest of 
 their lives. 
 
 In these days of profuse giving and reckless 
 over-crowding of rooms and houses, there should 
 be some concert of action between friends and 
 relatives, and the plans and prospects of the 
 couple to be benefited should be known and 
 respected. If they are not to keep house they do 
 not need sideboards and dining tables and 
 chairs. If they do, they had better choose such 
 things for themselves, for such mistakes are 
 nearly fatal. In fact, the choosing of such things 
 may be the keenest of pleasures to the young 
 
 Try to avoid duplication. Mrs. Newlywed once 
 told me that she had sixteen soup ladles among 
 her presents, and added languidly, "and in my 
 house soup is always served behind the screen, 
 in any case." There is no end to the funny 
 stories that one can tell of wedding gifts. The 
 solution of the problem is, as usual, common 
 sense. And in case of doubt, donHl But if you 
 
 [89] 
 
can, resolve your doubt, and send a wise and 
 tasteful gift. 
 
 Just here is an opportunity to express an 
 opinion of a custom of to-day, for it was not 
 always thus. If one gives a wedding present, it 
 is, or should be, an expression of respect, affec- 
 tion, or regard. In that case one wishes one's 
 gift to be of real benefit to the recipient. The 
 card of the giver goes with it. It is usual to have 
 a record of such gifts in a book, and notes of 
 acknowledgment sent at once. Then the card 
 is promptly suppressed and the gift depjosited 
 in the place appointed for all such. Speedily the 
 room assumes the aspect of a curio wareroom. 
 Everything personal is eliminated. For all that 
 appears, many of the articles might have been 
 hired for the occasion, to be promptly returned 
 with thanks and rent money. And, as a matter 
 of fact, in the larger cities, such loans have 
 taken place. 
 
 When the gift is from friends of the groom, 
 it may happen that business friends of his wish 
 to testify their esteem and regard for him as a 
 business man. A cardless gift in that case does 
 no good. It may be mentioned to some confi- 
 dential friend, but it fails of its object. Family 
 gifts mean a good deal this way, too, often- 
 times, especially from relatives on the other side. 
 You see, there is a good deal of business mixed 
 up with it, anyhow. If it is very valuable it 
 causes comment, and the comment may as well 
 be correct as otherwise. If it is going to testify 
 good will and confidence, the groom might as 
 well have the credit. His place on the wedding 
 day is often obscure and insignificant. Let him 
 have his chance if it comes. 
 
 When expressing this opinion, I have been 
 
 [90] 
 
answered, "It is to avoid ostentation. Those who 
 give small and insignificant presents would be 
 pained by contrast with richer and more expen- 
 sive gifts." Don't worry about that. Nobody 
 who ever gave a wedding gift thought it trifling 
 or insignificant. Everybody thinks well of their 
 own gifts and wishes to see them in an honor- 
 able place and duly certified. And brides do not 
 often undervalue any of their presents; and 
 when the heart is tender at breaking old ties, 
 and timid over new ones, every evidence of 
 affection and regard is keenly appreciated. 
 
 Well, the wedding over, the pair departed, 
 and most of the valuables go to the safety deposit 
 vault, and the hired plate to its owner. The 
 unknown guest, in his well-chosen garments, 
 has had his eye on his employer's property. 
 The bride could not go into court and identify 
 half of the things six months later. There is 
 often a change of circumstances and residence, 
 and there may be no real use for the presents, 
 and they may lie for years in the vault. Some of 
 them may find their way to rummage sales and 
 be identified by the giver — who doesn't forget. 
 I'm told this happened some years ago — act- 
 ually happened. Therefore, choose well what 
 you send. 
 
 It is hoped that no bride will receive one gift 
 the less for this article. It is only hoped that 
 such gifts may be carefully chosen — be suit- 
 able and shown with the cards of the givers, as 
 is only proper and respectful. 
 
 A few years ago I received from England a 
 newspaper containing a description of a wed- 
 ding in which I was interested. The bride was 
 one of a family of fourteen children. A list of 
 gifts was published, from the diamond pendant, 
 
 [91] 
 
the gift of the bridegroom, down to a pin-cushion 
 from one of the little cousins. Nobody was a bit 
 ashamed of what they gave, and it was a lesson 
 in candor at least. Cards are generally, however, 
 not for publication but "as an evidence of good 
 faith," like a newspaper contribution. 
 
 Forty and fifty years ago the parents did not 
 give wedding gifts. The trousseau and breakfast 
 was considered to be their share, as indeed it 
 was. It was just as well, for usually the parental 
 purse assisted also in the housekeeping outfit. 
 The wedding gifts were rather expected to come 
 from kin and kind, a little further off than from 
 parents. But it is a good custom on the whole. 
 God bless the young folks, every one and every 
 two! 
 
 [92] 
 
CHRISTMAS — TWO DIFFERENT 
 LIGHTS 
 
 THERE was a time when Christmas was 
 kept as a solemn and holy feast, and yet 
 overflowing with joy and happiness. The 
 joy and levity of men's hearts led them away at 
 times. When the earliest Christian missionaries 
 pleaded the gospel of Christ to the Norse and 
 Scandinavian peoples, finding them keeping the 
 Yule feast with wild excesses and heathen rites, 
 they substituted the feast of the Nativity. It was 
 certainly an improvement upon the character of 
 the festival. But the wild, hot blood of the Norse- 
 men would not down, and drinking and feasting 
 and quarreling went on at the gentle feast of the 
 Nativity as it had done at the previous festivals 
 of Odin and Woden and Thor. 
 
 For many, many years this went on. When, 
 in the days of the Reformation, many sects arose 
 all differing from each other, but each looking 
 toward a purer standard of living, with right- 
 eousness, temperance, and the humbler virtues 
 as their life models. Among these the Puritans 
 revolted most at the wild revelry of Christmas, 
 the drunkenness, the brutality, and all the ex- 
 cesses that were the practice of the higher classes 
 of the English people. The Protestant element 
 found much to protest against, and this was one 
 of their grievances. If one could not have Christ- 
 mas without all this riotous living, they would 
 have none of Christmas at all. To them it 
 meant cruelty, oppression, persecution, debauch- 
 ery, and all that makes for corrupt life and per- 
 verted standards. Everything connected with it 
 
 [93] 
 
was condemned. With the Dutch Protestants, 
 New Year's Day was substituted. In the early 
 settlement of New York by the Dutch there was 
 great respect paid to New Year's Day, with 
 family gatherings and feasting and frolicking, 
 and no quieter or purer than the ancient Christ- 
 mas. The Scotch Presbyterians, to this day, pay 
 much more respect to New Year's Day than to 
 Christmas. The Puritans of New England would 
 have neither of them, but, as it is a very poor 
 heart that never rejoices in any way, they ap- 
 pointed Thanksgiving Day as a union of an 
 English Christmas, a family reunion, a Harvest 
 Home, and a New Year's — all in one. It is 
 a very recent thing that Christmas has been 
 kept as a general festival or even as a legal 
 holiday. 
 
 We owe the discovery of Christmas to Charles 
 Dickens. The Christmas carol set the bells ring- 
 ing all over Christendom. We feasted with Bob 
 Cratchit on his Christmas goose, we reveled with 
 his children, we made merry at Dingley Dell 
 with the Pickwickians, we shuddered at the sad- 
 ness and rejoiced with great joy at the ringing 
 of the "Chimes." The Cricket on the Hearth 
 chirped to us, and we rejoiced at the brilliant 
 possibilities of this old and newly restored 
 Christmas. Not but what some of us had gone 
 to church on Christmas Day, to a church full of 
 evergreens and joyful with Christmas songs and 
 chants, and modest gifts were exchanged, a few 
 stockings were hung up, and we all exchanged 
 ** Merry Christmas.' But the storm of Christmas 
 music that swept through Christendom became 
 a universal anthem at the time of which I speak. 
 Some fifty or perhaps sixty years ago was the 
 beginning of it. Buffalo kept New Year's Day 
 
 [94] 
 
with heart and soul. Christmas was confined to 
 the children — a very few of them. 
 
 Now it is all changed. New Year's Day is a 
 legal holiday, of course, and a few very rich 
 people with very large houses give large recep- 
 tions. Then every one made New Year's calls, 
 from the little boy in his first boots to the totter- 
 ing nonegenarian, who might never see another 
 New Year's Day. Ah, well! "Let that pass," as 
 old Ben Rogers used to say. 
 
 But Christmas! Now, are we not overdoing 
 the thing almost as much as our ancestors did ? 
 Not the *' Peace on Earth and Good Will to 
 Men." We cannot get too much of that, even 
 if we get it at all, which, at present dates, we 
 are certainly not doing. 
 
 But everything and everybody make gifts. 
 Yes, and the worst of it is that they feel that 
 they must. You value the gift of lover and 
 friend, of kin and kind, but you do not want to 
 feel that it is a result of a compulsory custom 
 and not of a spontaneous impulse of affection 
 and respect or gratitude. 
 
 Someone has done a favor, one that cannot 
 be repaid in kind or cash — one makes a Christ- 
 mas gift. 
 
 Someone needs help — one makes a Christmas 
 
 gift. 
 
 Someone wants to do as the others do because 
 it would be mean not to — one makes a Christ- 
 mas gift. 
 
 One's friends are very dear to us, only they have 
 everything — but one makes a Christmas gift. 
 
 One loves one's neighbors — and makes a 
 Christmas gift. 
 
 One is fond of one's neighbor's child — and 
 makes a Christmas gift. 
 
 [95] 
 
And so it goes, till it grows into a mighty 
 burden and a great care, and much labor, and 
 perhaps debts, and one's home overflows and 
 one's purse shrinks, and one must keep the gifts 
 and each Christmas brings more (and we would 
 feel dreadfully if it didn't) ; and we do it, for we 
 feel that we make so many happy by doing so — 
 and perhaps we do. Let us hope that we do. 
 
 Still, I do not laiow if one reaches the full 
 measure of Christmas joy after one is ten years 
 old. We expect gifts that do not come and some 
 come that are not expected or welcome. We do 
 not find that the coal cellar fills up spontaneously, 
 nor — except with a favored few — does the 
 table groan with its culinary burdens. (By the 
 bye, do tables ever groan ? I never heard one.) 
 One expects full stockings, loaded Christmas 
 trees, jolly visits, frolics, and tender words and 
 greetings. But if anything is lacking, all is at an 
 end. Your doll is stuffed with sawdust and you 
 want to go into a convent. You have worked so 
 hard to get ready that you are all worn out, and 
 too ill to "share the equal feast." 
 
 It seems to the writer that what we all need 
 is not so much to cultivate the habit of giving 
 generously as of receiving graciously. Giving and 
 receiving, considered as a fine art, was once 
 treated by this pen, as long ago as it was only a 
 lead pencil. It is time for a last word from a 
 widely varied experience. Don't sa^^ to the one 
 who gives you a choice bit of handiwork, "Ah, 
 you should see what Mrs. So-and-So gave me, 
 so large and so many of them and such exquisite 
 work. This happened once on a time. Nor of 
 a book — "Yes, it is very well, but I prefer 
 works by So-and-So. This writer was never a 
 favorite of mine." How one does wilt under such 
 
 [96] 
 
a reception ! There are a thousand ways of mak- 
 ing the giver of a present either happy or wretched 
 by suggesting that the gift should be other than 
 it is. 
 
 *'I suppose she likes to do it, or she wouldn't 
 do it." Yes, there are some who do like to be 
 generous, thank God! But when a gift is offered, 
 what should be done is to receive it graciously 
 and gratefully, whether it is the thing greatly 
 desired or not. For any gift costs something, and 
 often a great deal. Sometimes money, sometimes 
 taste, sometimes good will, gratitude, affection, 
 and often politeness, sweetness, and all that 
 makes up a gracious character, and it is a tang- 
 ible expression of many, if not all, of these qual- 
 ities, and, therefore, worthy of respect and rec- 
 ognition. It is a marvel that the practice of 
 giving continues, in spite of so many failures to 
 appreciate its values. How often is an eagerly 
 solicited subscription left unacknowledged, and 
 the only receipt is the cancelled check at the 
 end of the month. It is a matter of course that 
 So-and-So should be kind and generous. True, 
 but one should not take all that for granted. 
 
 One's faults are no more likely to make ene- 
 mies than one's virtues. One may be without one 
 redeeming fault, and yet have no friends. Louis 
 XIV. had every fault, and most of the vices in 
 the calendar, but he was always gracious and 
 was much beloved. So it was with Charles II., 
 having every fault and yet many friends were 
 won by his courtesy. I once gave a gift to a 
 little boy. "Thank the lady," said the mother. 
 "Not until I see what it is," said he; "maybe I 
 won't thank her at all when I open it." Suppose 
 he didn't like it. I hope he will be more polite 
 when he is older. 
 
 [97] 
 
Just a word more. Just a hint on choosing. 
 It is good to give things that are needed, but it 
 is good sometimes to give pretty, useless, and 
 comforting things. It depends ; but both are good. 
 One must know the person and their character 
 very well to give wearing apparel or ornaments. 
 Don't give paintings, embroidery, or such things 
 to one who excels in those arts, (or thinks that 
 she does,) or ornaments and jewels to the rich, 
 or books to a student in his own line of work. 
 If you give a pair of shoes to a child, give also 
 a toy or a sweet. You may share your delicacies, 
 and lend your books, but don't give away gifts 
 unless for excellent reason. You wouldn't like to 
 see your own gifts given away. Ribbons open up 
 a wide field of generosity, especially hair ribbons, 
 etc. Children all like books of adventure, and 
 fine handkerchiefs wipe tears from many eyes. 
 Consider spaces in which they will be used, in 
 choosing bulky articles. Never choose a hat, a 
 bonnet, a picture, or a lover for another. So 
 shalt thou escape trouble. 
 
 Don't give "things with a string to them" 
 and conditions. It is so good to own things com- 
 pletely. Consider also the other side, and if 
 money is given, don't divert it from its purpose 
 without permission. It is said that it is more 
 blessed to give than to receive. If that is true, 
 better let "the other fellow take his chance at a 
 blessing." Don't be too greedy of blessings, but 
 accept politely and kindly. Remember, also, that 
 gifts and generosity must be paid for. It isn't 
 pleasant to think that your friend incurred awk- 
 ward debts to be generous to you. January is 
 notoriously a bad month to collect debts. 
 
 After all is over and the parcels gone, and the 
 last box of candy provided, and the Christmas 
 
 [98] 
 
cakes for breakfast, in come requests and claims 
 for all sorts of "unconsidered trifles." There are 
 huge charities and church festivals, and trees, 
 and the workmen expect something and ought 
 to have it, and if one goes in for all sorts of 
 things, there is certain to be debt and incon- 
 venience that the finest self-denial will hardly 
 meet and satisfy. So consider well. The little 
 strange boys who perpetually ring your bell and 
 wish you a Merry Christmas are just little beg- 
 gars. If you give to them, it is only to beggars — 
 and should be so understood. It is difl^erent 
 when they are your own dear little friends. 
 
 When one chooses a gift one should pray for 
 wisdom, love, and discretion ; and when accept- 
 ing, for sweetness and grace. How gracious was 
 Christ's acceptance of the costly box of ointment! 
 How sweetly did he rebuke the niggardly spirit 
 which suggested that it be sold for an hundred 
 pence and given to the poor! Let the gift be 
 worthy of both giver and receiver — and let the 
 acceptance alike be worthy of both. 
 
 There was once a Little Old Lady, but she did 
 not know that she was either little or old. She 
 planned a Christmas party. She was to have a 
 party of ten in all, and they were too old for 
 either Christmas stockings or Christmas trees. 
 So it was all quite different for them. All the 
 gifts intended for the Little Old Lady herself had 
 been opened by her quite early on Christmas 
 morning, and her pleasure and her tears were 
 enjoyed, quite by herself, at that time. Then all 
 the people in her house, her house family, all had 
 their gifts, and some of her poor and blameless 
 friends outside had also been remembered, for 
 she was fond of good people, rich and poor. 
 The younger folks went to church, but the Little 
 
 [99] 
 
Old Lady was very busy at home, and her heart 
 sang Christmas carols all day. The parlor, 
 which was also the library, was hung with 
 greens and with holly berries, and at six o'clock 
 the dinner was ready and ten beloveds sat down 
 to the table, and they ate the soup and turkey, 
 and the pudding and mince pies, and the ice 
 cream and coffee, and lots of candy, and were 
 satisfied, and went back into the parlor. There 
 was an alcove where the bookcases stood, and a 
 high screen shut it off from the room. Most of 
 the guests sat down to wait developments. There 
 was a great jangling of sleigh bells and the two 
 smiling maids carried away the screen. There 
 sat the village postmistress beside a pile of 
 stuff, and on a little table was a teapot and cup 
 and saucer. The bells jangled again and she 
 exclaimed, "There's Santa Claus now. I knew 
 he wouldn't be late." Santa Claus, in a fur cap 
 and cape, came in. It was the Little Old Lady 
 herself with a bag of letters. The Post-office 
 Mistress said, "As so many letters were published 
 in books nowadays there couldn't be any harm 
 in just reading these." So, while the Post-ofl5ce 
 Mistress sorted the letters, Santa Claus took off 
 the cover to the heap of things, and we all saw 
 a steamer trunk marked "Wanted," and lots of 
 parcels. The Post-office Mistress wore a pretty 
 cap and kerchief, and opened and read the 
 letters and the addresses aloud. They were all in 
 some sort of verses, some funny, all jolly, and 
 were not poetry, only jingles, and suited each 
 person and the gifts which Santa Claus presented 
 to the person. It made a good deal of fun, as 
 each one opened his or her gift, and threw the 
 wrappers behind the sofas, and every one saw 
 all the others. Last of all, the bells and the trunk 
 
 [ 100] 
 
were presented to the young man of the house, 
 and afterwards his horse wore the bells, and the 
 young man went over the sea with his trunk. 
 The postmistress read beautifully, and the 
 verses sounded almost like poetry, some of them. 
 Afterwards all had some more ice cream and 
 went home, except the house family. Everybody 
 liked their presents, and if they didn't, the Little 
 Old Lady never suspected it, not even that she 
 was little and old herself. 
 
 [ 101] 
 
A POST-CHRISTMAS WORD 
 
 IT is said by them of the New Notions: 
 "Do your shopping for Christmas early 
 (before December 15th)." 
 
 "Go early in the day and avoid the lunch 
 hours of the shop people." 
 
 "Carry home your own parcels, if possible." 
 
 "Remember and make something for Christ- 
 mas each month in the year, and avoid hurry at 
 the end of the year." 
 
 And a good deal more to the same effect. 
 
 Christmas is now past, and its yearly lesson is 
 with us. We have given and received. We have 
 enjoyed, and possibly suffered, and let us hope 
 that we live more and more wisely as each 
 Christmas passes to its account. 
 
 Ever since I found out the sweet falsehood of 
 Santa Claus, and knew that Christmas giving 
 was something that I, too, although a child, 
 might share, I have been a Christmas giver, and 
 for many years a Christmas buyer as well. Year 
 by year I learned many things about these mat- 
 ters, pleasant and otherwise. The sweetness re- 
 mains, but sometimes the wisdom is bitter in 
 the mouth. 
 
 "Beginning early" is not always possible, for 
 comparatively few of us get our Christmas money 
 together much before that date. We are some- 
 times delayed even in getting together materials 
 for Christmas work. Besides being impossible, 
 sometimes for the reason it is undesirable. Con- 
 ditions may change in the course of the months 
 that may make our choice premature and inju- 
 dicious, such as finding out about the taste, 
 
 [102] 
 
preferences, conditions, wishes, etc., of the re- 
 ceivers. 
 
 And, then, it is not possible sometimes, 
 because the shops and goods are not ready. 
 They do not receive their goods much before 
 December, nor do they display them to an 
 undecided public. One would think that they 
 would, but they do not. I don't know why. 
 Sometimes only samples are shown, and "they 
 will send for it for you," and it does not 
 always arrive in season, and sometimes mis- 
 takes are made and changes necessary. Perhaps 
 it is long after New Year's before it arrives. 
 And what do you get for your promptness but 
 vexation of spirit.? 
 
 "Try to make some one thing for Christmas 
 gifts every month of the year." 
 
 It seems to the observer that each month in 
 the year has enough of its own special cares to 
 load the Marthas of to-day to their utmost 
 endurance. 
 
 January is the month of settlements, of end- 
 ings and of beginnings, and of social cares and 
 enjoyments, of the holiday season itself, and of 
 getting over it. 
 
 February is the month of forecasting, of sew- 
 ing, of club studies, of linen buying and making, 
 of winter journeys. 
 
 March, of the same subject continued, with 
 forecasts of changes, of repairs, of house clean- 
 ing, of planning for the future, often of sickness 
 and nursing. 
 
 April, of dressmaking, shopping, of busy 
 household planning and working, of gardening, 
 of busy Easter vacations, of the going to and 
 fro of many young folks. 
 
 May brings moving and flitting, of prepara- 
 
 [103] 
 
tions for weddings, for summer travels and 
 country life, of gardening, etc. 
 
 June brings many cares. There are sure to be 
 guests, weddings, graduations, and commence- 
 ments, and college boys and girls coming and 
 going. 
 
 July is a month of travel, of entertainment, of 
 household packing and unpacking. 
 
 August may bring a little rest and leisure, 
 quietness, veranda days, pleasant reading, and 
 inevitable heat, and if within the zone of the 
 automobile, every hour of leisure is preempted 
 most delightfully and absorbingly. And who 
 wants to do fancy work nowadays, anyhow ? 
 
 September is full of cares; coming back to 
 town, dressmaking for school children and col- 
 legians, cleaning of houses filled with summer 
 dust and use or disuse, and of getting the 
 youngsters to school. 
 
 October is the month of debutantes and of 
 entertaining, often of weddings and betrothals 
 of brides, guests, and travelers. 
 
 And November is like unto it but even more 
 so, while, through the whole year is the steady 
 undertone of 
 
 ** Three meals a day, three meals a day, 
 
 Hours for work and hours for play. 
 
 Family, neighbors and churches and clubs, 
 Cooking and sewing and ironing and tubs. 
 
 Where is the leisure for extras, I pray? " 
 
 Besides, suppose it is done months before, 
 and then suppose some of hundreds of possible 
 accidents and changes, even illness and death, 
 make your work and choice totally unsuitable, 
 and you have to do it all over again.? What 
 profiteth it.f^ 
 
 Suppose some wise forehanded person should 
 
 [ 104] 
 
decide that it would be a great saving of time 
 to begin harvest in June, so as to get all through 
 before the heat of summer came on ? Or to make 
 maple sugar in October, because it is so nice to 
 have it fresh for winter pancakes ? 
 
 After all, there is really no time for seed time 
 and harvest unless in the time of seed time and 
 harvest, except for the hothouse system, which 
 does not work in all cases. You cannot do it, 
 you know. 
 
 Early in December one begins to feel Christ- 
 mas in the air, and such parcels as have far to 
 travel must start early. But you cannot really 
 make up your mind what John and Mary and 
 Martha wish for before the fifteenth of Decem- 
 ber. By that time, one can smell the evergreens, 
 the spruce and cedar and hemlock, and the cake 
 or the candy, and the fresh paint on the toys 
 and the straw of the packing. By then, and not 
 much before, the goods are displayed, and you 
 have your Christmas money and plan where you 
 can hide some of the things. (By the bye, how 
 do the dwellers in flats manage with the big 
 mechanical toys, tricycles, etc., unless all the 
 family are blind ?) 
 
 By then the new girls and boys have a little 
 time to learn a little of their business, and to 
 discover that their business is to sell and show 
 goods and not to talk of ** seeing Charley last 
 night." By that time the children and the elders 
 have worn their wishing-caps and have stopped 
 buying things for themselves. Crowded.^ Why, 
 of course! But it is a jolly, kindly crowd, and you 
 tnow that you like it. It is the time o' year 
 when the grand folks get out to buy things, and 
 the bewildered men and the worried mammas 
 and the big-eyed children and the sly aunts and 
 
 [105] 
 
cousins dodge each other more or less success- 
 fully. What fun it is! 
 
 Of course, the clerks do get tired. It must be 
 so, for all must work in harvest time, and for 
 some it is the only chance either for work or 
 harvest. And I heard only a short time ago that 
 the "early birds" having got through shopping 
 and having carried home their things, many 
 bundle-boys are not hired and many girls are 
 *'not required," and thereby some money is saved 
 to the dealers, and just so many disappointed 
 young folks who wished to earn a little extra 
 and help out at home. It is inevitable that one 
 is very tired in harvest time. But one cannot do 
 without harvest time. 
 
 And if it is too much — don't do too much! 
 One generally does too much and one is sure 
 to forget some dear or needy friend. If it is so, 
 one can always make or give an " un-Christmas " 
 present, or Easter, or birthday, or — just a 
 present. 
 
 When the cold, sharp days and the keen, 
 bright nights of December are upon us, and the 
 thoughts of home and love and children, and the 
 tender cares of the old, and the sweet needs of 
 the young children, and the lacks of the poor 
 all appeal to us, and the mirth of the young and 
 the wishes of every one fill our hearts with love 
 and our hands with cares, then is the time to 
 stir about the shopping and the Christmas work, 
 even if some of it does get crowded out. It is 
 better not to dilute the Christmas feeling to its 
 highest attenuation by spreading it over many 
 months and weeks beforehand, and demanding 
 months and weeks of rest afterwards. 
 
 Everything in its due season! 
 
 [ 106] 
 
THE JOY OF LIFE 
 
 SINCE the discovery of the pure joy of living 
 and since the disappearance of the gloomy 
 and sentimental school of literature — 
 Byron, Bulwer, Hemans, Balzac, and others of 
 a similar point of view — and since the brevity 
 of life and its real work, grief, trials, and suffer- 
 ing have been found capable of amelioration, 
 existence has been a different thing altogether 
 and has borne a different color. The sentimental 
 miss with her pose of chronic sadness and senti- 
 ment, with her moon-gazing and melancholy 
 quotations of depressing thought is gone, and is 
 as if she had never been. The man who did not 
 find this world going his way and cried out, '*I 
 have not loved the world nor the world loved 
 me," has also passed away nowadays ; he makes 
 it go his way, and if he cannot, he accepts the 
 other way and has learned not to make a nuis- 
 ance of himself with his wailings over his sad 
 fate. 
 
 It takes time to learn to bear it thus, but it 
 has been learned, and it can be learned, and the 
 world is far better, wiser, and happier for being 
 thus lightly borne. 
 
 In former days the brevity of life, its sadness 
 and uncertainties, the darker side of religion, 
 the hardships and privations of ill-fortune, 
 "when friends desert and foes prevail," were 
 often and disastrously dwelt upon. 
 
 In America there were many material ob- 
 stacles with which to contend — a hard soil, a 
 stern climate, savage foes, scanty means, aspir- 
 ing souls — exacting principles, and consciences 
 
 [107] 
 
withflofty ideals, kept nerve and soul under 
 continual strain, and whip and spur all of the 
 time. Many were those of the brightest and best 
 who — 
 
 By the roadside fell and perished, 
 Weary with the march of life." 
 
 Often, even by loving friends, cheerfulness 
 was called levity ; patience, indolence ; and seri- 
 ousness and earnestness became the first duty of 
 life. It is not to be wondered that these sad- 
 colored views prevailed. 
 
 There was great reserve, and reticence often- 
 times, and no one knew the soul-trials of near 
 friends. There was sharp economy, but little real 
 poverty, and if there were, nobody owned to it. 
 
 In time (what a blessed thing time is, by the 
 bye) the earth yielded her increase. But it did 
 not increase enough to support its numerous 
 and energetic family. 
 
 The rocky hills and stony pastures of New 
 England sent forth sturdy sons and industrious 
 daughters to till the more fruitful fields of the 
 West — farther West — the far West — the utter- 
 most parts of the earth. 
 
 In the clear sunshine and among the golden 
 grainfields things began to look more cheerful. 
 All sorts of opportunities began to offer them- 
 selves, especially those of travel, and while the 
 fascinations of the older world of civilization 
 held fast to some, and gave to all a wider vision, 
 the comforts of life, the freedom, the oppor- 
 tunities, the loves and friendships, the freedom 
 and the liberty (they are not the same thing, 
 although they seem so), the respect and tender- 
 ness of men to women, the comradery and sim- 
 plicity of the love of women to men, gradually 
 
 [108] 
 
changed the face of everything and drew us 
 back home again with irresistible power. 
 
 We had so much here at home, and it was all 
 so good, that we could and did share it with the 
 hordes and troops of emigrants who came and 
 made themselves of us. We learned to play and 
 not to forsake work, and the emigrants worked, 
 and in time learned to play also. 
 
 Within the last twenty or thirty years people 
 discovered that, although the farm work is just 
 as important, it is not quite as hard. Learning 
 is quite as difficult but not as difficult to obtain. 
 They find that the city is not altogether peopled 
 by "airy nothings" and supercilious weaklings, 
 overdressed and ignorant men and women, and 
 that the country is not full of ignorant and over- 
 worked men and women, and that it is not 
 entirely the sole object of life to overreach each 
 other in both and all classes. 
 
 Schools do not always demoralize the young, 
 even boarding schools, and visits of the city and 
 country mice are not always disastrous. That a 
 reasonable ambition and desire for fresh house 
 paint and muslin curtains does not always lead 
 to the poorhouse, and that hints and patterns 
 help to inform one for a better and brighter 
 outlook for clothes, table, and daily life. That it 
 is sometimes a good thing to go into the country, 
 not as troublesome and exacting guests, but as 
 well-paying and well-treated summer boarders, 
 thus bringing the more strenuous, if more inter- 
 esting, life of the city in contact with the more 
 simple and hard-working life of the country, to 
 the profit and benefit of both. 
 
 From these needs and beginnings came 
 the summer boarder, the one crop of the 
 country not dependent on climate, weather, or 
 
 [109] 
 
soil, and which fails not in any season, wet or 
 dry. 
 
 In the older time, when the summer host was 
 rare and difficult, and the summer guest frequent 
 and objectionable, such children as had no rural 
 aunt or grandmother staid in the city through 
 the hot summer, and a good many of them were 
 gone before autumn. The country folk toiled 
 hard to make ends meet, and they did not al- 
 ways meet, and mortgages and all sorts of dis- 
 tressing things prevailed. They did not want 
 city folks bothering around, wanting horses to 
 drive about in haying and harvesting, bringing 
 weeds and litter into the house and putting all 
 sorts of foolish notions into the young folks* 
 heads. 
 
 But in time the square peg found the square 
 hole, and square conduct on both sides helped 
 things. The young folks exchanged books and 
 patterns, worked and played together, to the 
 advantage of both. The idea of overreaching on 
 both sides yielded to mutual respect and good 
 will. Sometimes there were marriages, but that 
 was a by-product, and not the primary object of 
 the experiment. 
 
 And so in time there grew up a great love for 
 the beautiful green world, so new and strange to 
 the "denizens of the pent city mart," which had 
 only been, hitherto, regarded in an agricultural 
 light. Also, opportunities from the city's culture 
 and privileges came to the country mouse. Of 
 course, there were sometimes ill-effects, morbid 
 desires and disappointments, misplaced attach- 
 ments, and wrecked lives. But these things hap- 
 pen in all situations and conditions, and will do 
 so while human nature is imperfect. 
 
 With the use of certain machines the drudgery 
 
 [110] 
 
of the farm was diminished, and although more 
 and better work was done, much of it was 
 easier. Magazines and papers came in and opin- 
 ions of the world's topics began to seek a level 
 in both town and country. Rural delivery, tele- 
 graph, telephone, trolley roads, bicycles, and, 
 last of all, automobiles and good roads extended 
 the work of a better acquaintance, and of peace 
 and good will between the different parts of the 
 country. 
 
 It has gone so far, and summer boarders are 
 so numerous, that country homes are springing 
 up all over the country and waste places blos- 
 som like the rose. One does not consider the soil 
 as much as the air, nor insist upon vegetable 
 gardens as much as play-grounds for rosy chil- 
 dren — not huge palaces of wealth and gaiety, 
 but honest, simple, healthful country homes. If 
 not by the seashore, where the nabobs have 
 preempted every stretch of beach or lift of rock 
 or mountain, (and shame to them for doing it,) 
 by some pretty stream or lake or pond, or some 
 neat and pleasant village where the young ones 
 can play in sun or shade, feed chickens, and 
 hunt eggs. 
 
 (Speaking of eggs, who would have thought 
 of the barely tolerated hen taking such a place 
 in the social scheme ? Foolish and despised Bid- 
 dycut has paid off many a mortgage, and in 
 some States the interest on the State debt. 
 Fact! So say Kansas statistics. And no fricas- 
 sees are like country fricassees, and no eggs 
 like those brought in, pink and warm, in a 
 little boy's hat for the breakfast table.) 
 
 There are places where children can play in 
 sand and have real play-houses under trees, and 
 wade in brooks and grow brown and rosy, spite 
 
 [111] 
 
of mosquitoes, ivy, and all ills to which country 
 flesh is subject. 
 
 City life, too, has so greatly changed, and for 
 the better. While club life is easily overdone, 
 and is very bad if it is, there are so many kinds 
 of clubs, and so many ways of using them, that 
 on the whole it is an excellent thing. That is, 
 for the large majority, whom, I maintain, are 
 composed mostly of sensible folks, and of those 
 who, more or less wisely, live up to their privi- 
 leges. 
 
 One may not personally care for tea (I do 
 not very much, myself), especially in daily and 
 unlimited quantities. But the tea of social life, 
 where friend meets friend and acquaintances, 
 and exchange a kindly greeting, is, on the whole, 
 an excellent thing. It costs little, either trouble 
 or expense. Any one can do it, and the quality 
 of the gossip held over the teacups is constantly 
 modified and sweetened by the imperceptible 
 percolation of Christian feeling. 
 
 There was a time when a great and good man 
 prayed, "Oh, Lord! avenge me of mine ene- 
 mies!" Men do not pray that way nowadays, 
 even if they sometimes feel that way. If the 
 thought of "getting even" with an injury occurs 
 to them, then the thought of the endless chain 
 of misery, like a mountaineer's feud or vendetta, 
 comes to mind and the unworthy thought is 
 abandoned. In fact, "it isn't done," and the 
 practical wisdom, the hard, everyday, j)ractical 
 force of the Golden Rule becomes as evident as 
 its Divine Sweetness. 
 
 Not long ago I was told of a dinner party 
 given by a newcomer to a small town, wnere, 
 of the ten guests, three were not on speaking 
 terms. "Now, what would you do.?" 
 
 [112] 
 
If I knew it, I would not seat them side by 
 side. But if I did not know it, and did invite 
 them, they would be the better for meeting, and 
 seeing more of each other, and thereby getting 
 over their enmities. Of course, if one knew all 
 about it, it would be foolish to risk spoiling your 
 little dinner by forcing together such discordant 
 elements, but it is best not to be looking out 
 for such conditions. Life is too short not to live 
 up to all one's privileges. 
 
 There are many old fashions that are "more 
 honored in the breach than in the observance." 
 A stock piece of good advice often given by 
 them of old time, when their young folks went 
 forth to school or business in another place, was 
 this: *'A few well-chosen friends." Good, as far 
 as it goes. But how are you going to choose 
 your friends ? Who ever really did choose friends ? 
 You will have a chance to make acquaintances, 
 doubtless, and perhaps to make selections from 
 them of some you prefer. You make them or 
 not by proximity or distance, and you cannot 
 overcome that, at least at first. Make all the 
 friends you can (there will not be too many, for 
 they are watching you, too, as well) and with 
 prudent reserve at first to all. As time goes on, 
 friend after friend departs. They must, and if 
 you have not a good many, so much the worse 
 for you. Especially as you grow in years, seek 
 friends — many of them — with younger folks. 
 
 The younger people of to-day are very sweet 
 and tender to the older people. That is one of 
 the joys of living in this cycle. The worst of it 
 is, that it may develop the habit of longevity to 
 an alarming extent, and just when the habit is 
 established the fashion may change. 
 
 But the jolly country homes, with all sorts of 
 
 [113] 
 
nice people coining and going, and some of 
 them staying, are good places for old and young 
 both. And the afternoon tea, with just a friendly 
 hand-touch and a few kindly words — frivolous, 
 perhaps, but kindly — possibly epigrammatic, 
 is good. Conversation does not mean long, 
 preachy, teachy, talky discourses. One must 
 learn to condense, as in a telegram, "in ten 
 words," or a telephone. "Boil it down," says 
 the wise "Autocrat of the Breakfast Table," 
 "whether it is conversation, MSS., or greens." 
 And when you go home you will remember these 
 brief, bright words and messages, and thank 
 goodness that bores are out of fashion. And 
 
 heart to heart talks" take too much vitality, 
 and develop too much egotism and self-con- 
 sciousness. 
 
 And there's another old notion exploded. 
 "Never forget yourself in company." 
 
 But doy by all means, forget yourself. You can 
 enjoy your own company at any time. Now is 
 your chance to get new ideas, see new objects, 
 obtain new impressions. You may even acquire 
 a bit of wisdom, if on the lookout for it. One 
 does not, nowadays, go out in best clothes with 
 a card case for calls. It ends with cards, if you 
 do. But in a kindly, joyous, friendly crowd you 
 get the sweetness of many visits. You move 
 about, you see those you seldom see, you see 
 your familiar friend, you need not stay long 
 with any one, acceptable or otherwise ; you need 
 not shake them off, for they do not expect to 
 remain long with you. You cannot overeat on 
 tea and cakes. Others come and go; plans can 
 be laid for other meetings. 
 
 Long live the afternoon tea! for it is a picture 
 whose perspective constantly changes, and for 
 
 [114] 
 
which summer sun shines and winter fires blaze 
 — where Easter flowers bloom, and spruce tree 
 and pine tree and cedar, together, welcome 
 friends at Christmas time for a kind word and 
 a cup of tea. 
 
 [115] 
 
INDIAN SUMMER 
 
 IT is not nearly night — 
 Although the shadows lengthen. 
 Although the cool winds strengthen, 
 The western sun shines bright. 
 
 There has been frost, 'tis true; 
 Red leaves cling to the tree — 
 The wind blows fresh and free. 
 
 And sunny days grow few. 
 
 Bright curves the new moon's ray. 
 The planets burn like lamps — 
 Or fires in hunters' camps — 
 
 No night, 'tis but the close of day. 
 
 Fall odors fill the air, 
 
 'Tis ripeness, not decay; 
 
 An Indian Summer day, 
 'Tis bright and cool, but very still and fair. 
 
 How fair the sky! 
 
 How fresh the evening breeze 
 Sings through the naked trees! 
 
 No earthly sound nor cry! 
 
 The hour of rest draws near. 
 
 The time of blessed rest 
 
 (Of earthly things the best) 
 Falls through the evening clear. 
 
 The day was very long. 
 
 Sometimes the load was sore 
 That wearily we bore — 
 
 But like a Sabbath song, 
 
 [116] 
 
 XlO'? 
 
Sweet as a brooding dove, 
 
 Through evening cool and calm, 
 Comes sleep like Sabbath Psalm, 
 
 Peace in her hands, and love. 
 
 "He gave to His beloved sleep," 
 It was not dreary night, 
 And in the east shines bright 
 The sun of holy hope, across the deep. 
 
 [117] 
 
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