Well, folks, here she is!

We announce today the new Household Editor, not to take the place of Faith, but to take up her work.

It has been a long and arduous search, but we feel certain that we have found, right here in the corn belt, of course, a young woman who has the heart for the work, judgement seasoned by a brief but intense period of experience as head of an active farm household, and unusual facility and charm in expression.

And we call her "Hope"--just because it seemed the natural thing to do.

The Applications

But first let us got back. It was on July 17 that Faith Felgar passed away, peacefully, rich in the love of a great throng of devoted readers, in her heart the songs of praise and gratitude that for many years had poured in to her from the four corners of the bread-basket of America. She left a great unfinished work. Somebody must carry it on: somebody must take the vacant place of leadership in a household of willing workers devoted to the common cause of happier and healthier farm homes.

Who?

We didn't have the faintest idea. So we offered the suggestion that there was an opportunity open for some farm mother "endowed with a great love for humanity and a great talent for expression." Even before that announcement appeared many applications had reached us. Afterward they came in a veritable deluge.

And as they piled up before us from day to day, more and more they brought home to us what a wonderful interest there is in this department. No greater tribute to Faith has been paid than these applications. The finest bunch of letters any editor ever read! If there were a dozen misspelled words in the whole lot they escaped our notice. Letters from women widely known: letters from women who had never written a word for publication. Here, we said, is represented the very cream of corn belt womanhood.

But what a problem! How could a choice be made with any assurance that it was the right one? In that we soon found we were not to be without help. Testimonials from all sorts of sources, from members of congress up, poured in. But they could not count for much, except as to character. Few outside our own editorial staff, we felt, were competent to pass on the qualifications necessary to conducting this Household, which is different from any other, and must be kept so.

Our Only Reliance

Thus we carried the problem around with us, almost 24 hours a day, and more and more felt that our reliance must finally rest in our own judgement, faulty as it might be. There was no other way.

There the applications were, more than 400 of them, from twelve different states. Every one received a careful, thoughtful reading. They were read, even between the lines--perhaps too much so! Many sent in clippings of things they had published; many submitted unpublished samples of their writing, most of which will appear in this department during the next few weeks, unidentified as such, of course.

There were personal interviews with some who came to our office and with others who came in the interest of applicants; there were telegrams, registered letters, special delivery letters, photographs, and so on. One thing we want understood. There was no personal influence of any kind, or of the slightest character in connection with the considerations of any applicant. So far as they went we were perfectly cold-blooded, and remained so! The best interests of the department alone ruled.

Her Application

Among all these splendid letters there was one to which we found ourselves turning again and again, for further consideration and study. We can't explain what it was there, something intangible, but whatever it was it appealed to us. It might not have appealed to everybody in the same way. We recognize that. But we thought we found there something of Faith's spirit of service for which we were looking. This applicant asked herself a good many questions, and answered them. For instance:

 "'Have I the right experience?' Well, I am a real farmer's wife. I have been married nine years and have three children. We have had the average joys and trials that come to such a life. We have had sickness, disappointments, financial burdens, a fire that destroyed our home. We have had, also much health, happiness and fun; so that we have ample courage to strive along. As a housekeeper and mother I did not start at the point of perfection, nor have I yet attained it. I have made mistakes enough. Heaven knows, to give me charity and sympathy for all the errors under the sun."

There is more than experience in that--something of humility, humor and sympathy. And again:

"'Are my interests broad enough and my sympathies great?' Well, I know I love the country--all its manifold occupations. Its busy-ness as well as its leisure, its limitations and its pathos as well as its virility and its beauty. I can see in it both romance and reality. And I love the people of the country--and of the town. I would use my talents, such as they are, in assembling, organizing and disseminating the facts that riper, wiser,  more experienced folk among us might contribute, for the aid of the perplexed and the yearning younger ones seeking help."

And she appreciated Faith. "What we must do is continue her optimism, her tolerance, her humor, her fine response to all beauty, her practical common sense."

We Inquired Further

Well, any way, we inquired further. We found that the applicant and her husband were both college graduates, she in domestic science, he in agriculture. And we found that together they were putting into practice the cream of the things taught them, and evidently doing it successfully.

Just at the moment they are living with his father and mother, awaiting the completion of their new house, replacing the structure that burned to the ground a few months ago.

We aren't going to take space to tell about their farming, or the farm organization and community activities of this enterprising family. We just want to say that they are real farm folks who love the life they are leading and have faith in their business, who have the same problems to meet and the same recreational opportunities of farm folks everywhere. They are not rich and by the same token they are not poor. We would call them simply thrifty and prosperous--typical of the best to be found in American farm life.

Her Name

Our new Household Editor will follow the precedent set by Faith in adopting a pen name, and by it will always be known to most of our readers. Outside of following in Faith's footsteps in the matter, there are practical reasons for it which need not be gone into here. So far as that goes, one name is a good as another--it is the character of the work that counts, and the knowledge that there is back of it an honest and urgent desire to be helpful.

It had to be "Hope," of course, following "Faith." Before it ever occurred to us, that suggestion began to come in, and we add to it "Needham," an old family name of the new editor's tribe. So there it is : "Hope Needham."

An Appeal

Which leads to the suggestion that she is likely to need more than ham, right at the start, if that very crude pun may be permitted. She will need help, and we take this opportunity to ask it for her. Goodness knows, her task is going to be difficult enough. And it really isn't hers alone. All the readers of the department must share in it if the work is to be as successful as it should be. So send in your suggestions, your comments and your criticisms. Write to Hope about anything under the sun. Inquiries will be answered, by her or somebody else, and confidences will be held sacred by her just as they were by Faith.

Tomorrow Hope Needham will make her initial bow. Be kind to her, be helpful, be tolerant--that the usefulness of the department may continue as it was Faith's wish that it should.

Dear Friends: 

Today opens a new chapter in our Household. I have as many misgivings as any of you as to how successful it will be. I only know that all of the loyal Householders will go valiantly along together, after the sudden loss of our leader, as she would have us do. And I know, too, that while any one of the 400 applicants might have done as well as or better than I as editor, not a one of us, regardless of talent or endeavor, could ever make a successor of the column without the continued support of all of you; without your help, your co-operation and your sympathy. For it is your column, not any editors. That is what makes it different from any others of its class. It has an unequaled spirit of friendliness and intimacy.

I don't know how I happened to be chosen from among so many. I know I wanted earnestly to have the chance to try. My husband and I began to take this paper when our children were not much more than babes in arms, because we wanted a paper that we could keep on taking after the children learned to read. We could not bear the thought of exposing their innocent minds to a paper where the headlines of crime and scandal overwhelmed all other news. We chose this paper as one that presented all the news in a wholesome manner, properly balanced in importance.

Came to Know Faith

Of course, it was not long after we began getting the paper before I found Faith's fascinating column, and from then on I did not miss an issue up to the day of her death. Having followed it so regularly, I felt bitterly broken at that abrupt tragedy. Like so many of the rest of you, I offered my services, not because I felt that I could take charge and swing the work with a grand gesture, but because the work needed to go on. Who ever took hold would need to start with a real desire to serve and grow into it. It was a magnificent tribute to the value of the Household that so many were willing to make the necessary sacrifices to help.

By some fate or other, the choice fell on me. I felt then that it would have been a relief not to have won! The magnitude of the task fairly staggered me. It began to look like an impossible sacrifice of privacy. It was with fear and trembling that I went in to the office for an all-day conference with the editor and the staff. But I met there such a cordial, friendly, helpful spirit, and found so many brave and cheerful letters that had come to the Household since Faith's death that it was like coming into the "shadow of a great rock in a thirsty land." I want to tell all of you that our paper is the product of exceptionally fine ideas. We can be proud to have a part in it. I came away from my first conference humble, for the work is vast; proud, because the service is great, and unafraid because you are with me.

It Is "Our" Column

Every one needs a means of self-expression. Artists use sculpture, paintings, music, and poetry; scientists use the laboratory. Some of us build bridges, houses and roads; some raise choice live stock and crops; some of us make homes out of houses and rear families Every one, I say, needs some means of expression This column is ours. I am going to pour myself into it, my hopes and ambitions, problems and achievements, even as I want you to do yours. You may write under a real or assumed name, but you can be perfectly free. We can in our column discuss big or little things, commonplace or noble, ridiculous, or sublime. I want to get acquainted with you and have you feel acquainted with me. I want to tell you, as the days go by, about my husband and little children, our new house, our garden and poultry, our work and play, so that you may know that I am really one of you, with the same mistakes and struggles and triumphs the rest of you had when you were at my stage in life, or will have when you reach that stage.

If something any of us write strikes an answering chord in your heart, please tell us while the reaction is warm within you. It is your chance to express yourself. Send in suggestions that have helped you, even though they seem trivial. They may be important to some of the rest of us. Ask for help in any household matter, even though you would be too timid to ask for it anywhere else Our circle is so big that you can surely find help even for the most unusual needs. Write to me freely and often. It will help and encourage me, and it will show me that, for Faiths sake, you are going to stand by until we get under way again. It will be in a way your tribute to Faith.

If There are Delays

If any of you have written since her death, or even shortly before that time, and have had no acknowledgment either through the paper or personal letter, please be patient just a little longer. Some of the material that I found among the Household mail will be a little out of season now, but I believe we will use it all any way, for this time, and, when we get straightened around, we will be more careful to get material printed in a timely order I will use all materials as fast as I can find room for it. If you are at all anxious about your inquiries, feel perfectly free to write again. there is a chance that some of the material will be overlooked when there is so much of it to be sorted at one time.

We must never forget that it was Faith's extraordinary personality that built the department into what it is. Without her scope of interest, her abundance of experience and her generosity of heart, it could not have become so great Now that she has gone, our loyalty and our gratitude induce us to "carry on," so that the glow of her life, which tinged may lives so richly, may linger and for a long time color our horizon.

A successor to Faith can only hope, in the beginning, to assume the routine office duties of the Household; work over the accumulated mail, sort and arrange the inquiries and helps But as we gradually grow accustomed to the change, and as I come, more and more into contact with all of your lives, I trust that I will be able to make a little place for myself in your hearts, and become, as Faith was, your counselor and friend.

Now is the time to take care of the surplus apples, all the early varieties that make such lovely sauce. As I sat on the screened porch this morning, working on a bushel or so of Duchess and Early Transparents, I could see barns, yards, garden and chicken house, and the horses and cows beyond knee-deep in clover." My mind wandered idly over many, many matters I got to wondering why we cling to farm life in spite of its hardships and hard times. I wondered why a hired man, for instance, with no ties to hold him any particular place, will stick to farming year in and year out, when he could get higher cash wages at the factory in town. I though of our different men of whom I had asked the question The answer often was, "Oh, I don't know: I've tried both; but there's something about the country ____!" and they never were able to express it any further.

There is something about the country that gets into the blood. When we are actually there, working all day, sleeping all night, we often are unconscious of the appeal for weeks on end. But leave the country for a while, or suddenly let some beautiful aspect strike you and you thrill from the roots of your hair to your toes. I get that thrill sometimes when I am first one up on a spring morning, when the light is still faintly gray and the only sounds are the almost inaudible twitter of birds and insects and the still so tiny that they only make an impalpable mist among the trees; when the hickory buds are still pink and crumpled like a baby's first.

In Early Morn

I get that thrill early on a midsummer morning when I step out to the well and look upon a green and golden world that is breathless at its own beauty; when the grain shocks are tawny hammocks in the stubble that has commenced to show green and the tassels of the corn are golden crowns: when you feel that the day will be "a scorcher," but for that exquisite hushed moment the world is bathed in the lingering coolness of the night and the last white mist hangs at the horizon.

I got it in the friendly dusk of early autumn, when the family scatters over lawn and porch quiet and satisfied with a hard days work well done Or in husking days, when the men have finished their sausage and hot cakes, I follow them outdoors for a breath of the tang, crisp air, and find the world still dark except for a strip of light in the east. Or in the winter afternoon, when the leaden sky, low and somber, meets the bare plowed lands and the dreary withered cornfield, and the gaunt trees resist the winter wind. I feel a fierce thrill of loyalty to a land that for all its bleakness can be at times so fair.

I get the thrill (did you ever, too?) when I wake suddenly, for no reason at all on a full moonlight night. Everything familiar seems mysterious and remote My heart fairly flops over at the immensity of life I marvel and I almost cringe with awe; and then the persistent, brooding silence, and the unearthly light finally flood my being with a strange comfort and rest, and soothe me gently back into the arms or rest.

In the Kitchen, Too

I get a thrill when I set a row of topaz and rub jellies on the window sill and revel in the sunlight pouring through I get it when the bread comes from the oven golden-brown and plump, or when I see a line of white clothes against a blue sky and pink hollyhock background. (I love hollyhocks! They are gracious, satin-soft and delicate, but they stand straight and brave and true. They are symbolic of the country itself; they are beautiful-- and brave)

I get the thrill when I look upon my babies asleep, and think with a tightening of the throat, that if I can raise them right they will live for years and years to thrill to the cycle of the seasons, and their children and children's children will still enjoy the country after I am gone.

Tell me, do you, too, love the country in these ways? Amid all the monotony and labor of the farm, in spite of trouble and worry and sacrifice, do you, sometimes, get the thrills that compensate for every hardship? If you do, you will understand what any one means who says, "there is something about the farm___!"

Years ago, before I was born, the little postoffice nearest our place bore the quaint name of Sunrise. In those days, the postoffice was the black walnut desk of my grandfather. He came to the open prairie when there was nothing such to be seen except sky and prairie grass They must have chosen the name as the Indians choose the name of the newborn child. They name it for the first object that meets the view when the Indian mother opens her eyes. The sunrise on the prairie was probably the most prominent, and, indeed the only object, except the sky and land, when grandfather cogitated on a name for his postoffice. The old name is only a memory now, but in this column, I shall call our community that still. The country now is well-settled, amply planted, prosperous and beautiful. The years have rolled along and our children are the fourth generation to live on the land. Unless we consolidate, they will attend the same one-room schoolhouse their father and grandfather attended. The family is not unique; in our community, and probably in yours, too, there are a number of the pioneer families clinging to the same communities. This old stock is important to America. Even though it came to America from the Old World only three or four generations ago, it is the realest American stock we have It is important that our children carry on the traditions.

Just now I don't mean the sober tradition of the strenuous labor, either, though that is essential, but I am thinking of the spirit that many of us remember nothing about; the spirit that kept those brave pioneers from despairing in the midst of danger and privation - the spirit of play.

Interest Change

We are beyond the good old days of the quilting bees and husking bees and square dances in those mammoth living-room kitchens of long ago. The telephone, automobile and radio have changed our interests much. But we farm people ought to stick together for part of our social life, at least. We are gradually learning to work together; let us keep on playing together, too.

Here at Sunrise we have a community club for young and old that meets once a month for a program, and often serves lunch afterward during a social hour. We have a building owned by the club and occasionally give plays and pageants and bazaars in addition to the regular meetings We have an open-country church, too, It is none too well-supported to be true, but many own churches are not, either We have other clubs and meetings that keep us somewhat together in spite of attractions in the towns. In that degree, we are continuing the old-time spirit of our ancestors But just this summer, amusement parks and dance halls have opened up along the hard roads. What these will do eventually to our rural meetings no one can tell.

I wish you would tell us bout your communities, your recreations and churches and how you meet the problem of keeping the young people satisfied on the farm.

Such a good discussion of some threshing problems has come in that I am going to share it with you today even though threshing is over with most of us by now.

Now ordinarily, I have no objections to threshers. We give no breakfasts or suppers and usually know what will be expected of us. I like the old-fashioned idea of feeding the men a substantial, well-planned meal, having a lot more women folks fussing around over them than you really need, and making a regular gala day of it. Threshing is hot, dirty work at best, and the men deserve whatever fun they can get out of it. I like to see the table handsomely set out and decorated with flowers, even though the men claim not to notice such things. But if women overwork and strain to outdo others in the elaborateness of the the meal, they lose the holiday spirit entirely. I would rather use oilcloth and cups without saucers and keep the cooks jolly and cheerful and hospitable.

But I feel unusually sympathetic with the points this writer brings out, for I had some of the same problems that she refers to. In the first place, we had less than half a day's threshing, so that I knew it was problematical whether or not I would have dinner to cook. When machine trouble delayed the crew a few minutes, or when a shower stopped the work, the schedule was changed enough from day to day that I really was not sure until Monday morning that I would have them Tuesday noon -- provided nothing happened. That meant I must get the washing over bright and early for with little children I find I can't postpone the washing to a "convenient" time. The regular time is about the only time there is a chance to do it.

In the meantime, I received a letter from the editor of our paper that he had received my application and would be down to interview me. You can imagine just how opportune a time it was for such a momentous occasion -- an interview at which I wanted specially to appear calm, capable, poised, and untroubled, to be sandwiched between a heavy family wash and the preparations for the annual threshing dinner!

Anyway, I finished the washing, fed the family, bathed and dressed the three children and myself, loaded us into the family flivver, and drove 10 miles to town to meet the train. On the way out I stopped and bought the threshing meat, for I did not see when there would be another chance. Of course, I planned to can it in the pressure cooker if anything happened to prevent the threshers from coming, but I really didn't need canned beef, as I had an ample supply left from last winer's home-killed stuff. But I got it: and by the time I reached home with the family, the meat, the cream can, and the editor, the sky was banking up in the west and nasty little flickers of lightning were darting out to tantalize an discourage me.

You would have enjoyed the scene of that interview. It was far from being the formal, concise and perfect thing it should have been. The children, having missed their naps, were none too tractable. They brought forth innumerable trophies of various sorts to display to this stranger who wanted to talk to their mother but was too fascinating to be let alone. I am obliged to say they even had a few sharp words among themselves as to who was going to show him something first. Only a patience developed by actual experience with boys of his own could have kept that editor with me long enough to ask the necessary questions.

However, he stood it till train time, and after he had left the weather looked so dubious that I did not risk doing any baking or preparing anything at all for threshing dinner except a great lot of applesauce, which I figured I could can if I didn't need it fresh. By that time I hoped it would storm and storm hard. I felt strongly on the matter. I was about fed up with uncertainty, both in the threshing business and editorial matters. But morning dawned serene and fair, as perfect a day as any one could wish. I had threshers, all right, after a strenuous morning, but with no more graciousness, I am afraid, than the law allowed. Of course it was no one's fault. But wouldn't it have been lovely for me if I could have known, definitely and without question, that I would have them or not have them, or that they would be taken care of efficiently and fairly by some such means as our contributor suggests?

Memory Gem

For every evil under the sun,
There is a remedy or there is noe.
If there be one, try and find it;
If there be none, never mind it.

--Selected by Mrs. E.B. Vilonia, Ark.

Last Sunday the preacher at our little Sunrise church said in his sermon that some people were so very good, so very anxious to be pious, that they concentrated on the First Commandment and never got any farther. They overlooked the fact that, while the First Commandment specified "Thou shalt love the Lord they God with all thy heart," the Second continues, "And another like unto it is this, Thou shalt love they neighbor as thyself."

If you had had the privilege of reading the letters that have some to the Household since Faith's death, you would feel, with a great thrill, that here is a place where everyone follows the Second Commandment faithfully and well. Ever so many readers of the column have sent in splendid contributions that will help me immensely I these first early days, and will keep you interested, too, for they are meaty articles, cram full of ideas, well expressed. B.H.M. sent in a wealth of helps, and marked them, "Use these if you need them in the lean days to come: if not, no damage done." Pep of Minnesota continues to contribute abundantly. Margaret Cameron, Lillian A. David and others too numerous to list here today, have helped immeasurably. Many letters say, "I want to help," "We must all pull together." "We must keep the good work going." and similar neighborly, generous things, without a single note of selfishness or jealousy. It is wonderful to find such spirit. It is a help and inspiration to all of us. If there were only time, I would write every one of you a personal letter and thank you for your loyalty.

This morning we woke to see a cold, heavy dew sparkling on yard and roof and tree. There was a chill in the air and a sort of wide, sad hush over everything. The grain fields were bare; the first cosmos were in bloom (that gallant foreteller of coming cold, that stands till the frost strikes again and again): the asparagus row was a luxuriant mass with the berries just beginning to glint red; the melon vines were beginning to wither, feeding their gorgeous vitality into their offspring. Truly late August is the middle-age of the year. Every where is the premonition of fall; the ending of one generation's work; the sacrifice of foliage and exuberance for the sake of the fruit; the hint of approaching winter and rest.

So goes the cycle of the seasons and of life. Soon the babies will be school children: then college students: then full grown men and women. And we, like the vines and the tress and the rest of nature, will sink gently into rest, having drawn sustenance from the elements only to give it to these our fruit, so that they might be strong and rich and in their turn grow and sustain life, and having spent their beauty pass along.

These are the sad thoughts that first signs of autumn bring to use. But a little later, when we have adjusted ourselves to the new order, we will find invigoration in the tang of fall; we will have more zest when the air is crisp and cold; even, if we make the most of opportunity, grow richer, more colorful and handsome in the autumn season, as the trees do. And as Faith put it, "Grow lovely, going old."

Next week little sister starts to school again. She is in the third grade. I will just have brother and sonny to keep me company in the new house then. But 4-year-olds and 3-year-olds can be lots of company and lots of help.

I wonder why it is that we mothers always feel sad when the babies start to school? It must be a sort of jealousy. We are so used to being the biggest part of our child's world!

We are jealous of the widening world. We are afraid to compete with the new personalities that are going to loom large in the baby's life. The new things, the strange places are most attractive to use all. We are afraid that we will lose our place on a pedestal. And very likely we will. It is natural for a growing child to take its mother as a matter of course, as he takes and day and night, heat and cold, breakfast, dinner and supper. It will be the outside things that thrill him, and change him and make him grow.

But there is always this consolation: After the busy school years, when our babies settle down to life and have babies of their own, they will turn to us again, with a bigger and deeper appreciation of our love. Especially our daughters will grow nearer and dearer to use through the experience we all must meet. And from that time on, mother will have again her place on the pedestal, and will become more and more the object of devotion. That is when we shall have our reward.

So during these growing years of the babies, let us be "up and doing with a heart for any fate." We had better be busy and happy in other things wile we wait.

When we moved into the new house, the telephone had not been installed,  and it was not put in for a week. We felt much abused at having to send messages back and forth bye the men and the children. But being so thoroughly happy at having a home again, and being busy as well, I did not quite get out of temper. Instead, as I scrubbed plaster off of windows and floors and sorted through boxes and chests, I got to thinking of the years when no one had a telephone and managed nicely without. I thought of my father and mother starting out their married life on a "homestead" in Nebraska. Twenty miles from a railroad, no telephone, no car, no fuel but buffalo chips, no building but what they made themselves, no trees and not much other vegetation--not much of anything but sand. They had sandstorms and sand hills. "Old Baldy" was a sand mountain in the distance. Sometimes, when my father had to go to town for supplies, my mother would be alone on the prairie for a week at a time. Five children were born out there, with no doctor nearer than twenty miles, and no hospital in fifteen hundred square miles.

In Contrast

In contrast, we have house within a mile of a dozen neighbors. We can get to a doctor or one of the best hospitals in the state in half an hour. We can order our groceries in the early morning, when the stock is fresh and have everything ready to bring out whenever we want them. We can telephone or telegraph to any place in the United States in the time it takes to make the connection. Surely there is little to complain of.

Yet the telephone man was greeted with a smile, and the brisk Clear bell ringing every few minutes makes the place seem like home!

Wonder if you missed me much last week? I was so dreadfully busy getting settled and feeding silo-fillers and hay0makers that I took a vacation from the pen and made use of your good contributions. Thank you every one for furnishing so much good material.

We are gradually getting to rights in the new house. Much finishing needs to be done, both indoors and out, but I am so delighted at having a home again that I don't see unfinished woodwork and floors at all, or heaps of brick and ashes in the yard. I see instead soft shining ivory enamel, and satiny floors, and a mahogany handrail that leads to a graceful goose neck turn at the landing.

I stand at that landing and look out of the double casement window on the yard and garden, with a heart content. For instead of a pile of lumber and a carpenter's work-bench, I see a row of hollyhocks and a trellised gateway. Instead of sun-baked grass and a heap of radiators waiting to be installed, I see a smooth lawn with some garden seats and a little pool and a bird-house and a sun-dial. Instead of a pile of unturned clay, I see a green velvet terrace with a border of roses and a path leading down to an old-fashioned flower-garden. And I see all around about, hiding every bare and ugly spot, clumps of sumach and blossoming shrubs.

I see a long way into the future don't I? For it will be a long slow task to build our place into what we want it to be. We must wait for somethings till we have time, and for others till we have money. And in the meantime the daily tasks go on.

Sometimes I get discouraged and weepy, remembering our spacious old house, with its generous rooms and its lofty ceilings. I mourn over my lost wedding dress and our treasured letters and college keepsakes and the babies' memory boxes. One of the dearest memories of my childhood is a picture of us children sitting with mother beside her keepsake trunk and looking, big-eyed, at one treasure and another of her girlhood, while she told us the stories of each one. When I think that I shall not have any such a trunk to pore over with my babies, I get all twisty in my throat. I shall not be able to go through the old house in after years and say to the children, "Here is where Cousin Grace stood to be married." "Here is the window where great-aunt Emma sat and picture pages for you." "Here is the room where Ruth was born." "Here is the dress in which I was married."

Then I remind myself of what one dear friend wrote us right after the fire: "It is sad to lose the keepsakes, but those things we have with us for only a little while, after all!"

So I remember how I used to struggle to keep those generous rooms and lofty ceiling clean. I remember that our rambling, hospitable old house was lovable, but most awfully inconvenient. And that those keepsakes were lucky to be looked at twice a year, at housecleaning time.

So I cast away gloom, and rejoice in the new home that we never would have had except for the fire--and plan to pile up new treasures for the years to come.

Sunday evening, and Daddy and I sit before the flickering fire. The children are snug in bed and all the house is still. A few minutes ago the air was filled with happy talk and laughter, as we had our cocoa and cinnamon toast before the fire. And I sit wondering how many of you Householders are at this hour meditating and resting with your children put away and your husband by your side in those same wordless communication.

It has been a day of excitement and joy. For last night at midnight my own dear family arrived to spend an unexpected few hours with use. We were in bed when two cars turned in the lane with a merry tootling of horns and flashing of spotlights on the house. Some one called, "Any room for tourists?" And Dady answered back, "No, we have a full house now!" Then the crowd laughed uproariously, and out of the cars piled mother and father and sisters and brother and babies, 10 in all. They had brought camp cots with them. They had started on the spur of the moment, for the baby sister and her husband were only home for a week, and rain threatened until late afternoon. Such hilarity, such hugging and kissing! It was a long time before all the new babies had been inspected and the house settled itself to slumber. There were cots in the alcove and living room, and all the five bedrooms were filled. Two of the men slept in a cot in the car. The six little grandchildren, who had been scattered from South Dakota to Ohio, were under one roof for the first time. They ranged from 8-year-old Ruth to the newest baby, Phyllis, aged one month.

Proud Family!

What time the family did not talk about and admire the new house, they talked about and admired the Household department. Of course, they are proud as Punch to have a member of the family in charge. The office was admired and the scrapbook was pored over. Constantly I heard the exclamation, "What a wonderful spirit!" What a different sort of Household department!"

Now that the family has gone and we are quiet again, I sit thinking about all of you, realizing what a tremendous responsibility I have in this job--wondering how I can serve you best. The clerical part, the handling of mail, the filing of records, is merely a professional job. There is nothing personal about it. But there is nothing professional in the editorials I write to you. They are my personal contribution to our Household, in return for the gifts I have had from you and Faith. "Freely ye have received; feely give."

What You Make It

I want to make the Household just what you want it most to be. From your letters it seems to me that you do not expect me to be a research agent, or a home demonstrator, or an encyclopedia. You do not expect me to know everything nor to answer all inquiries. You know that I am only one of you. You want me to put you in touch with one another. You want me to tell you about my life, not because it is different from yours, but because it is like yours. You want some one to cheer you when you are in the valley of shadows; you want some one to understand when you are happy. You want me to say the things you think but have no time to say. You want a daily contact with people who lead your sort of life. It is as though I completed the circuit that enables the start of fellowship to travel from one to another in our circle of mothers and home-makers.

When you write to me, I am glad to have you tell me your children's names and ages, and the things you do. It makes you seem more real to me. There is not space enough to print all these things, but they bring me closer to you and make it possible for me to reflect you in the editorials I write for you.

It is Our Paper and Our Household. Write and tell me if this is what you want to the Household to be.

We have two good letters today about houses; one about a dream house some time to be built, and one about a real house that has been lived in three years. I want to add a word about our new house. Like "Agatha," I had ideals of the home we would some day build. We were hurried by the fire into building some time before we were ready. And when we came actually to doing the work, I found that I couldn't have everything I wanted. I compromised on many points, but, some way, the place is all the dearer to us because we had to wrestle with reality to get part of our dreams into it.

You ask if I have a sleeping porch. No, I haven't; nor a sun room, either. Not because I didn't want them or hadn't always planned on having them, but because I found I wanted other things worse. For instance, we will have hot water heat. It cost a lot, but we wanted it badly enough to give up other things for it. I may be able to have the sleeping porch and sun room later, but if we had not put in hot water heat now, we probably would never have had it.

To Fit Old Basement

We modified our plans according to the basement we had. The old basement, with its concrete floors, was intact after the fire, except for some straightening needed on the walls. Excavating a new basement would have added about $1,500 to the cost of the house. We decided we would rather use the old site and the old walls and put that $1,500 somewhere else.

We did not put tile floors in kitchen, washroom, and bath. There, too, we met the problem of what we wanted contending with what we could have. I feel that I am going to be perfectly happy without them, now that we have decided on something else. I wanted casement windows, too, for they are so beautiful and so airy But I gave them up, though they would have cost but little more, on account of the danger of their not being weather-tight, and account of the problems of draperies and curtains. If they open out, they are weather-tight, but you have to have your screens inside, right against the curtains. If they open in, they are not weather-tight, usually, and they are likely to interfere with any design of draperies.

But here are some of the things I have that make me satisfied to give up some of the extra things I have mentioned: I have a big, open, light, clean basement, with a wide outside door where the men can carry out ashes, or carry in vegetables and heavy things. In the kitchen I have a dumb-waiter, a big broom closet, a roomy pan closet, a built-in ironing board, two flour bins, lots of drawer and cupboard space, plenty of working surfaces of varying heights, so I can sit or stand, a ladder stool, a generous sink, a table on casters that can be pulled out in the middle during working hours or for a pick-up meal for the children and me, and can be pushed back when the room is tidied up. There are three windows in the kitchen and a space for an ice-box when I get one. As soon as it can be built, I am to have a fuel box with a metal top, just as high as the range. It will do away with unsightly fuel pails and will provide a good place for hot things.

Handy Wash Rooms

I have a first-floor toilet and lavatory and eventually the men will have a bigger wash-room and shower-bath arranged for in the basement. The house is planned so that the men never need to come through the kitchen to get to any part of the house. The kitchen is my "castle," my workshop, not a passage-way. There is a part of the living-room partly portioned off for Daddy's office. It has an outside door, so that when he brings callers in to look over the records, he does not need to go into any other room. There is a nook in the back hall where the children can put their play coats, caps, mittens, and rubbers, and reach them for them selves. There are five bedrooms, with big closets; there is a bathroom, a linen closet, a blanket closet, and a clothes chute. There is a fireplace, and there is a lovely staircase.

The house itself is my ideal; typical Colonial, with a formal center entrance and a hall straight through from front to back, with the dining room and kitchen on one hand and the living room on the other. There are wide doorways opening from the dining room and living room on the hall. And French doors lead from the living room to a wide pooch at the east end of the house, next to the lane.

The house is set among the fine old maple and elm trees, that fortunately were not harmed by the fire.

So in spite of the sacrifice of part of our dreams, we are amply satisfied with our home, remembering always that it will grow and improve as the years go on.

Memory Gem

God's plans, like the lilies,
Pure and white unfold.
We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart.
Time will reveal the chalices of gold.

-- Selected by J.C.C, Kansas

At play-time today the children and I wandered around the yard and garden, planning and planing for next spring and trying to imagine how everything will look when it is done. We stopped for a while to watch the men working with brick and mortar. It occurred to me how much bricks and mortar are like people. There are just two kinds of people in the world, after all--the "reformers" and the "diplomats." The reformers are like the bricks--strong, sturdy, unyielding, clean-cut, confident. They will break, but they will not bend. Bricks in a pile are hard on each other. They chip and break. A group of "reformers," those people who believe firmly that they are right and that they have a mission to teach the world, also hurt and spoil one another.

Mortar is yielding and pliable--so much so that we can't tell where it will go unless we confine or support it in some way until it hardens. The "diplomatic" people are like that. Anxious always to smooth the path of life and keep people's sharp corners from hitting those with whom they come in contact. "Mortar people" consider the "brick people" very hard and unpleasant to live with. "Brick people" consider the mortar people too soft and yielding in their moral fiber.

Yet how useless a world it would be made up of just one or the other kind of folks! Those with firm convictions tons would be all at cross-purpose, because each would be trying to reform the world in a different way. The diplomats would never get anywhere at all because they would eternally giving up their convictions in order to get on comfortably with everybody.

But, combined in proper proportions, these two sorts of people build a strong, proud wall of citizenship, smooth and united. We need "brick" people for their strength, and "mortar" people for their tolerance. If we are mortar, let us respect the bricks for their rugged staunchness; if we are bricks, let us not despise those who make life more livable by smoothing up our contacts with humanity.

It all depends upon the point of view! Most every one feels that his own life is narrow and restricted, while his neighbor across the way has extra advantages, joy or leisure. The trouble is that we are like the early feminists who shouted, "Equal rights for women!" when they want all men's rights added to all the privileges of woman. We each want to keep the happy phases of our lives, eliminate the unpleasantness, and get the other fellows pleasures, too. The other day I had a visit from a friend with whom I had struck up one of those immortal college fellowships through being "in activities" together. That is the beauty of college; one finds such an assortment of friends! Many an hour in undergraduate days Tray and I spent discussing the problems of the world; more cynical and more intensely serious than we ever will be again! The night before May Day, when the campus waited in quivering anxiety to see whose names would grace the honor scroll on the senior bench, was a night more pregnant with emotion, more exhilarating and terrifying that if we had been waiting for the ultimatum from Serbia. Everything in which we were interested seemed momentous then; life was full of crises.

Whenever Tray runs out for a weekend visit it brings back those glamours days. And, besides, she leads a thrilling life now, so different from mine that it seems like a fairyland. She runs the household for her well-to-do father (by superintending the servants); she has a job in that most fascinating of professions, advertising (except when some emergency, like a trip to Europe or California, causes her to resign from it), and altogether leads such a blithesome life, meeting stimulating people, reading delightful books, seeing the latest plays, that I quite envy her. She is forever running across old college friends when they happen into the city, entertaining and being entertained by them. She always has the latest news of everyone; she knows who is successful and who is down on his luck, who has written a book, sho is making a name for himself in some unique way.

Just Radiant

Well on this latest visit, Tray was just as radiant and entertaining as ever. We chattered away for hours, and after the supper dishes were done and the children tucked away and daddy gone out for a meeting, we have a late seance before the fire, alone. There is something moody and melancholy about the unsteady flickering of an open fire at night, when there is no other light, and before long great gaps appeared in the conversation, and I was feeling sad and wistful.

"Whatever became of Marj?" "Oh, she is doing wonderful work in Denver. She was in the city last summer and the Theta Sigs gave a beach party for her." (She sees everyone sooner or later! It is as though I am caught in a stagnant little backwater, where I see the same folks day in and day out, going round and round in our little eddy, while she is in the midst of the turmoil where all the rivers come down to the sea!)

"I ran out to Woodsy Cove to see Susan one week-end, where she is running her quaint little tearoom!" (Imagine me dashing in on some one for a week-end, with my little brood! It would be like the charge of the light brigade! I would be as welcome as the German army trampling Belgium.)

A "Darling Dinner"

"We had the darlingest dinner party when Martha and her brand-new husband came to town. Mary is such a jewel of a cook, too; she never minds how many guests we have!" (My cook is a jewel, too; I never have to issue an order to her! When I want a dinner served, I merely decide what is needed, and do it. If I wanted to give a dinner party, when on earth would I feed the hired man? And where would I park the children?)

I was rapidly falling into that early Christian martyr mood in which a person can feel so noble over nothing. The sort of feeling a woman has who "enjoys poor health."

The talk petered out altogether. There was a long, long pause. A sigh or two from each of us. I thought of all the gayeties and frivolities which might adorn a life which did not adorn ours. I thought of pathetic bits of petty, such as "the short and simple annals of the poor." How piteous!

And Then--!

And then, out of a clear sky, came this astounding remark from Tray, with the wistfulest tone:

"You life is just ideal, isn't it?"

I was absolutely bowled over. My amazement must have been evident for she added in explanation: "Your life is so real and so orderly. You have a home and a husband and babies; there seems to be some purpose in what you do. And it makes you seem so safe, so sheltered, so serene. You don't know how I envy you!"

Do you know--I've stood a little straighter, breathed a little deeper, felt a little prouder ever since!

The Mother

I planned to go to England in the spring,
When hedgerows bloom and all the hills are free;
I longed to travel over all the world,
Nor leave a single beauty-spot unseen.
(I have a tiny garden here at home,
To tease me with its hint of springtime green.)

I kept my hand so supple and so white--
An artist's hands, that they might some time play
Great music! But my hands are scarred
And seamed with kitchen drudgery today.
(And my piano sits in soundless state;
I almost never find the time to play!)

I thought that I should sail through southern seas.
Blue as inverted heaven beneath my eyes.
I longed to pick queer tropic fruits from trees
Brightened by nesting birds of paradise.
(Four walls confine my world today--and yet
All heaven lies always in my baby's eyes!)

-- Selected

Christmas! The very word warms the heart, for it is the season of joy and happiness. Why Is it that there is more real joy at the Christmastide than at any other time of year? It is not the weather; it comes in wintry December. Christmas Day, itself, is one of the shortest of the days, we have less daylight than at any other period, yet it is the season of peace and good will, in spite of darkness and cold. Why? The answer to our question is not hard to find: There is more joy in the souls of men because we have just a little more of the spirit of Him whose birth we celebrate. Jesus came into our world and taught men, by His life and death, that the way of joy and peace lies along the road of lobe and service.

It is that spirit that makes Christmas, and wherever men and women practice the "Jesus way" there is peace and joy.

May He who came to Bethlehem in the long ago be welcomed to our hearts and homes this Christmastide, and not only on that day, but all the days.

O Jesus ever with us stay,
Make all our moments calm and bright;
Chase the dark night of sin away,
She o'er the world They holy light.

--P Ivison, Paston of Hopewell Church

This is the Christmas message from our whole community of Sunrise to all of you everywhere. I asked our minister to greet you for us, for Christmas is so much more than a personal matter. It is a world-wide spirit of gentleness, tolerance, and love. Once more, Merry Christmas! --Hope.

"The modern large city, with its emotional stress, its social complexity, its hothouse coddling, its hectic jazz life, is destructive of happiness and manhood... I want to get away from the shrieking taxicabs, the jazz bands, the jammed street cars, the mad hurly-burly, the stench and the smoke.

"Metropolitan civilization hasn't a thing worth possessing, or essential to happiness that I cannot find in the woods and its villages, except a few creature comforts like porcelain tubs, steam heat and the like. Why should a man sell out the only life he has to live on earth, the things that make for happiness -- health, strength, clean air and water, s simple home life with his family, wholesome neighbors, a bit of leisure to read good books, to go trout fishing, to ramble in the woods in October, to live with trees and flowers and birds and wild creatures--why sell out all this for a porcelain bath tub and a gilded radiator?"

This is a recent fervent exclamation from one of the young American poets, Lew Sarett, author of exquisite woodland and Indian poetry in volumes such as "Many, Many Moons," "The Box of God" and "Slow Smoke." He was a picturesque and appealing figure on the campus at Illinois when daddy and I were in college, and we knew him to be sincere and human. He knew hard work, and lonesomeness and poverty, before he won his fame.

Strikes Answering Chord

What he says strikes an answering chord in many of us who love the country. Even though we do not see with poets' eyes; even though we let the dreary grind of daily life blind us to our blessings, there are many of us who would not think of changing our country lives, austere and cramped and primitive thought they be, for the nerve-racking activity of the city -- permanently

And yet there is something in all of us that cries out for the luxuries and softnesses of life. Comfort -- and ease -- and beauty! Sometimes we would barter our very souls to move among silks and satins, gilded radiators and porcelain tubs, gay people, and all the other blessings which civilization has brought. It is no wonder that country people grow discouraged, when they are starved for all these delectable things.

We love the country, and we love nature; but we need no dispise the man-made comforts of life. And we look forward to the time (not so far away) when every country home shall have not only its abundant natural chards, abut softly-glowing lights that come like magic at a touch, many gilded radiators, and at least on porcelain tub! --Hope

No question in the Household has brought quite such a flood of discussion as the important one of "Mrs. Don't Love the Farm." So many splendid letters have been contributed that I can only give a selection of the most representative ones. I have tried to choose a variety of attitudes and circumstances, giving sidelights into our sisters' lives, making up a pretty fair cross-section of our rural corn belt life.

It seems to me quite a tribute to our farmer-husband that in all this flood of letters not one woman complains of a shiftless or lazy husband, a deserter, or a monster. Every husband under scrutiny is a hard worker and a good provider so far as his means allow. Most of the income goes for taxes, interest and living expenses. Not one husband has adorned himself in the latest Oxford bags and other masculine foibles, while his wife and children wanted for shoes. No, the complaint has been, mostly, that in addition to the rugged virtues, the man has not been able to provide leisure-class luxuries on a working man's income, or has not been quite so tenderly sympathetic of his wife's ambitions as he might have been. Not a one of use would want to give up the sterling virtues of stability; we only want the gentler virtues added on. It is a little bit like children crying for the moon, isn't it?

The very fact that we women demand so much proves that with all our "equal rights" we have not come to appreciate that we are, taking it by and large, a sheltered class. We are, most of us, relieved from the economic stress of supporting a family. That stress myst have been terrific on many farmers during the past years. Most of us help, more or less, to be sure, by caring for house, children, dairy products, poultry and such things. But we do not have the actual responsibility of making things go. We should make an effort to realize that we are sheltered and protected in an economic way, and for that reason we have larger responsibilities in other ways.

Has Definite Task

For one thing, it is largely our job to keep up the morale of the family. The husband and father, in strenuous times, has neither time nor energy left . It is up to the mother and wife to decide whether the household will be stern, austere, dull, cross, nagging, quarrelsome, bustling, cheerful, wasteful, shiftless, quiet, noisy or gay. She can make it what she will, by the way in which she meets her duties. In cases where there are little children, she is doing a full-size job just to keep the morale near her ideal. Some women have vitality to carry on considerable social life in addition; many of us have not. And we should not feel rebellious because we have to give up a good many pleasures during the few years when the work of establishing a home is config.

When the children have grown older, our responsibility broadens out, and while we can have more free hours just for personal enjoyment, or even a "career," we have a duty toward community and civic welfare. Many people used to oppose woman suffrage on the ground that it would only double the number of ballots to be counted. They overlooked the fact that they were introducing into politics a new class, a sheltered and protected class, who had time to study community needs and who had ideals of improvement to work toward.

Matthew Arnold once said: "If ever the world sees a time when women shall come together purely and simply for the benefit and good of mankind, it will be a power such as the world has never known." --Hope

Memory Gem

If you would get real joy from living
Put "self" away and take to giving,
Give smiles away and words of cheer,
A kind word there, a kind word here,
Will make this world a better place
And brighten many a troubled face.

Too often we are won't to believe
That life is just a time to grieve.
Better, far, to spread good cheer
And make life brighter while we're here.
He who gets real joy from living
Is he who takes delight in giving.

--Betty

When we get to taking life too seriously, and philosophizing too strenuously, we need a tonic of cheer and humor. Just such a letter as the following one from "Bill's Wife" touches the spot. In the series of discussions of husbands and farm life this sums up the matter pretty fully. It reads as though there is nothing much to it but fun; but it is a good, sound philosophy of life , after all. "Bill's Wife" sees her own faults as well as her husband's; she sees the short-comings of farm life as well as its advantages; and she winds up by saying, "After all, I'd rather Bill was my husband than the husband of some one else!"

It sounds frivolous, but it is really as serious as life itself. We might each make up our minds to be satisfied without our own circumstances and improve them by our own efforts; for we would, none of us, be satisfied with anybody else's. And if we find much that is not to our liking, the best place to begin improvement is with ourselves. According to the old negro spiritual, "It ain't my father nor my mother, my sister nor my bother; it's ME, O Lord! that's stand-in' in the need of prayer!"

Having this old melody on my mind, I must have been singing it unconsciously about the house; for just now I overheard Sonny singing lustily, while he punted nails in his board. "It ain't my fathah nor my mothah; it'th me, O Lo-o-ord! thath standin' in the Needham prayah!" --Hope

Memory Gem

"So many gods, so many creeds,
So many paths that wind and wind;
When just the art of being kind
Is all this sad world needs."

--Selected

Just the other day I came across an old fable or folk story to this effect: A spider spun himself a thread and dropped from the branch of a tree to a rose bush, where he spun a magnificent palace and lived in ease and luxury for a long time. One day he noticed that old thread, which ran from the very midst of his palace up into the air as far as he could see. "What's this thing for?" he cried contemptuously, and with an angry tug he broke the thread cry which he had come to where he was, and his whole palace collapsed.

That little story might be applied to our little old one-room rural schools. They have been the thread by which we have reached our present state of civilization, and now some people want to wrench them away from the school system because they are faulty. Before we condemn them entirely we should give them credit for the good they have done and may still do. When the rural school system was established, it met conditions that existed. The schools were designed to supplement with book learning the rugged physical life of the pioneers. There was no call for the school to provide physical exercise nor moral uplift, fo rah daily life took care of the former and the well established churches took care of the latter. As times changed, town conditions altered considerably, and in order to produce well rounded individuals the city schools need to provide physical activities, as well as some training in this and social contacts. Unless a town school provides courses in manual crafts of various sorts, as well as gymnasium facilities, the pupils are in danger of become physically lazy for there is nothing in the normal city life to take the place of the old-fashioned, active country chores.

Is a Tragedy

To be physically lazy is a tragedy to any individual. It is a treacherous weakness in any character, and it can easily lead to complete demoralization. I think it is the trait of physical laziness which was allowed to develop in city youth that has led to the so-called "crime wave" among adolescents. Purposeful work, such as chores or handcraft, is the ideal means of developing physical activity; but strenuous sports and gymnasium work are better than nothing at all to keep the children fit.

I believe in consolidated country schools. I do not believe in them because, as is often argued, "our children deserve whatever city children have." Our children already have some advantages which city children can never know until they are grown and responsible for a life-work and a family; especially, the immediate and absolute relation between work and its rewards. I believe in consolidated country schools, most of all for the social contacts they provide. The main things our children need that they cannot get from daily Fram life are teamwork and friendly rivalry with their equals. Not many farm families or one-room schools can supply this need.

As I said, the one-room school was designed to provide merely the mental stimulus to pupils. In that respect it is still the equal of many village schools. In large cities the pupils are carefully graded and tested by mentality and are given training suited to their physical and mental needs. In village schools, so far, not so much progress has been made. The other day I talked to a teacher in a village suburb of Chicago. There are 385 pupils in the school and 10 teachers. Each teacher has charge of nearly 40 pupils! And there is no more music, drawing or vocational work than in rural schools. It appears that in a case of that kind a child is better off in a small rural school, where at least he will get more individual attention. (Continued tomorrow) --Hope

As in all other problems, the matter resolves itself into a question of individuals. Given a conscientious teacher, almost any pupil can make a success of school. But in a class of 40 or thereabouts no teacher can hope to meet individual needs. The best she can do Is hold the entire class to an average standard. Both the gifted child and the backward child are handicapped.

The gifted child is likely to get along well in his school work, no matter where he is placed, rural, village or city school. The trouble is that in a large class he is not likely to be busy "to capacity," and he develops bad habits of loafing and has endless chances of getting into mischief. The famous Leopold and Loeb are examples of superior mentality gone wrong; they were not given enough to do. Unless a gifted child can be in a class of his mental equals, he is better off in a rural school with a good teacher than in a village class of average intelligence where the teacher cannot give him individual attention. In a class to himself in the rural school he can at least travel a mental pace proportionate to his abilities. He will lack most in social contacts, but that is something that can be supplied in other ways.

The backward child suffers most from our present system. All his school life he is treated as an "average" child, and if he could get just the right start he probably would be "average." But so many slow children get a wrong start and all through school like they struggle with their lessons; they ahem that heart-twisting, hunted, baffled look in their eyes whenever they recite; they are terrified at examination time. They are thwarted in every way, and they grow to hate and dread the very name of school.

Should Be Easy

Poor darling! Learning should be as easy and delightful as picnicking on the hillside. There should be some hard climbing, some rough spots, but there should always be the lure and the joy of "getting on." there should be sunshine and romance and feasts of delight.

When I hear a backward child recite in school, trying so desperately to fit into the "average" scheme, it reminds me of -- well let's use a homely farm example. It is like a Mason jar lid which has started on at a wrong slant and about the second turn it gains to find and stick and squeak, and no amount of tugging will make it fit into the grooves. We try and try again and finally in most cases, if we start it right, the cap winds easily over the grooved path and slips into place to make a perfect seal. But with our children it is harder to go back and try again, and we find many of them stuck at about the second round; and all our trigging and forcing and pushing and twisting, all through their school lives, is not enough to help them over the road; and when they finally "finish school" there is still an awful gap between childhood and normal intelligent adult life.

When I see a little child being crowded out of so much happiness because he can't follow the beaten path, I feel like saying: "You blessed thing. I can't stand to see you suffer any more. Let's throw all the books and all the schools to the wind, and we'll go outdoors together and play in the sun and the wind, and somewhere, after a while, some way, we'll find your natural way to learn, and we'll help you get your share of all the sweetness and light which civilization has garnered for you!" --Hope

Speaking once more of schools, I must pass on to you a quotation I have just run across in regard to the importance of selecting teachers for our children. This bit of wisdom is somewhere between two and three hundred years old, I suppose, for it comes from Roger Eascham in the time of Queen Elizabeth and Will Shakespeare. It seems to be as sound in principal today as ever:

"It is a pity that commonly more care is had, yea and that amongst very wise men, to find out rather a cunning man for their horse than a cunning man for their children. They say nay in word, but they do so in deed. For to the one they will gladly give a stipend of 200 crowns and loth to offer to the other 200 shillings. God that sitteth in heaven laugheth their choice to scorn and rewardeth their liberality as it should, for he sufferers them to have a tame and well ordered horse, but wild and unfortunate children, and therefore in the end they find more pleasure in their horse than comfort in their children." --Hope

Memory Gem

Self-help is the most dependable, and is always ready at hand. 

-- Selected.

"I look for a storm about Tad's letter," wrote a Household sister, and she was right. The storm has come upon us. Many have pointed out that some of our greatest Americans were members of large families and were very poor -- Franklin, Lincoln, and all the rest. They have pointed out that these men were self-educated. They have pointed out, too, that Leopold and Loeb were members of small families, and were very rich and had education thrust upon them.

It is well to remember that some of our great men and women were well-to-do, and most of our criminals are poor; that many great people were surrounded by intellectual culture from birth, and that many of the criminals went wrong because they didn't have a chance to learn. Considering that there are comparatively few rich families and many, many, poor ones, the proportion of greatness is not so different in the two two classes. And it is hardly fair to conclude that an education which is planned and provided for is worse than one which is wrung by sacrifice from an untoward environment.

Isn't it strange, when you stop to think of it; that we struggle to eradicate in our children the very characteristics which we most admire in an adult? The "willful, sassy, stubborn" child is a thorn in his parents' flesh, but all the great men of all time are "willful, sassy. stubborn men," though we dignify the words somewhat and say they are "strong-minded, quick-witted, and persevering." 

I'm afraid, if the whole truth were told, we sometimes try to weed out, not vices, but inconveniences, when we train the children. It requires So much of our precious time and thought to plan the training of a child who has individuality.. The decorous child is so much less of a problem-while he is small. He sits quietly when told to do so; he remains clean after being cleaned up: he is amenable and tractable in all ways; he gets on nobody's nerves. But when he is grown he is without ambition or initiative, and, to say the least, he is in very dull company when he is alone. But the normal child, by his very nature, is nerve racking to an adult. He wants noise when the adult wants quiet; he wants play when the adult must work. It is an adroit and ingenious parent who can live amicably with his offspring. 

Must Meet Ideas With Ideas

A parent must learn to replace an Inconvenient game or interest with a. convenient one; he must "meet an idea with an idea," warring with and so, without openly childish wants, lead the child, unconsciously, to be a social being. 

Look at Foste, Baah, Tita. Wilson, Roosevelt--all sassy, stubborn' men, who never yield an inch while they the right. feel they are in I wonder if they were "irreconcilable" when they were children; I wonder if they were perfectly obnoxious to live with? If you notice every such great man has gentler charms along with his strength of character; every one has a following of loyal and loving friends. Some way, I believe they attained greatness because their parents were wise enough not to stress the "willful, sassy, stubborn" traits in childhood, as though It were a war to the death between man and child. I believe those parents have quietly cultivated the more affable graces, and let those strong and violent traits "lie fallow."

Just a few weeks ago we were in the dead level of winter. The world was a poster in black and white and gray; the dawn came without of a streak light, just slow fading a dark gray into light. But suddenly the sun smiled, the snow melted, the "bottom went the out of roads"; the mailman, who usually dashes merrily by in a flivver at 9 o'clock, came plosh-ploshing by with team and a buggy at noon. The sun went away and we were left with ruts and mud-puddles and needles of ice that were undecided to thaw out or freeze a bit more. Then came rain, incessant rain for hours, drizzling plowed on the sodden black fields and the dead hedges. The wind came up at night and howled desolately. Rain clouds hid the sun in the morning, and suddenly the rain became featherly snow, which blew furiously from the northeast till the whole air was white and the children cried, "Mother Frost is shaking feather-beds now!" The wet white blanket covered the ugly ground, but sodden pools stained the white 'cover here and there. There came colder wind and finer, colder snow. By morning the roads were drifted full, and the sun shone on squeaky-cold a brilliantly world. The snow in the yard lay in hummocks like a colossal meringue.

Looks Like Spring

Now it has thawed again; the snow is all gone but a few scattering streaks in the dead furrows and the hedge rows. Without a single visible change, something about the landscape "looks" like spring. The bursting with very earth seems energy. The children wonder how soon we can clean the yard and transplant baby Dorothy Perkins rose and make the soap and clean out the playhouse (which has been abandoned during winter, with all its glorious outfit of broken crockery and leaky tins and soapbox cupboards and ancient brooder stove). I spend my time restlessly between white-sale catalogs, seed paint catalogs and landscape plans. plant.s say to daddy with the annual glitter in my eye, "It's nearly housecleaning time!" and he answers with a resigned look and the usual twinkle, "Yes, it's high time everything was moved around again!" -Hope.

Today is sonny-boy's birthday: he is 4 years old. He is right when he he says he isn't a baby any more. And a house without a baby is lonesome place. I'll have to count on all with Householders with new little ones to keep me in touch with babyhood. Jim's Wife of Iowa has a new one--that makes two boys and two girls for her. I hope she will write me a lot about the babies.

Since Daddy-Jim has to be away and Hope Needham can't have a family dinner, the boys will take the birthday cake to school and share it with the children down. there. I'm going too, to hear all the 'rithmetic lessons: so it will be a big day.

Sonny has a real name, poor dear but he seldom hears it. I am afraid he will grow up somewhat distorted in his letters, for when the children sort out the stockings, R stands for Ruth and W stands for Wilbert, but E stands for for Thonny.

A night or two ago the children stayed up late (8 o'clock) and enjoyed an evening with daddy while mother went down to Sunrise to the play, the last number on our home talent "lyceum course.' The early evening seems to have been spent in college songs, the vociferous type of music being the favorite just now. The air has been full of "Oskey-wow- WOW" and "We're loyal to you, Illi- nois" ever since. To top off a restful evening, they had stories of wild animals —- a singular bed time topic? Brother-boy tells me that daddy told them all about porky pines,laughing halloweenas and striped Hebrews. It sounds just like Little Jane's Adventures to me!

MEMORY GEM

Expect some good today and it mill come. 
As surely as supply succeeds demand. 
Expect some good today and it with seem 
A blessing in your outstretched hand. 
Expect perfection, happiness and peace, 
With eagerness, with faith sin cere and true, 
And ere the day is gone some 
Will come to you. -Selected.

The first spring day! The first whole day of sunshine warm soft after a spotty'and gloomy winter! The boys and I spent afternoon together We raked a section of the yard, hauled some trash in the little wagon, and had a bonfire. We walked around the garden found rhuharb just beginning to swell through the ground, all curly and red. The winter onions had tried valiantly to grow and had apparently discouraged several times, but they show up bravely green, nevertheless.

On the baby Dorothy Perkins rose we found tiny red buds getting ready to grow. The other roses are on the verge of drawing a breath of life, The iris clumps are pushing their blunt green way through the ground, and the buds of the three-year-old lilac are swelling till they are like to burst. We couldn't find a trace of the crocus though we hunted a long while, nor of the peonies either. We found a bird's nest caught in the raspberry bushes, apparently out of the gnarled old hackberry tree.

Raid Lumber Pile

When the passive enjoyment of the beauties of nature began to pall, as it sometimes seems to do on masculine minds, the boys and I raided the lumber pile and found some packing boxes. Now for mother undertaking any sort of "manual training is like venturing into uncharted seas: but we mothers have to venture much! So we got our hammers made two very presentable garden seats from the garden crates in which the sink and wash basin were shipped. It only required the inserting of a few nails, but we feel all the glow of creation! Then on another crate we nailed broad, thin boards and made a table. "Oh" sighed the impractical feminine member of the party when it was done, "what a charming tea-table!" "Why, mother!" answered the practical masculine two-thirds in astonishment, it's a carpenter's bench!" And as Ruth remarked when she came home from school, with the judicial logic which she inherits from her daddy, "Well, it is really better so; because they couldn't have tea parties much of the time, but, using it for a bench, they'll remember not to pound things on the dining room table any more!"

So the three of them are pounding nails in and out of boards and making a new sand box, while I write to you, and daddy has promised us some red barn paint to "beautify" with tomorrow.

Ruth says she saw three bees today!

Hope:

MEMORY GEM

Oh, be not the first to discover 
The blot on the name of a friend, 
Or the flaw in the faith of a lover 
Whose heart may prove true int the end. -Selected.

Politics and political questions have never been discussed in our Household, but we are never barred from advocating good, interested citizenship. In Illinois the important primaries come during April and our thinking women are doing their best to post themselves on the candidates to be elected and the issues to be decided.

"We, the people," constitute the government; and it is appalling to think that at the last presidential election only half of the eligible voters bothered to go to the polls. Since a majority of votes cast is sufficient to elect, it is possible for the president himself to be the choice of a little more than one-fourth of the voters. Unless we do our full duty as citizens at the polls, we have no right to complain of government in any way.

It is hard to come to a fair and just decision on any matter to be voted upon. We have to depend upon hearsay or upon some one else's judgment for many of our decisions, and both sources may be unreliable or prejudiced. Many times, no doubt, our decisions would be reversed if we could know all the facts. But imperfect though it be, our judgment is surely as good, and our vote worth as much, as the vote of the hired henchman who does the boss' bidding at the polls. Our votes are needed to balance such evil influences.

The Canvasser Helps

The other day a man canvassed our neighborhood asking every one to vote on several important political questions. On one of them I said: "I don't whether to say yes or no to this." "Everybody's votin' no to that one, lady," said the canvassar, cheerfully. "But the test is worded so whether I say yes or no may be misinterpreted." "Oh, it won't matter, lady; either one will do!" was his reply. He seemed surprised I took the matter so seriously. Finally he apparently thought of an argument which he had heard used by someone else, "Who do you think is gettin' up this bill, anyway--the rich folks or the poor folks?" I said, "Neither, I think it is the women. And their ideals and their motives are right. The only question, is whether the details are practical and fair, as they mean to have them be." He looked hopeless, but rather than try to argue with such an unreasonable creature, he rejoined: "I don't know nothing about It, lady. Smarter men than me got up these questions!" "Smarter men than me" get up most of the questions on which we have to vote. But I propose to do my own thinking as well as I am able and vote according to my conscience and not according to how the rest of the people are voting-don't you? —Hope.

"Too many parents are worrying and overburdening themselves to lift all the rocks out of the children's road of life instead of training the children to be able to clear their own roads, fight their own battles and make their own way," writes a mother, apropos of Tad's letter of a while ago. " So much self-sacrifice for children seems to me a great loss; a selfishness, for the children would get so much more from a mother who kept interests of her own." writes another. "The primary object of life is not self-sacrifice, but self-fulfillment."

This lifting the rocks is the big task of parenthood. There are so many kinds of rocks in the path of life, and some of them need to be lifted. The question is which ones should be lifted. If we mainly strive to lift financial rocks and provide material comforts, we may not be doing our children the service we intend. For it is a peculiar attribute of money that it brings most satisfaction to him who has earned it.

But there are character rocks to lift. We can, with what meager knowledge and poor ability we have, try to lessen the frailties and faults which our children inherited from us and protect them from our mistakes. We can never lift aside all such rocks, for personality is a mysterious compound of impulses, cravings and ambitions, and it is so hedged and walled about by reserve we never children well enough to protect them altogether.

Must Lift for Themselves

Then there are achievement rocks. Most of these the children must lift for themselves, but we must pick the rocks which are adjusted to their strength, and we must be ready to help them until they learn to help themselves.

Whenever we talk of lifting these rocks we talk of self-sacrifice and self-fulfillment. But nobody knows what those words mean. We interpret them differently. Sometimes I think self-development is only achieved through much apparent self-sacrifice. Sometimes "self-fu1fillment" is only an excuse to cut loose from irksome responsibilities. But most of us agree that there is in the average life a line beyond which self-sacrifice should not go, for the good of all individuals concerned. Each of us must fine his own line. In discussing such a question we understand each other so. We seem to speak the same language, but with a different accent.

"Scotland's a-Burning"

It reminds me of a story Grandmother Kate used to tell of her childhood. At one of the neighborhood parties the game of "Scotland's a-burning" was being played. Grandmother Kate, standing next to a carpet-topped, raw-boned maiden afflicted with a heavy cold, modeled her singing after her neighbor and caroled trustfully in a clear, treble voice, "Scotland's a bird-egg!" All she got for her sincere expression of the music as she understood it was a glare from carrot-top and snickers from the rest of the crowd, and her mother hastily ushered her into a back room for explanations.  

It is the same way when we talk of child training. We are all trying to do our best and give our children the best, but when We try to put our motives into words, it seems as though part of us sing "Scotland's a-burnin" and the rest sing "Scotland's a bird-egg!" and then we glare at each other, but it is all the same song.

And I suppose the we'll go on singing same song, with different accents to the end of time.

When we talk of housework schedules, we do so with the typical American admiration of efficiency. We concede the logic of a schedule, we admit the value of orderly systems. Some of us get a thrill out of following a schedule, but some of us, admiring the theогу, still strain against the leashes. Most of us have felt the craving to do something not on the plan. It is like the incident in the following letter, where a bride wept because she had to do dishes when she wanted to see the pond lilies while the dew was still on them. She solved her problem the next day by abandoning the dishes and going to the lilies while they were still fresh with morning dew. "I've always been glad I did," she says. "I shall never forget the picture and I've entirely forgotten the pattern on the cups and saucers."

The incident is symbolic of much that happens in all of our lives. In the pressure of the need for making a living or caring for a family, too often we repress the longing to enjoy the pond lilies. We force ourselves to stay with the cups and saucers, thinking that later will be time enough for the coveted pleasure. But sometimes, when we wait too long, the dew is gone and we miss the fine spiritual savor that might have uplifted us and eased our burdens along the way.

Could Not Sleep

One hot summer night when Margie Ruth was about three, she was restless and uncomfortable in her little bed. Instead of falling asleep at the scheduled time, she tossed and turned, asked for a drink, finally whimpered, "Mother, can't I get up a little while?" Now, I had determined to raise my baby according to the best of rules, and I knew that regularity was one of the cardinal virtues; but some way that night the impulse to break over the rule came to me, and I lifted the child and carried her out with me into the big, dark yard, where the lightest of breezes touched us softly, and the mildest of sweet odors soothed us, and the faint country night noises murmured around us. The velvety, star-sprinkled sky spread far and cool above us; and the spirit of rest brooded over us. Margie Ruth drew a deep, breath of wonder at the magnificence and strangeness of night. She seemed to feel, as I did, a strange expanding or communion of the spirit. She clasped her little hand in mine, and with a contented sigh she cuddled against me and in a few minutes her soft, even breathing showed she was asleep.

Had More Confidence

Some way, I have always felt that the sympathy between us was greater and her confidence in me was firmer because I took her out into that beautiful, restful night, instead of insisting on the letter of the law. Discipline is a valuable, an indispensable thing, but some things are bigger and more important than discipline. Every one ought sometimes -- not too often —- to abandon the duty of the moment and take time to look at the spiritual pond lilies of life before the dew is off. And there is no denying that a consistent schedule will keep a person in shape to seize the opportunities for these beautiful, immaterial things whenever they come up.

At this time of year it is usually hard to tear rural their people away from work for community meetings. But there is one function which never fails to fill the hall. That is the eighth grade graduation. Last night the 10 rural schools of our township held their joint exercises at Sunrise community hall. The house was packed to overflowing. Friends and neighbors and proud parents entered into the jolly, festive spirit of the children's program of songs, drills, dialogues and pantomimes. Then came the solemn time, so momentous to the graduates, when the superintendent of schools publicly commended them for their achievements and presented them with diplomas in recognition of the fact that they had successfully finished one of the first great tasks of their lives.

Other pupils who had won commendation by perfect attendance, extra reading and other endeavors, were presented with suitable awards were and certificates, and the meeting closed on a note of good fellowship, mutual affection and respect. Home and school end community for the time were united in a common bond, the desire for the welfare and progress of the children.

Within a few days countless communities will gather on the hillsides and prairies of America in another sort of fellowship, just as effective. Instead of looking to the present and the future, they will pause a little while in memory of the past. On Memorial day we will be bound together in recognition of our human heritage of sorrow and inevitable parting. And in remembering the courage and nobility and fortitude of those who have gone before, we will gain strength and faith to go into the future.

Whether happy or sad, emotional contact with our kind, above the level of the commonplace, is wholesome and uplifting. By such contacts our souls expand. -Hope.

"It is more important to teach our young people to be moderate in things all than to surround them with prohibitions." So with says a good Household, whose letter follows. She strikes the keynote of keeping control of the adolescent child. "Old men for counsel, young men for action," is as true now as it ever was. We cannot hope to repress our young people with "Thou-shalt-nots." It is natural and inevitable that they should be active, alert, up and doing. We must not try to curb this activity, only try to guide it and keep it within proper and sensible bounds.

It is natural for them to "run with the pack." We must not try to isolate them or make them too different from the folks their age with whom they must associate. It is the duty of every parent to set restraints and limits on the children, for the sake of their health and welfare, but for every "Thou shalt not" let's try to provide a "This you may do." If we object to dancing, cards, smoking, parties, extreme styles, let's provide some wholesome amusement in their stead. Or, let's permit certain kinds of parties and dancing under certain supervision and restriction. "Teach them to be moderate in all things, rather than surround them with prohibitions."

The official national Father's day has come and gone without any observance on the part of the Household. As so often happens, dad has been pushed into the background in the pressure of other matters. Some one facetiously теmarked that having Father's day would make the presentation of neckties a semi-annual affair for father instead of just a Christmas event. Giving a necktie seems to be the American woman's inadequate and inarticulate method of expressing love and appreciation to her menfolks. But, homely as the gift may be, any dad who wakes up some day and finds an assortment of neckties from his family will understand without words that the family is trying to express thanks for the patience, persistence and unswerving loyalty of the "head of the house." The gift will touch his heart as much, and probably embarrass him less, than a rush of words.

Today, in turn over honor of Dad's day, we turn over most of the space to contributions from men. It will do them good to express themselves, and it will do us good to get their points of view. —Hope.

Why it is that so many people believe that a farm woman, to fulfill her duty, must continue to be as primitive as possible, work as hard as her great-grandmother with little more equipment, and be content to see her city sister freed from all physical sports, one by one, through the help of commercial processes and improved home machinery?

Once upon a time, not many months ago, I went into a grocery buy supplies to for threshing. It happened to be a busy time, and the crew was coming a day or two earlier than we had expected. Among other things, I bought baker's bread. A friend of mine happened to be in store at the same time. She was astonished at my unseemly act. "Baker's bread -- and you live in the country!" she said. She is a woman who lives in town. She never bakes bread. Neither does she can fruit or vegetables or raise chickens or feed hired men or do her laundry. Why would she be so amazed that I, who do all of those some extent, should buy baker's bread when it suited my plans better than to bake it myself? Are all town women  Marys, free to sit at the Master's feet, and all country women Marthas, obliged forever to fret over house and food?

Takes Duties Seriously

The majority of country women, I believe, take their duties as seriously as an other class of women and are anxious to do their share of the world's work. Since no human being can do everything, I believe the country women should be allowed to choose that work they can do from among the opportunities before them, with no questions asked. If a woman tends the house and a family of little children, and feels that she has not strength enough to go beyond these things, let her do them well and not try to tend a garden and raise chickens and mow the yard. If her children are older, and if she has strength enough, let her take on as many of the other duties as she can fully handle. If she can do all the family sewing and mending, washing and ironing, churning and baking, and still have a little time to read and rest, still be able to smile at husband and children instead of nagging at them -- all honor to her. But why, just because she lives in the country, should it be assumed that a woman has extraordinary physical strength and ability to manage?

I have known a town woman who would faint if her fond husband unexpectedly sent her out a bushel of peaches to put up. She would have to cancel all engagements for the day and perhaps have husband help with the peeling in order to take care of them. I have known country women who could run that much extra work in between the routine chores, without turning a hair. I have known women who were almost exhausted in caring for their two children -- no baking, no washing, no ironing, no fuel to carry, no outdoor chores to do, no canning, no window washing, no heavy cleaning. I have known others who raised families of as many as 11 children, cheerfully and efficiently, including these other duties, with the care of the little ones.

Gives Pertinent Answer

The whole question came strongly to me recently, when a Household friend sent in a clipping which will be quoted later in the column today. It is an editorial by an honest and eminent minister who is surprised and grieved to find that tin cans repose on the pantry shelves of corn belt farm houses. He has asked "Why tin cans?" And the Household friend who sent in the clipping has given him some very pertinent answers.

It is true that corn belt farms are fertile. It is true that they will produce great quantities of vegetables or fruits, as well as a variety of grains. We hear much talk of diversified farming, and the most prosperous farmers practice it. But by diversified farming we do not mean that one man tries to raise everything which his land is capable of producing. We mean he selects a variety of projects which are suited to his locality and which will fit together so that the labor, as the income, will be more evenly spread over the year. Farm women can usually find time to can what surplus is raised in the garden, but not many can take full charge of raising the garden crops. Nor can the men, for the season when the garden needs most attention is the time the corn has to be plowed and the alfalfa put up. To care for a fair-sized garden in an efficient way would require the full-time service of one able-bodied man. On most corn belt farms it will not pay to hire a man just for the garden. It is cheaper to raise what can be raised with the combined help of the family, for summer use, canning just the surplus (which will vary from year to year, according to the kind of season), and buy the balance of what is needed for winter food. An orchard or a berry patch requires considerable work. Some of it can be done at slack times; some cannot. The farmers themselves are the best judge of whether it pays to neglect other things for the sake of raising more fruit. A farmer's wife may make more by raising poultry than by tending garden. Every family will need to figure it out for itself.

Seems Waste of Energy

It always seems a waste of energy to can what can be kept satisfactorily without. Some vegetables can be salted down or dried with less trouble than canning. Some can be wrapped in paper or packed in sand or wet leaves or dirt and kept fresh far into winter. It seems unwise to can vegetables which require an undue amount of labor, or which can be more efficiently cared for commercially. Peas, for instance, are a tedious crop to can at home. There must be several pickings, for one thing; whereas, commercially, the plant and all is pulled by machinery at one time; the peas are podded and graded by machinery and canned with much less bother than at home, and at a very reasonable price to the consumer. The same principle holds good in regard to buying ready-made garments. Such standardized garments as men's nightwear, shirts, and union suits are made so efficiently and in such quantities that only a few cents can be saved on each one by making them at home. It is up to a woman to decide how much her time is worth and use it to the best advantage.

After all, it is not merely how much work a woman does that will measure her worth to Her family and her friends. It is how much work she can do while she keeps the family. Being gifted with less physical strength than the men, they must balance the ledger by providing other qualities, such as tranquillity, neatness, confidence and good humor. --Hope

"If you want a thing well done, do it yourself." This is an old and true maxim, and one that applies well as to communities as to individuals. One of the biggest jobs a community has to do is to provide education for its young people, and the more of this education that can be given right in the community the better for all concerned. By this I mean that nearly every community can and should provide facilities for a high school education, so that its young people need not be sent far away from home to school at such an early age. Every time I go past the high school in our town, which is ten miles from home and see the dozens of student cars lined up along the street, I have the profound hope that somehow before our children are old enough to go to high school we can have one nearer home, right out in our own community in the open country, where the surroundings are pure and wholesome and beautiful.

Went Ten Miles to School

To be sure, I went ten miles from home to a town high school twenty years ago, and I don't know that suffered any serious consequences from it. But times have changed a lot in twenty years, and the young people of today have a lot of freedom and do a lot of things that were not even dreamed of then. While I think it is true that the young people now are no worse than they were then, certainly they have more temptations to meet, and have greater need for good home influence than ever before. When I went to high school it would hardly have been considered proper for the principal to frequent poolrooms up town and swagger down the street puffing a cigar, but such things now seem to add to his popularity. To my mind there is no worse institution little cities today than the poolrooms, and I would like to have my children go through high school out here where they are not in close contact with those demoralizing agencies. There is an ever increasing demand for good schools. Here in Illinois there are 64 new school buildings, being built this year. These are either township or community schools. Many of these, of course, are located in towns of some size, while a fair sprinkling of them will serve very largely rural communities.

Spend Too Much Money

One thing that holds many communities back from the building of community high schools is the amount of money that is being spent for many of them. ple is One town of about 4,000 people spending $300,000 on a new school building, and it is reported that one town of 17.000 population is planning to spend a million dollars on a high school plant. Unless these communities have a very unusual source of income, it looks as though they would be saddled with a school debt for many years to come. And the fact is that their children will not get any better preparation than they would in • schools that would only cost one-fourth as much.

The tendency seems to be growing to make our high schools more and more elaborate as to architecture and equipment until many of these new building would do credit to a college or university. But in a great many of them the pupils are no better prepared for college or for life work than they were a quarter of a century ago, when the schools and equipment and curricula were much less pretentious.

Not Necessary

It is not the purpose of this discussion to say why this is true, bu the  fact to be remembered is that elaborate and costly buildings and equipment are not necessary for good high schools. In any school the teacher is the most important factor. A good teacher with modest or even meager equipment will do better than a mediocre teacher with the finest equipment. Let us come down to earth again in our school building program, and then let us have these schools scattered throughout the country so they are readily accessible to our country children and are surrounded by the influences that we want our children to have.

There are notable examples of this kind of school to be found in every part of the corn belt. Here in Illinois there 1s none more famous than the John Swaney school in Putnam country. For a quarter of a century or so It has been there, a pioneer in the feld, a modern, complete, accredited high school right out in the open country, two miles from any town, in one of the prettiest spots in that part of the state only provides high school instruction for the children of that community and for others who come from a distance and pay tuition, but it has become a social center for the community. Athletic contests, amateur dramatics, literary programs and social events all center at the school. Practical instruction in agriculture and household science is given the pupils and institute and farm bureau meetings held at teh school attract the older people and stimulate progress in their work.

Good Cannot Be Estimated

It is impossible to estimate the good that such a school does in a community. The leaders in thought and action in our business, professional and political life are going to come from the farm as they have done in the past, provided we can give them the right kind of training there. But if we allow them to be lured to the city at an early age, before they are old enough or experienced enough to have some perspective of life, their foundation of training will not be as solid nor their vision as broad as the biggest things in life are going to demand. And our young people will be and are being lured to the city wherever there is nothing adequate provided at home to interest them and fill their leisure hours.

So there is no more important item in a program of real communtty thrift than the item of education. Educate the children as near at home as possible until they are through high school. Surround them with favorable influences, occupy their time with the things that are interesting, let the parents know and take an interest in whatever the children do, and they need have little fear that the children demoralized if they to college. --Daddy of Illinois.

There has been many an argument presented in favor of consolidated rural schools for the children's sake. One might be given for the teachers sake. A consolidated school gives them a chance to come in contact with other adults, a bit of the noon hour and recess. In the one room schools, the teacher is all day, long under pressure, with the children making constant demands on work, resourcefulness, and patience. It must be lonely for many a day for these teachers, and I have never found one who did not welcome an interested visitor at any time of day.

Following a resolve to visit our school every month this year, the boys and I went down on Friday afternoon at the end of the third week of the session, taking Ruth's birthday cake with us for a surprise. We are proud of our school, even if it is a little old one-room building. It is shiny white with new paint, and it stands in a big grassy yard, in a group of maple trees, so big that the two largest children in school can't reach around some of them. Our children are the third generation of the family to "get their learnin'" in the same old building.

Gave the Place a Cleaning

Three weeks ago, the neighbors got together, one morning when no one could thresh and gave the place a rousing cleaning, while the women scrubbed and polished the men mowed the lawn and trimmed the trees, and after our picnic dinner in the shitty yard we left it immaculate with that delicious soapy water, clean smell that is sweeter to a woman in house cleaning season then all the perfumes of Arabia.

We left it immaculate but very very bare. When we went down Friday we were surprised at the difference three weeks had made. The school was a busy live community; a regular hive of activity. Tinted tissue paper curtains at the windows and bright color "busy work" of the beginners cheered and adorned the room. The row of wraps near the door, the shelf of shining dinner pails, the row of towels and cups near the water cooler and basin. All gave evidence of friendly habitation. Most striking of all was the new sand table at the center front of the room.

Arrived at Recess

We arrived just as school was dismissed for recess, recess, and at once all the nine pupils dashed up to call my attention to this new play thing and the things they have done with it. It was divided by a cardboard partition into two equal parts. In one, the girls had built a park, and in the other the boys had laid out a farm. Even the seventh graders were bubbling over with naïve delight in the achievement. Everything was complete in miniature; swings, tables, benches in a fountain in the park, paper buildings and fences in the farm. There was even a pretentious cardboard entrance gate to the park in a large pebble monument memorial to the soldier boys. The boys had some wheat growing in their farm, it stood almost 7 inches high, spindly, and pale, but still growing and green, towering far above the windmill. Next week they are going to tear up the park in the farm and set up a village. Everyone has his special buildings to do, and there is a fine feeling of cooperation. It set me wondering, seeing them so thrilled with what many folks would call a babies toy, whether we are starving our rural children on the equipment question.

There is nothing at all at our school (and it is not much different from others, hereabouts) which could be listed as a playground equipment except a ball and a bat and a tennis racket. Of course that provides amply for scrub baseball and Andy- I-over, the two standbys of country school since ancient times, and the tennis racket introduces a more modern diversion, perhaps peculiar to our own school, known as "battle up flies".

Lack amusement equipment

Then there are the many games which need no equipment – cheese-it, hide and seek, tag, and so on. And for muscular practice there is the fence to walk when teacher is busy. But it does not mean that a little simple inexpensive equipment might not add considerably to their joy of play, as well as give the children more well-rounded, muscular exercise, than walking to school and doing chores can do. A swing or two, a teeter board, and a slide would be in reach of most districts means.

Where country schools are reasonably large, parent teacher associations are thoroughly worthwhile. Last year we had only three families represented in the school, and we contented ourselves with meeting at programs at the school on Thanksgiving and Christmas, the official school meeting in April, and the cleaning day in the fall. But we have quite a group of youngsters coming on, so that in a year or two we will have quite a school, and we hope by then to have a regularly organized association. If it seems we have too many organizations already we can at least plan to meet in the school for special occasions to show the teacher in the children that we are all cooperating – Hope

In spite of two months of rainy weather, in spite of the fact that the threshing is still one half done, and the silos, not filled in the wheat not in, and no prospect of getting the work done on account of the water logged ground – in spite of all these adverse circumstances, Sunrise, on the last day of September, held at second annual harvest home.

It is a genuine all community affair, for the church, the boosters and the Farm Bureau cooperated to make it so. The 9 one room schools of the Township contributed exhibits, and all schools were dismissed for the day. The girls 4H club also exhibited summer's work and held their achievement day in connection with the program.

The crowd was not as large as it would've been in good weather, but no one was downhearted, and it was a cheerful day for all. Rain spoiled most of the sports in the morning except the horseshoe tournament between men of the three teams – church, boosters, and Farm Bureau. The respective colors of the teams were white, blue and red. Many of the rooters were obliged to wear small flags, being loyal to all three. The big picnic dinner was followed by some rollicking community singing, led by the preacher. Then the girls club gave us their program, and then, having word that the speaker of the day was having trouble with the roads, we filled in an interval with more singing until he arrived. His talk was a good, solid, one on the proposed revenue amendment to the Illinois state Constitution. Our people were already well informed on the matter, and they listened with great interest to Mr. Cowell's discussion. Farmers as a class, take their citizenship more seriously than some folks, perhaps, because they feel government more keenly than others. Taxes, especially, are a very real intangible thing with a farmer!

Came Back in the Evening

After the speaking, and the open forum, following, the crowd disbursed for a little while. All who could be spared from chores, stayed at the community hall to visit and have Summer; the rest dashed home for the evening work, and came back for the evening. Music, a local talent program, and moving pictures were the order of the day. During the evening it was decided to make the harvest home in a new annual affair, with the pastor of Hopewell church, the president of the community boosters and the Director of the local Farm Bureau permanent committee in charge.

An element of sadness entered into the closing minutes of the meeting. It was the farewell appearance of our pastor, who is going to a new charge this year. We closed the day by singing. "blessed be the tie that binds" and when we stepped out into the open air, it seemed an auspicious omen that the stars were shining.

Those stars were actually shown that night in the next. We had a day or two of good weather. But rain has descended on us again, and we are once more in gloom.

We are Not Discouraged

During the dinner, someone chanced to remark, in connection, with a discussion of the Miami hurricane sufferers, "those crazy people! Why do they go right back and rebuild on the same spot, when they know that every so often another flood will com!" "Yes," someone else remarked; "they do it every time. An earthquake knocks the ground from under the Japanese, and they go back and build over the cracks. Fire and earthquake destroy San Francisco, and they rebuild as fast as they can, and even deny that they had an earthquake. Mount Vesuvius has an eruption and buries cities, but as soon as the lava cools, back, come the survivors in camp at the foot again " "Well, take Shawnee town." Someone else pointed out. "That's a little Illinois village on the banks of the river; has been there since Indian days, practically walled in our all sides for protection from water. Every so often the walls break, the town is flooded, folks run for their lives; and when the water subsides, they go right back to the same spot, fix up the walls and go on living."

"They haven't, any of them, got a thing on the farmer, though." Someone else contributed, " He takes hard knocks of one sort, or another every season, and comes back from more. Doesn't have sense enough to quit. Never knows when he's left. But, someway," he added in the general laugh that followed "I think more of him than if he quit!"

That's just it! It isn't lack of it sense, and it isn't just obstinacy, that makes human beings go back, and try again, and again until they conquer nature. It is some of the finest and strongest traits within them that call on them to go back until they win; loyalty, stability, patience encourage

Another Home-Coming

While we are talking of harvest homes in homecomings, it will be interesting to mention a case in our neighboring township. Saint Andrews church over there is to celebrate its 75th anniversary during the month of October. This is a real "open country" church, the only one of its kind in the Episcopal diocese of Chicago.

It marks the place of a vanished settlement in early educational center. Today at occupies a commanding position on the highest point in the Illinois valley and in the midst of a farming community. 75 years would not seem long in the east, where the Puritan and Quaker settlement state back 150 to 200 years or more, but in the cornbelt, 75 years of continuous organization is worthy of note. The stones in Saint Andrews cemetery date back 100 years, the church parish has only been organized 75. In the early 40s the people, who, mostly immigrated from the east, came into contact with Bishop Case and received the occasional ministration of the "church on horseback." In 1850, 10 acres of land was given by a loyal settler for the building of a church. In 1851 the parish was organized in a year later, was admitted into union with the convention.

 The original frame building (seating capacity, 100) was replaced in 1908 by a larger, attractive brick one. The old rectory has been repaired and remodeled, and now serves as a community center.

Served 45 Years

Originally the parish had a resident minister, and it is interesting to know that out of the 75 years history, 45 consecutive years were under the ministry of one man, Reverend HT Heister. Since his death, in 1906, the parish has been served from ministers of large towns nearby.

Early pioneer life and many hardships. In the church has passed through many visits. American rural life has sometimes drifted away from the church, but in recent years, there has been an awakening. The people of Saint Andrews are to be congratulated on their years of service in the community. It is a record to be proud of. – Hope.

"Of course, I know I ought to vote, and too many I may seem silly, but I just have a horror of doing the wrong thing, and I hate to go down to the polling place and begin." Writes Stay-at-Home from Illinois. "Frankly, I don't know the etiquette of voting, and the thought of it gives me the same sinking feeling I have when there are too many forks on the table at a function." 

The etiquette of metropolitan voting is an unsolved mystery to me, but the rural style is quite easy to acquire. Since you are from Illinois, our system will probably be the same as yours. When you approach the polling place, you will be accosted, no doubt, by one or more volunteer bureaus of information, who will offer you marked ballots to guide you in your voting. It is good form to listen to what they have to say, if you have not studied up on the matter, and to accept their marked ballots. You are allowed to carry those ballots into the voting booth with you. If the zealous worker convinced you that he knew what he was talking about, mark your ballot like the one he gave you, but if he did not, you have the privilege of marking all the opposing candidates. 

Is Quite Simple 

But first you must get into the booth. Our voting is done in a little Townhall, just as yours, probably. You should sweep regally into the room, as though this was all old stuff to you, and quite a bore; meanwhile, cast your eagle eye about until you spot a table with six men grouped informally about it. There's bound to be a table, because three of them men are clerks, and they must have copy books to write in. The other three are judges, and they resemble the landed aristocracy, in that they have very little to do till evening. Part of the six will be in their shirts sleeves, part will be chewing gum, and most all of them will be tilted back in their chairs in luxurious comfort until you approach. It is a political custom. 

If you have lived long in the community, you will probably know them all, but you needn't admit it, unless you feel like it. When you come close to the table, three of the manual straighten up and hold pens, poised over copy books, as though about to begin work, one will simply stare at you, one will begin to put his initials on a folded ballot and the sixth will ask you your name. Take the ballot, noticing carefully how it is folded, and then look about you for some small cubby holes with curtains at the front, known as voting booths. Step into one of them which is not already occupied, as it is against the rules of the game, as well as being somewhat crowded, for more than one to use the same booth at the same time. You will find pencil attached to strong string, and a table about chest high on which to spread out your ballot. Usually most of the ballot has to hang over the edge. No doubt you will drop several small sheets of paper to the floor, and you should pick those up and read them, for they are ballots on special questions, such as the tax amendment, and so on. 

May Simplify the Work 

If you want to hasten the ordeal when you open your ballot to look for the name of the party to which you belong and put a big X on the black party circle alongside. But if you want to be a real woman, you will "split the ticket." That doesn't mean that you tear off part of it, but that you leave the little party circle empty and put little Xs in all the squares you pick out as you go down the list of candidates. The practice of splitting tickets seems to be very popular with women, they seem to want to vote for a man or principal rather than a party. It is made them rather unpopular with the professional politicians, as well as with the judges and clerks, who have to count the votes. However, if you make an effort not to look guilty, when you come out of the booth, they will never know until it's too late. 

When you were marked up the proper number of Xs, fold the ballot carefully just as it was given to you: then, if it is wrong, it is not your fault. Take it back to the man who gave it to you, and he will announce formally that "Amaryllis Jones has voted." The three clerks studiously write it on their list. One may spell it Emaryllis and one Amaryllis, but that's their business, and your vote is safely cast. You do not need to linger to tell them you enjoyed the party, but may walk out at once, and either visit a while with the neighbors outside or go back home and finish up the sweeping. 

Can Carry It Off Airily 

It's not at all difficult, and after a little practice, one gets to carry it off with quite an air. And it really disturbs the board very little, as they are tilted back comfortably again before you reach the door. 

I forgot to say that candidates will sometimes have boxes of chocolates to pass to the lady voters. It is considered very shrewd to accept a little from each, as it will artfully conceal your political prejudices. But, to be serious, you ought to vote. It will only be formidable once, and even if you vote unwisely, that is better than not voting at all. You will never learn to swim if you resolve to stay away from the water till you learn how. – Hope.

They say a woman always insists on having the last word. I am even worse than that, for I take both the first and the last. A good letter from "Aunt Hope" on child training follows these paragraphs, but I am proceeding it with my answer. It all hinges on the old saying, "spare the rod and spoil the child," which "Ruth Vernon," a modern young mother, denounced in this column not so long ago. Aunt Hope answers her argument with the sound doctrine of the older generation. Aunt Hope quotes Scripture to show that it is our duty to "chasten" our children. It seems to me that the whole matter rests on how we interpret the word "chasten." If it means literally using the rod, Aunt Hope is right: if it can be used in a milder sense, Ruth Vernon, and I are also right.

Now, I am not one of those ultramodern mother mothers, who never says "don't!" to a child. I consider "don't" a very powerful emergency brake. But I do not run a car with the emergency brake on all the time. The more we can avoid the use of "don't" in every day routine, the more powerful the world will be on special occasions.

There is nothing I admire more than a mother who can be severely strict with her children, and yet at the same time kind and just. That sort of mother builds the strongest of characters. Many of us, however, are stern and strict at the wrong time in the wrong place, and are not consistently rigorous at all. I must confess that the only times I've spanked my children have been when I was mad. Literally, plumb irritated, and mad and too rushed to take time to think. By the time I cooled down, I could think of much better ways to handle the situation than corporal punishment. Don't you think a lot of us are that way? And don't you think it is a dangerous habit to get into of spanking the child impulsively in the heat of anger? Or it is a habit that grows like this scolding and nagging habit. It is likely to drive a child into deceitfulness, rather than teach him the error of his ways.

"Chasten"

If we mean by "chasten" to punish a child by using the natural laws of consequences, then Aunt Hope is right. The younger a child learns to meet disappointments and recognize the fact that he cannot have mother and daddy protect him from life itself, the better off he is. It is punishment enough for him to go without a play thing if he has lost or destroyed it. A spanking will hardly impress the lesson on him more. If he has to give up a coveted trip to town because of rain, which not even mother, or daddy can help, the mother can say "well, that gives us a chance to paste those pictures in the scrapbook." But, if the child prefers to make a scene about it, let him go to his room and weep. He will soon come to the philosophical conclusion that he loses more than he gains by rebelling against nature. A nickel or some candy, or a glowing promise of future treat, will only aggravate his troubles. If he gets "anything to make him stop crying," he will assume that whenever he can't have what he wants he will get something just as good by stirring up a fuss, and he will likely grow up believing that the world owes him a living. In such a case as this a mother need not a rod. All she needs is cheerfulness, gentleness and a little patience. Nature will do the chastening.

Some way, I cannot think that the apostle Paul meant for us to use the rod on these tender little bodies before we had given them a chance to learn the why and wherefore. Later, if they persist in evil, the rod may be the only cure. Paul wrote to the Ephesians "Fathers, provoke not your children to wrath, but nurture them in the chastening, in the admonition of the Lord," I think he means, for us to be watchful and gentle, and tender to the babies, and let the Lord through natural laws be the chastener, for Paul also wrote to the Ephesians "Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and railing be put away from you with all malice, and be kind to one another tenderhearted, forgiving each other even as God also forgave you."

The day this is written, daddy and I are celebrating our 10th wedding anniversary. 10 years! How long it seems in yet how short! That summer day so long ago, marked the first break in his family circle and in mine. At our house there were six children none of whom had yet gone out into the world to seek his fortune. We had never been separated on Thanksgiving or Christmas. We had never known death or sickness or suffering in the family group, as far as children could remember. Both our parents and three of our grandparents were still living and we had aunts and uncles and cousins glower. Our life was so normal and contented, that when a sister of mine once wrote a story about us, her professor, not knowing it was taken from life made the comment "Interesting, but for pretty sake, have something HAPPEN!"

Since that autumn day, everyone of the six children has married and gone away. Only one lives in the same community as the parents, the rest are scattered from Ohio to California. 10 grandchildren have come into the family but two of the precious souls had to be given up in their infancy. The aged grandparents still so active and alert on our wedding day have passed away.

How Short They Seem!

How short the years have seemed! So crowded with events! So busy! That autumn 10 years ago, we were the community newlyweds, and we received our traditional charivari and gave our traditional party. But in a few months, another couple was in the limelight, and then another and another. At first, we were the young married folks, but little by little, as our families began to absorb more of our time and attention, we dropped out of the more active set and newer couples filled up our places. It has been so gradual a process that we have hardly realized it; like the man who edged over farther and farther on the log to make room for others, until he suddenly fell off the end. The youngsters who are marrying this year were in the grades 10 years ago! No doubt they class us (as we did folks with families when we married) as "the old folks."

10 years gives folks a tremendous education in the business of living. I remember we anticipated that in 10 years we would be so well established in life we would build our new and permanent home. Well, we have done it not because we reached the point we expected, but because Fate played us a trick and we had to build the replace the house that burned.

All Allows One Half

The first or second fall we were married daddy made some computations on paper relative to the profits on a hog project. I remember looking over the figures admiringly, thinking "How sound and conservative he is! He has provided for every possible contingency, and this net profit is really bound to be larger than he has made it." But when we showed the figures to his mother, she smiled and said after you have deducted every loss or expense you can think of, just divide the net profit in two, and you'll come near to having your actual profit.

I was quite shocked that anyone could be so cynical! But that fall when we shipped some feeder pigs from Kansas City, by somebody's error a cargo of deadly cholera germs came along. One by one our beautiful purebred Berkshires succumbed -- little pigs, half grown shoats and big hogs. It was not many days before we had a horrible funeral pryre to mark the place where that year's profits went up in smoke. Since then I have considered it one of the soundest principles of bookkeeping or budget-making to allow a margin of safety of just one half the anticipated profit. It is a neat and simple device for avoiding distress; for nine times out of 10 a timely little disaster will happen along and knock all your plans edgewise. "Blessed be those who expect a little for, for they shall not be disappointed."

Are Just Preliminary

But on average, we haven't had too much of bad luck, and not too much of good. It seems as though all the 10 years are just a preliminary. We have our children well started, our house built, and our business on a sound foundation. Now we are ready to begin. Doubtless there could be a lot of moralizing on the significance of the first 10 years but –

I called Jim to look this over saying I don't know how to finish it. His frivolous reply was nobody knows yet how it's going to finish. He spoke a weightier truth than he intended. 10 years is hardly long enough along the path of life for one to draw profound conclusions on the philosophy of the world. I'll just leave it at this. We've been married 10 years and every one of you will supply your own thoughts, sweet or bitter, according to your own experiences. Those who have traveled on beyond our milestone will smile, and say "How much they have yet to learn," and those who have just been married, will cry "10 years! An eternity! – Hope

During the summer "Economist" was kind enough to give us a three-year clothing budget for herself. Now comes the request that we take the question of a clothing budget for a whole family. What proportion of the farm income should go for clothes for the ordinary family? How fast do clothing expenses increase as the child grows older?

Since our oldest child is only 9, we can't give personal experiences beyond that. Suppose we draw up a sample budget and invite comments on it. Will you please look over the list following and let us know whether you think it would cover the needed clothing for a child, say, 4 to 10 years old? If the amount is too small, how much shall we increase it? If it is large enough, how much can you cut it down by using leftovers, remnants, make-overs, home sewing and bar- gains? We make the list, assuming that the child is in "going order"; that is, we are not trying to outfit a child who has nothing, but one who has had all he required the preceding year, and this list is to cover what would need to be bought for him in one calendar year.

Requirements of the Child

In our county our champion in the girls' 4H club a year ago estimated that a budget of $80 a year would outfit her for high school. A woman probably would not require much different than a high school girl. We have had no figures on a man's clothing budget, but if we can work out fair amount for the other members of the family, Dad can use whatever is left.

It we use the family described in the following letter -— mother, father and five children ranging from 9 years to 1 1/2, our tentative clothing budget would total up (allowing the same for both parents): Father and mother, $160: five children at $55 each, $275; total, $430. However, in a family that size there would be considerable saving in handing down outgrown clothing from one child to another, especially in the item of good coats and dresses. How does this figuring compare with what you and your family spend for clothing? -Hope.  

The melancholy days have come the saddest of the year. The air is wet and heavy on these short, gray, bleak days and the men shiver in their sheepskin coats. We are all burdened with the somber spirit expressed in the well-known lines "The ivy clings to the moldering wall, and at every gust, the dead leaves fall." even though our walls are far too few to molder and the ivy, alas, has never condescended to cling, though I have struggled all summer with it, coaxing propping, almost leaning upon it, doing everything but paste it up with adhesive tape

But mentally we have those gorgeous golden days, so typical of our prairie autumn, neither warm nor cold. The white frost lies heavy in the shadows until noon when the rising sun has crept up on it inperceptibly and enforced it to slink away. By midday, the air is almost balmy, and we have a few brilliant hours, set like a jewel between chill and chill. Suddenly the sun sets, the wind comes up raw, and, without twilight, we have night.

"Go by the pretty road." the children beg when we start to town, and so we wind through timber-land on the crooked old pioneer pathway, reveling in the masses of flaunting color in the groves of walnut, hickory, and maple

Is a Busy Season

It is a busy season. The two months of rain have jammed all the fall work together into these short weeks. Threshing was barely finished by election day. Lots of folks are wanting to shell corn in order to have room for the new crop. Others still have silos to fill and beans to thresh. It is hard to find help enough to man all the crews wanted. Occasionally a little shower throws all the plans askew. Perhaps we have planned to threat thresh beans in the morning to be out of the way of a neighbor who wants to shell corn in the afternoon, to be out of the way of a neighbor who wants to fill silo the next day. Every one goes to bed serene in the belief that two days are well planned. Toward morning, everyone is awakened by a general persistent, dripping, and we find that there is just enough rain to spoil the threshing and no one is quite ready to fill silo or shell corn so there is great scurrying by everyone to put in the morning profitably and locate enough help for the afternoon

At our house, it is elected to grind feed for the cows. At a quarter to 10 the head of the house dashes in. "Can we have dinner at 11? they'll be two extra men. And I wish you would call so-and-so for threshing help right after dinner and if you could make it, I guess you'll have to get in the car and go tell such-and-such since they have no phone." And away he dashes to throw another bushel of corn into the grinder, leaving his humble servant feeling as though the house had tumbled around her ears

Has its Compensations

Oh these captains of industry with the authoritative ways! You know that luxurious feeling of leisure that comes over a housewife when she has expected to have to feed a threshing crew and finds she doesn't? Gone, all gone! Drop that pick up work you had hoped to do, stir up the fire, grab a paring knife, get dinner cooking, try the telephone, find the line busy, get in the car, dash up and down the road delivering messages, get back just in time to rescue the cake from charring, and by the skin of your teeth have dinner ready when the men arrive luckily 10 minutes late.

But after dinner there is an extra hour -- so what difference has it made? There is such a satisfaction and feeling that everyone has a part part in getting things done. Loaded racks rumble by and tractors putt putt in all directions near and far; some of them from threshing runs some from fields being plowed. It may be a melancholy time of year, but there are compensations in cheerful achievement and pleasant peace --Hope

Maple Grove (that's our little one room school out here at Sunrise) now has a parent teachers' association. We have only nine pupils in school, but we have 18 members signed up for the parent teachers' association at the organization meeting. The children and their teacher planned a delightful Halloween program and invited all the patrons of the school to attend, and in the friendly festive atmosphere of the occasion we organized our club. I can't help but feel that these little clubs centered in our little schools may do as much to solve the problem of educating our children and producing good citizens as any of the more expensive methods advocated by various well-meaning educators, and politicians.

A girl who used to attend Maplegrove, now grown with children of her own in the neighboring school, told us what their parent teachers' association had accomplished in its two years of existence. "Our teacher came to me two years ago she said, and told me that she was starting her third year in the district and had not seen more than half of the parents of her pupils. It startled me to think that so many of us send our children for eight or nine months of the year for most of their waking hours for eight years or more to a strange place and a strange teacher, and then wonder why we do not have more control over them."

Should Pull Together

Why shouldn't the parents and the teacher get together, be friends, understand each other, pull together, when there is nothing more important to any of us than the welfare of the children? And the interesting thing about it all was that when we got together, we began at once to notice the school needed things. It was not the sort of place we really wanted our children to grow up in. If we hadn't started the club and got together and actually visited the building, we might have gone on thinking that whatever was there was plenty enough, but when we actually saw conditions, and had our interest roused, we saw a number of places where we could improve matters and give our children more of what we wanted them to have. Our building is more than 100 years old, located in a beautiful section of timberland, in a region rich in historic lore. Why shouldn't that school be made to be as big and fine an influence in our children's lives as any million dollar alma mater with gymnasium and pipe organ further away from home? It will not need to raise the tax much either to make it so, for if we parents meet and play with the children and the teacher, keep the building fresh was painting in good repair, their memories of their school will be happy ones, and the influence we have on them will be strong and permanent.

Here is an article by an eastern woman, who is having unusual success in educating children by a system different from the "graded schools." Her ideas may not be acceptable to all of us, but at any rate they are refreshingly interesting and perhaps they will make some of us better satisfied with improving the schools we have instead of fretting because we can't have better. --Hope.

MEMORY GEM

The clothes line is a rosary
Of household help and care,
Each little saint the mother loves
Is represented there.
And when across the garden plot
She walks with thoughtful heed,
I should not wonder if she told
Each garment for a bead.
A stranger passing, I salute
The household in its wear,
And smile to think how near of kin
Are love and toil and prayer.
--Selected

When you read this, you will have begun the new year. I am writing on the day after Christmas. Perhaps you will watch the old year out with festivities in hilarity perhaps a quiet family hour before the fireplace but if your husking is dragging on like ours, you will observe midnight only with the common general sleep that comes these strenuous days. The old year will die and the new year will be ushered in and to us it will only be one more restful night in the continuity of time.

This Sunday afternoon has been bright and sunny. There is no snow, but moisture has condensed and frozen on every tiniest twig and sprig of vegetation till the world turns white. The heavy rime, glowing and glittering on trees and hedges, adorns them with the lace-like tracery of old cathedrals.

It has been a long, luxurious, drowsy restful day. The boys are busy with their new toys, Ruth and I are writing thank you letters, and daddy is napping on the davenport. All the greeting cards are crowded on the mantle at the feet of the tall, red Christmas candles, yours among the many. And before we go farther, let me here thank you for the friendly and loyal greetings so many of you have sent to me into the household. I know I don't deserve the pleasant things you said, but praise is always sweet and it will help me carry in the dull times and try to do better in receiving and sorting and arranging your letters, so you will be kept in friendly touch with one another and continue to find the household profitable in both material and spiritual ways 

Hold Special Services.

It is nearly chore time. Daddy will have to rouse himself and go to milk the cows. While he is gone, the children and I will have our playtime, only today it will be our very special on Christmas service instead. We have held it every Christmas since Sonny was big enough to lift his lusty voice in so-called song. We will cuddle down before the fireplace in this year we will throw on the fire some fairy fuel, which makes the flame burn blue (blue for happiness, you know!) and the soft light will flare and fade on the Christmas tree in the corner, and the red candles will throw a mild glimmer over your names and messages on the mantle, til it will almost seem that you are with us, and then we will sing our favorite songs beginning with Silent Night. Of course, not one of us can carry a tune and part of us lisp a little on the words, but it will be sort of poetry to us, and if we can't do well enough to make the atmosphere solemn, we can at least have a good laugh. Happy new year to you all – Hope 

MEMORY GEM

Speak a shade more kindly.
Than the year before
Pray a little oftener.
Love, a little more.
Cling a little closer.
To the father's love
Life below shall liker grow.
To the life above
– selected

 Here's the editor of your household department snuggly settled in a pool for the night ride from Illinois to Nebraska. The children packed their suitcase and moved up to grandma's this afternoon as delighted over their trip of a quarter-mile is I am of mine of several hundred miles. It was after dark in the heavy spring chili spring, light rain was falling when daddy took me to the train. As the train speeds on through fog and rain I could see the lights of villages and farm houses and I wonder how many of you readers I am passing on the way.

Later in the night, I woke and looked out the window just as we crossed the Mississippi choked with ice. At daybreak we were at Council Bluffs where the rough and rolling country seems strange after our level prairies. On through Omaha we went and reached Lincoln at mid morning of a delightful, mild and sunny day.

Farming seems to be about the same here as it is at home. Lots of corn and lots of wheat, lots of livestock grazing in the fields where the corn has been picked. The landscapes are beautiful in this part of the country, even at the dullest of seasons. The country is rolling enough to be interesting and there is a thrilling spaciousness about it all. I've just walked from the hotel to Miss Mary Ellen Brown, state leader in the extension service, and she urges me to hurry out to the campus where there is a particularly interesting session going on. So we go by street car out to the edge of town where the agricultural college is located in a beautiful setting. The larger part of the university is located downtown but the agricultural college is on a separate tract of land. It is something like our Illinois campus – a big, friendly place with plenty of room between the buildings and no crowding out of the outspread natural panorama. The older buildings are red brick, and the newer ones are cream colored

Pay Rich Rewards

It is "Organized Agriculture Week" and all sorts of farm and home organizations unite in the programs. There are interesting programs scheduled in all phases of animal, husbandry and dairying and poultry and crops, but no one person can take them all in. So we are limited to the woman's home economic section. That meeting is being held in the big new college activity building. As the day goes by I'll try to tell you a little bit of what is going on in this big gathering of women. Some of them have come from parts of Nebraska as far as from Lincoln, as my home is. Some of them come from grain and livestock and dairy farms, some from enormous ranches of grazing country, but all of them are friendly and neighborly. If any of you have the chance to attend your state "farmers week" or whatever it may be called, try to take advantage of it. I do not know of any other kind of meeting that pays richer rewards for the time and money spent. And now I'm at the campus with the girls of the extension staff all busy helping us latecomers to register and helping us get in touch with the officials in charge to the program, and from now on the day will be so busy that I can't write anymore.

Shares After Christmas Letters

I want to share with you, some amusing and affectionate letters from grandparents and aunties, and cousins that came in the mail just before I left home. They are like the letters of the rest of you are getting nowadays if you are scattered from your people as the aftermath of Christmas. Sometimes I think the very sweetest part of Christmas is the time of the thank you letters, carrying the fragrance of the season into the new year.

My dear granddaughter, we received a nice Christmas box some days ago. Should've answered sooner, but your grandmother was in bed with a sick headache and I had to do the housework, keeping up the fires and act as a trained nurse, besides answering the doorbell and telephone and entertaining callers so I am behind with our correspondence. I really ought to do this on the typewriter, but ours is so poor I don't seem to know how to spell, so maybe you can make out to read this poor hand. Grandma is better today and down by the fireplace but I still carry up the coal.

Had Enjoyable Christmas

We had a real nice Christmas. Uncle Hugh and Aunt Carrie brought a Christmas tree and strings of little electric lights. The boxes were laid at the root of it, and Uncle Hugh picked them up one at a time and called out the names, and I had to pass them down to the ladies present, Uncle Hugh's wife and her ma. I cannot tell you all they got, for if I could reember it would take me so long that you would not get this till the middle of summer. I got a book called "Oh Professor, How Could You", by Harry Leon Wilson, and Carrie gave me a styptic pencil which she said was good to use on my face in case I cut myself with the razor. It would stop the blood and heal the cut, but she said she cut her thumb and tried it on that, but it did not stop the blood, so I am still going to be careful when I shave. My family all join me in many thanks for the nice things you sent in the box -- all original and hand-made, wishing you many happy returns of the day.

Uncle Hugh and myself divided the bag of candy and apples, which were nice indeed, and I especially want to thank you for the nice long string around the box. I saved every bit of it, six and a quarter yards of it. I rolled it into a nice ball and put it in the "string box," and if grandma does not find it maybe we will send it back to you around another Christmas box. We also got your nice letter telling of your presents. We are always glad to get your nice letters. We always like to hear from you, of your studies in the school and in your music and your theatricals. We also enjoy a word of your father and mother and of those darling boys. Don't forget to put in a hint of their daring escapades. Tell us of your father's problems and your mother's career, and of your grandparents on the other side, and of Uncle Will and Aunt Minnie, and Bobby and his folks. Tells us how many pigs and calves and chickens and cats you have. We would also like to know something of your ambitions; what you wish to do when you get big. We are sending your mother a box by parcel post that she will smack her lips over fo r the coming year.

With many good wishes for you and all of your for the coming year, and don't fall down on your schule work, I am as ever, your affectionate Grandfather Needham.

Was Her First Christmas

Dear Wilbert, Sonny and Ruth; Papa gave me this piece of paper to write you a letter on, and mama is writing it for me because I am too little. I shall be a year old the eighteenth of January. (First, I said "I will be." but Margie Ruth is so very particular about her grammar, that mamma thought I had better say shall.) So you see, this is my first real Christmas, and I was very glad to get so many things from my cousins. Did you make the dolly yourselves? Where did you get so many kinds of paint? I wish I had some colored paint to play in, but the dolly is just as good and mamma thinks it is much better.

Perhaps you thought I was too little to enjoy the big picture book, but no, mama has been showing me pictures for a long time. She never would let me turn the pages though and now she does. Even mama was surprised to see how well I can turn them. She didn't think I knew how. I was a little disappointed at first because I couldn't tear the pages. But the pictures are so pretty that I don't mind very much. Mama lets me poke my fingers in all the eyes I can find. Some other parts of the pictures are pretty too and I pat them and scratch them with my finger-nails. But I like eyes best.

Visited a Store

Mama and papa say to thank you for the other things, too. Did Aunt Hope let you help pick them out and buy them? I have never been in a store except when I was in Urbana. Grandpa gave mama some money and then grandma went with us to buy me an orgadie bonnet. Some day when I am bigger I will go to a store again and buy things for all my cousins.

I wish I could go to visit you again. I am much bigger now. I can walk all around if I have something to hold with one hand. And sometimes I let go and take one or two steps all by myself. I have four teeth now, and can bite big holes in my celluloid playthings. I think I am going to have some more teeth right away. Something hurts me most all the time and mama has to give me dollies to play with.

I am going to stand up in my bed now and watch mama take this letter to the mail box - Your loving cousin, Rosemary.
 

Home again! And it's good to be where the firelight glows. Indeed, for while last week in Nebraska was balmy and mild as spring, this week winter has descended on us. It has snowed for two days and nights, a soft, we, thick snow, not very cold. Now it is dusk of the second day and the wind has risen higher and higher all afternoon. Drifts are already knee deep in the barnyard. I've jut come in from floundering through them, dressed in coveralls and galoshes and gauntlets, and it is pleasant to find the children reading happily by the fireside when I come in.

The storm is growing worse and the temperature is falling. There was a funeral in our neighborhood this afternoon – a wild and heart-breaking day for such an event. And now whenever the telephone rings it brings news of another car stranded in the drifts and unable to get home. Bob-sleds and wagons are being readied to haul the wayfarers home. One car is stuck a few rods up the road from us and occasionally I leave the children and carry a telephone message to the folks up there, for the women in the party are not strong enough nor dressed suitably to climb and struggle through the drifts to our house. At last a neighbor man comes to the door, red and breathless from the stinging wind, and asks, "Are our folks here?" "Waiting in the car, a few rods up," we answer. "We can't see ten feet in front of us," he tells us; and as he starts back to the bob-sled he is hidden by the thick curtain of snow before he reaches the lane. We can see just a faint glimmer of lantern light and a dim shadow climbing into the box, then away skims the bob-sled with the soft jingle of sleigh bells.

Tucked in Snugly

Later the children are snugly tucked away in bed and the house is very still. The telephone  is quiet now, for every one is safely home who could get there or is resigned to staying away over night. Our daddy was 20 miles away, and he can't get home till tomorrow, and perhaps not then, unless the snow stops drifting so the roads can be opened up.

Now at last the wind dies down and the sky clears, and the moon shines out, hard and brilliant, over the glittering expanse of snow. The thermometer is dropping, dropping – there is no sound anywhere except the crackling of ice on branches. And as I stand alone at the window, looking out at the scene, beautiful but so cold, I think of that bereaved family down the road, shut in alone with their first night of grief, and I wonder which is harder for them to bear, the wild howling storm, or this "hard, dull bitterness of cold." – Hope

MEMORY GEM

Never guest was quainter;
Pussy came to town
In a hood of silver gray
And a coat of brown.
Happy Little children
Cried with laugh and shout,
"Spring is coming, coming,
Pussy Willow's out."

– Kate I Brown

Two letters came to my desk on the same day. One is from a discouraged farm mother, struggling against poverty, who feels (rightly) that somehow life is not always fair, financially, to farmers. The other is from another farm woman, who also had a hard enough time in the country, but who found after they had gone to town that life was not always rosy, even there.

The first woman takes exceptions to the results of the Nebraska questionnaire mentioned here a few weeks ago on "What's on the Farm Woman's Mind." The answers to that questionnaire, the opinions of several hundred Nebraska women, put as the matter of first importance better schools. Each woman was to mark the five questions that seemed to her of most importance out of a list of questions. When the vote was totaled up the school question had been marked oftenest.

Need Better Homes

Our correspondent of today maintains that she and a good many others feel that it is not better schools but better homes that are needed, and to get the better homes all we need is a better economic situation for the farmer. "Give the farmer a square deal," she says, "and he and his family fix up their homes as they want them." This attitude is quite in line with a report which was made by an Illinois committee on which my husband served. My husband's part was to correspond with a number of agricultural college graduates of recent years and find out whether they were satisfied with farm life, and if not, why not. Even before the answers were received my husband remarked that the first and main problem was an economic one. Given an intelligent group of farmers and a fair financial return for their efforts, and they will look after all the other problems as the need arises - roads, schools, markets, and so on. The answers to his letters bore him out in this opinion. As one many put it, "If you inherit land or marry it, you can make a go of farming. If you have to buy and pay for it, the way things are now, it is discouraging. If we can get prices and production adjusted, whether by legislation or co-operation or any other means, my answer would be, 'Of course I'm satisfied with farming. It is the only life.'"

I am inclined to agree to a great extent with the correspondent of today, in that the home is the most important. But it might be argued, and perhaps this is why so many Nebraska women voted for schools first, that in order to get better homes we must educate a generation to it.

Is Unduly Bitter

There is one point in this friend's letter which needs comment. She is bitter against salaried folks, particularly teachers. "Their salaries are greater than they need," she says. "If they can have a bank account, an automobile and when summer comes take a trip to Europe or some other place for pleasure, they are surely drawing a fair salary."

It seems to me that as many farmers as teachers have bank accounts and automobiles. And as for trips to Europe, those farmers whose land is free of encumbrance and whose children are grown and independent may be able to afford a trip to Europe, but take trips in America instead, while teachers feel that European travel helps them in their work. It is a mistake to feel that such advantages of life are limited to any one class. It is pretty safe to assume that no individual and no class has all the advantages of life. I know a good many teachers, and it is my experience that the ones who have no real home and no family to provide for frequently are able, after a number of years of teaching, to devote $500 or $600 to a trip abroad. But those who are married, buying a home and raising a family, do just about as the rest of us do; try to make the money reach around expenses, try to keep the children in shoes and school houses, books, pay the taxes when they are due, stall off the doctor and dentists as long as we dare. That's what we call compensation. Some of the teachers who go to Europe would cheerfully swap their travel for our homes and babies, if they could. Some of them prefer the life they have chosen, and I"m sure they have a right to live their own way. They wouldn't make successful parents and homesteaders.

Need Touch of Prosperity

It may be that the teachers and other classes are better paid for their exertions than we are, but it is a pity to let ourselves get embittered about it. Farmers all over the country are coming nearer and nearer together, and surely they will eventually find a way out of their difficulties. As Jim told us a year ago, "What we need is just a touch of prosperity." It would make all the difference in the world in the way we compare our blessings with other folks.

The second letter I mentioned in the beginning is from a farm woman in town, and we put it side by side with the discouraged letter from the country, hoping there will be a grain of comfort for both these women, our friends.

February has come and gone with its mild and balmy air and it's abominable mud. March has come in like a lion and given us a running assortment of rain, snow, sleet, sunshine, fog, mud, and ice, but appears to be straightening around for a settled spring. February quite lost its senses this year. The air was so invigorating the temperature so comforting that one's pulses went bounding, and one soul went soaring, and all that, but two or 3 pounds of mud on each foot was sufficient to hold ambition down to earth, and nothing much was accomplished in the farming and gardening line.

The frost is out of the ground now, so that walking is not quite so treacherous. We hear once more of the music of bang boards in the land, for some of the corn has stood, unhusked, all winter, in the midst of snow and mud. Not till that is finished will much be done toward the new seasons work.

It is customary hereabouts to do the main butchering in February, but the weather was so warm that we had to look sharp to find a suitable spell. When we chose our time, we had to rush the work to get it done before the temperature rose again. Daddy and the children and I cut up lard in the basement after supper one night until Sonny cut a finger, and after that, the youngsters perched on the celler steps and conversed briskly, hoping I suppose to make us forget it was bedtime. They outlined their life ambitions to us at some length. Ruth hopes to be a farmers wife, Sonny plans to be an engineer, and Wilbert has set his heart and becoming a millionaire.

Settle Community Problems

After they were finally tucked away for the night, Daddy and I settled the problems with the community and the universe while we finished up cutting the meat and eventually the butchering was completed for this year.

The farm sales are practically over and they never was a season in these parts were there were so many. It really has been quite festive. The men had somewhere to go nearly all winter.

The annual meetings of most local organizations are safely over, and we all know who's who in every club in association. Our home talent Lyceum course, sadly delayed by bad roads and storms of January and February, is being rushed through this month, date crowding date. The last of the home talent plays are being whipped into shape, the farewell parties for departing neighbors have been held, and all in all we are settling down to work.

First Taste of Tragedy

Our little parent teachers association is hanging together loyally though our teacher is quite ill and the school is almost broken up. It is hard to find a substitute this time of year and our youngsters may have to be "farmed out" to adjoining districts. Daughter Ruth has had her first taste of real tragedy this spring, first, in the illness of the beloved teacher, and then in the departure of favorite playmates from the school. "Isn't it awful to have to be separated from the ones you like the best," she asked with quivering lips, on the last, fatal day. "Seems like the last minute is the worst. We were never so happy all day, singing the songs they like the best and playing the games they chose, and then, at the last, it seemed as though we couldn't stand to say goodbye." The little girls are just moving a few miles away, but to the children it is as hard a parting as though they were going overseas forever. We are prone to be untouched by such apparently slight, childish, grief, but who shall say that they are not as deep and painful as any experiences we ever meet in life?

"Friend after friend departs,
Who has not lost a friend?
There is no friendship here on earth.
That has not come here and in."

And now comes the last of the sewing, in the house, cleaning, in the gardening, in the chicken raising. It is the turn of the year, when there comes a fresh inspiration. From now on, there is a little more poetry in the wash day, a little less bleakness on the farm.

Spring is really here with the grass, growing greener in the sky, growing bluer, with the big white washing down the road and the big white washing up the hill, waving hilarious, greetings to my big white washing, and the trees of my farm. Sending Jonty messages to the trees of your farm and getting them back again by the warm wind, that whistles and whirls and urges the countryside to one grand suite chorus of rejoicing.

Everything throbs with vitality, from the gay dawning to the peaceful night. Seems as though the village lights off to the southeast twinkle, more vivaciously than ever, these evenings and the row over airplane beacons around the northern and western horizon flare more brilliantly in their steady rhythm – now, the first one describing it, slow, bright arc, now, the next, and the next, and the next.

In the moonlight nights! Is there anything more thrilling than the glorious white light of the spring moon? One of the children woke up a night or two ago, and exclaimed at the whiteness of the glow. That woke the other two, and we let them stand at the windows and marvel at the site. To them (they are so seldom awake at that time of night in) it all seemed "wonder strange."

A Red Letter Day

It Is warm enough that ruth comes trudging Home from school with her coat flung open and a little bit of moisture on her flushed forehead. As Sonny remarked, "she is so warm she is covered with sweatness." The boys come in for meals, flushed and covered not only with sweatness, but with dust. It was a red letter day for them last week when busy day when Daddy got up from the breakfast table to hurry away and said, "Boys, you feed the calves for me this morning." What a squaring of shoulders was there, what exaggerated strut, as they tossed their caps on sideways (in intimidation of the current hired man). How proud they were, that they were given instructions, like the rest of the men, but not detailed instructions like babies! Daddy knew better than to tell them what to feed, and how much: had they watched him do it every time it had been done so far? They went to get their chores done and reported afterward that they had made an equitable division of the five heifer calves now on hand. Sonny chose the two largest ones, because they will be grown the soonest, and brother took the three little ones, because there are more of them. Since that day, the boys have tended the calves, and played with them, and almost lived among them. Sonny even wanted to know if they could take their naps out there, as he had tried, resting his head on one of the calves, and made such a soft pillow and lay so quiet. Brother wanted their supper packed in paper bags, as It Is when they play miner or workmen going to the factory, and wanted to eat out there with the calves. When I pointed out it was not just exactly a sanitary place in which, to eat, he maintained that the white on the calves was wider than snow, and that they smelled so sweet! 

Hitches in Single and Double

They have harnessed the cabs and driven them single and double. Wilbert has named his three Petty, Small, and Nice. He wants Sonny to name his George and Link after the father of his country, and the great emancipator, respectively, but up-to-date Sonny hasn't seemed impressed with the suggestion.

One day they took me out to give me a demonstration of putting the calves into the stanchions to feed. The system was for Sonny to push on the high quarters and Wilbert to stand in front of the stanchions and guide the head into the proper place and clamp it. All went well with the first four: they looked rather bored, and made no trouble, as they had no desire to go anywhere else. But the fifth and largest displayed a little obstinacy. It jerked and pulled away, kicked up Its heels and went into reverse, dragging Sonny, sprawling. He burst into tears of rage and humiliation, and cried, "You're always shoving me around!" But then, catching the look of alarm in my face, and apparently fearing that I would forbid further activities in such a dangerous place, he quickly straightened up and remarked with force casualness, "He kicks me lots of times, but it never hurts."

Today we are using our precious hour of playtime together to drive over to the village and call on your preacher, who is still sick. Will pick up Ruth on the way, and we're going to look for pussy willows as we go.

Happy little children.
Cry and laughing shout,
"spring is coming, com
Pussy Willows out!"

– Hope

There is an instinct that tells the little birds, when to come north in the spring, and there is likewise an instinct that tells our youngsters when it is time for the first John across the fields. It is always earlier than I anticipate, but perhaps that is because my touch with nature weekend as the years go by. Anyway, the time has come this season, the children say, and we have made the first momentous pilgrimage "over the pasture to Elmira's." When we make this trip, spring has formally arrived. The route "over the pasture" includes a hog lot, about six fences, a creek, or two, a field of corn stocks, and what not: but when the time comes, mother is expected to negotiate these difficulties without a murmur, though she would infinitely prefer to get out the car and go by the civilized road. But a mother never knows when she will lose cast with her children, by weakness, in such little matters: and I for one would not risk complaining.

The sun was bright in the sky, was blue on the day, selected: but the ditches ran brawling with water, and the ground was spongy with recent rains: and the wind blew raw. At the last moment, daddy convinced the children that the regular route was not a fit trail for a house plant like mother, and the obligingly consented to go around by the road, provided we would not walk on the gravel street along, but would have to follow the leader.

Line Up in Military Order

The leader was Ruth, of course. She lined us up in formal fashion and outlined to set of signals, which she fondly imagined where the last word in military discipline. She is partial to autocratic methods, when she is in charge of a project. This would work out very effectively, if it were not for the fact that the boys are what you might call "personal rights" men. Isn't it strange that we admire an adult some of the traits that annoy us most in children? Since being acquainted with my little brood, I never read a biography of a great man, saying, "He knew what he wanted, and never let anything interfere till he got i," but what I think, "How he must've annoyed his sister when he was little!" And whenever I hear a woman talk strongly about "standing up for her rights," I think she must've been driven into such firmness by her little brothers, being obstreperous and rebellious in their childhood.

Picks Precarious Places

But anyway, we set out on our journey this morning, when fate decreed we should go. The leader system seem to be to choose the most precarious places to walk. We walked odd, stepping-stones back-and-forth over the ditches: we crossed the creek, not by bridge, but by frail branches and clumps of trash that have been caught in the stream: at one place, we crept through a hole in a hedge, and walked in the lane roughened by cow tracks. Not even the most tender hearted poet could've referred to our "light and air tread." All in all, it was a clumsy and strenuous trip, but in spite of the difficulties we managed to admire the pussy willows and the other growing things we found. Once mother almost lost her grip on her iron nerves, however: that was when brother brought up for admiration a graceful baby grass snake about 6 inches long and as thick as a lead pencil of a most adorable shade of green! It would've harmonized beautifully with the kitchen woodwork, but we did not bring it home.

There is much of courage and appreciation for a mother to learn by taking a walk with her children. She has a chance for a wonderful renewal of childhood, which will be richer for the years of living that have passed since her own have forgotten early experiences in a great wide wonderful, beautiful world. And it seems to me that it gives the child a fair chance in life to have as much enjoyment with his parents as he can be given. Goodness knows, we have to curtail their pleasure soon enough "we have to discipline them early, to protect them from a harsh world. Let's at least be playful with them when we can!

Why They Were Punished

Did I ever tell you about the interesting investigation some teachers made with a lot of children of kindergarten age? The problem was to find out something about the punishment of children; and the teachers asked the children tell them what they were punished for. Three fourths of the acts that were punished were not wrong in themselves, but involved inconvenience to the adults in charge of the children. One little fellow said that he was punished for "sittin' on the sophy' in my dirty pants, and for setting on the ground in my clean ones."

It is commendable, I am sure, for any parents to have their child as a work of art "setting on the sophy'" in clean pants, part of the time: but for health and happiness, dress him so he can sit on the ground part of the time in pants they can't be spoiled by normal activity. And play with him while he is in his play clothes. He will be surprised how much he will learn about him, and how much more competent you feel to manage him and, incidentally, you will learn a lot about how to manage yourself.

But I hadn't much time to let my mind well thought such as these during our blitz and busy trip. We reached home at last: and mother was ready to relax for an absolute rest, after devoting the better part of the morning to active offspring, hoping they too, were ready for a period of quiet. But alas for hopes! Before anyone had a chance to sit down, there came a new that refrain that runs like a golden thread, through all mothers, waking hours: "Mother, now, what can we do?" – Hope.

"Shut your eyes till I get in the kitchen – something nice!" Was Sonny's cry, as my two tousled blue-overalled youngsters tumbled in the back door at noon the other day. And when I "shut my eyes" and held out my hand. I was given five stubby, grimy, crushed little dandelions, the first we've seen the season. Of course, to mothers, the dandelions her babies bring her are the sweetest flowers that blow, and I made a proper fuss over them, and listened as best I could while I put dinner on the table to the whole detailed story of where they were found, and how hard they were to get.

You see, the boys had made a couple of wheel stick or stick wheels, I never can remember which it is. But you find an old, rusty wheel, and size, but preferably small, and onto it, you bolt a stick, any length and shape and condition, but preferably not too rough and about 3 feet long. Sometimes it takes quite a while to find a bolt with a burr that will fit and that isn't too rusty to use, but it is a happy search if it takes all forenoon. But anyway, on this particular morning luck was with the boys and they got their wheel sticks made early, and then they felt an urgent call to go down the road and show them to their little chums, two boys of corresponding ages in a neighboring family. These wheel sticks are not for anything in particular, but you push them and run and it's so pleasant to guide them and make them go fast. If you are big enough for your daddy to let you stand on the running board of the car, you can trail the wheel stick on the ground and wee, but it goes! But if you're too little for that, you have to just run on your own chubby feet as fast as you can.

Spied Something Yellow

After they showed the wheel stick to the boys and helped them find supplies to make some for themselves, and then started home, why, right across the ditch they saw something yellow. It was in a hard place, but they got over, and sure enough it was dandelions, two of them. And so after they got those, they watched pretty close the rest of the way of home, and finally, they found three more, and here they were.

We floated them in a white saucer, and they made a cheerful centerpiece for the dining table. And radiant with satisfaction of a good deed well appreciated. Sonny announced beautifully, "after nap we're going to hunt up a big bunch and take it to Miss Anna." (For our teacher is still dreadfully ill at the hospital, and will not be strong for a long time.) Brother boy squelched him with his superior grant. "Won't do for that," he said, and I thought with one of those her little twinges that comes so often to mothers when the little ones are growing out of babyhood, "has he already learned that is only to mothers that these common little furry golden balls are sweet, and to them only because their own darlings made the effort to get them? Is he already touched by that melody which gets us all – that is not the love in the effort alone count but what other people think

But no! He is still just a baby, unsullieded by convention. "Won't do for that," he said. "Stems too short. Wouldn't have a vase to fit 'em so we can't carry the dandelions to the hospital, where the grown-ups might be embarrassed less someone think we didn't know any better. We'll just wait until we find some more some weeds with longer stems." – Hope.

One evening, not long ago our daddy was delayed a few minutes with his evening chores, just enough that we missed connections for about five minutes before we reached home, I had to leave to go to town with some neighbors. And for that little interim, the children were left alone in the house. The thing like that doesn't happen often, and all evening a ghost of a worry haunted me: even though I was sure they would be perfectly safe.  The next day at dinner, talk came up of some event, to which dad and I both wanted to go: but we are so in the habit of arranging for someone to be with the children that we had to decide which of us was to go. Baby boy, age 6 looked up a matter fact, way and remarked, "Why don't you both go? We can do the outside work like we always, and we can run the house."

A simple remark, but how startling in its significance! Can it be that there is a time coming when we won't need always to plan our days according to whether someone can look after the babies? In the beginning the chains galled us some, but as time went on, it became second nature for us to adapt our comings and goings around the welfare of the little ones and the stranger the habit grew, the less the chains chafed. And now, at the prospect of liberty, we are almost appalled.

Begged to Get Back

A few days ago the newspapers carried a story of an old man, who, after spending most of his years in a penitentiary, was pardoned and turned loose in the world strange to him. In a very short, while he came back to the prison, begging, pitifully, to be re-admitted, for he couldn't adjust himself to freedom. I think parents can understand his feelings, when their children shoot up suddenly and independent girlhood and boyhood. One by one, the bond are loosening: babies learn to feed themselves, and dress themselves, and bathe themselves, to keep out of dangerous places without being watched, and later to think, and decide and act for themselves. It all leaves a parent with us for sort of feeling, questioning whether freedom is all that it is cracked up to be. Those bonds were sweet, after all.

If there is a moral to all this, it would be a word of encouragement to those poor, tired, young mothers, whose moments are packed so full of tending babies that they have no time to take care of themselves, that there is an easier time coming: that this hardest time is short. And a word of warning to the rebellious young mothers who are afraid that they will lose too much of their own life if they devote themselves to babies now. "Who looses his life shall find it." In tending this rose garden of babyhood we have a thorny time in many ways. Some days we can notice nothing but prickles. But after the hard work is done, and we look back on the arduous days, we see nothing but a massive bloom. – Hope.

Is this momentous day approaches once more, it seems appropriate to include, along with the memory gem, which many have asked to have reprinted for the occasion, the letters which came in response to Ruth Vernon's recent letter, which included a mention of Mother's Day. It is especially appropriate that one of the letters is from "Twenty Some" who originally contributed Gillan's poem to the column last fall.

Mother's Day seems to me to be a wonderful day to retain in the calendar and I, like the rest of you, feel that father deserved credit too. But I would rather build up a separate Father's Day wouldn't you? Seems to me we could spare a day of peace for the two wonderful people who gave up themselves and ordered their lives for our sakes. Mother's Day is not a selfish day, even for the mothers. I know as a pack my box of dewey crabapple blossoms for my own little mother, I am not thinking of the day as it tribute to me, although I am a mother, for I know in my heart that I have not gone far enough nor done well enough to deserve tribute yet. I am thinking only of her, and the sweetness of her influence, and all the lives that touched her.

Thinking Back

As she sits at home on Mother's Day, and receives the boxes and the telegram for her six scattered children and their mates, I know that she is not accepting them smugly as her due, but is thinking back to her mother –little lame, Grandmother Kate, that ardent unvanquished spirit, who raise seven children and conquered the trials of pioneer life as gallantly as any emperor marshaling his legions against barbarians, and who, at the age of 85, left this life for one which I hope will provide her a satisfying outlet for her activity and her brilliance.

So it goes. No mother is basking in the glory of the day, though the remembrance and appreciation of her children is sweet to her, but each is looking back and laying her gratitude at the feet of her own mother. It is a sort of answer to worship which broadens the heart in humility and reverence. – Hope.

"April has wept itself to May," as the poet says, in literal truth this year. Such prolonged and heavy rains as we have all had through the middle west! The worst of it seems to be over where we are in north central Illinois, the floodwater having drained away and left our land almost tillable: but our hearts in sympathies are with those further down the Mississippi, who must suffer, not only the evil effects of the own rainfall, but the accumulated disaster of all of ours as well.

Our farmers are three weeks behind with spring work, and it will take good weather and strenuous days to get the corn land ready to plant in time. A goodly acreage of the customary oats crop could not be seeded at all. Strangely enough, the three successive freezes we had in late April did not seem to affect the fruit much.

Whatever misfortune we get in the way of rain is soon over, the real tragedy comes in the dwellers by the riverside, when the drainage waters gather into the big streams, swelling them to overflowing.

Test of Courage

Honor to those farmers, who submitted to the ruination of their lands, for the sake of saving New Orleans! There was a powerful test of courage and strength of character. How many of us, if our ancestors had worked that land 200 years and had built the levee to protect our homes, could've stood without protest, and seen those levies wrecked and our property ruined, for the sake of saving a strange city, apparently a selfish city, a city, which had done nothing in particular to help us? If many of those farmers were bitter and rebellious at the blasting of the walls, what right have we to judge them? The only fault was not being able to see a larger pattern in life: and not recognizing the need of a few to suffer for the sake of saving many.

How many of us rebel against much smaller troubles in our daily lives just because we have the same limitation? We at least give what we can afford to the suffering, flood victims and meanwhile we can count our many blessings, and be glad of some of the little happinesses that lie before us.

A Riot of Bloom

The tall, strong, crabapple tree, which we watch from the kitchen window every spring is riotous with bloom. It is the tree which gets green first of any tree in the spring, and it's development is one of the delights of our country life. It begins with just a hint of almost imperceptible color, and swiftly, day by day, becomes a massive, living green, when the maples are just barely beginning to swell their crimson buds. Then some morning, our crabtree is overlaid with the pink of buds, and from then on for a week or two it grows more and more splendid, until it is like a snowbank with bloom. As a fruit tree, it is no good, as daddy sagely remembers: the apples are very tiny, yellow ones, but afflicted with worms, and so high as to be inaccessible without an extension ladder, and the sturdy right arm at the head of the house. But as a thing of beauty, merely, it is a joy forever – not just in spring, but year-round.

Our gladioli bulbs are thriving, too. We spend more than we really could afford for them, and then, following the recommendation of an authority on the subject, I put them in the ground early in April. "Glads are very hardy," he said, "and the choicest ones should be put out the first of April, so they will have a long season in which to multiply." Then three freezes came and I truly believed that the way of the transgressor is hard. I resolved it should be a lesson to me not to indulge in any more high price bulbs, until my ship comes in. But a few days later, the slim green shoots begin to come through the ground, and now I feel quite proud of my skill with flowers. Nothing ventured nothing won they say.

Would Not Hold to the Supports

The ivy is another triumph for me, of which I must tell you. Last spring, I selected the sort of ivy, which seemed to me to fill the bill of what we wanted, and I set out and tended the plants. They grew luxuriously, but they simply would not cling to the wall. I tried all sorts of queer support, but accomplished nothing. My ivy became one of the family standing jokes. Then the spring daddy assured me that my ivy was dead and he chose a different variety and set it up to start the frost got part of him, but the joke is that my ivy is beginning to grow. Of course I can't guarantee that it will stick to the stucco any better this year than last, but I have hopes. It ought to be "acclimated" by now.

The boys' calves have been turned out into a new pasture just across the lane from the house. The boys been much time among their little pets. When one boy comes to the back door and yells "all down," he means the calves are resting. The other one goes scampering, and over the gate, they both scramble to nestle among the family of calves. Wilbert's three – Petty, Goody and Smalley -- are still a nice size for a little boy to manage. He can stand comfortably between two of them, with an arm thrown affectionately over each. He has given Goody to Ruth, so she can play with the mornings in the evenings. She has re-christened it "Goody, Two Shoes," rather meaningless for a calf, it seems to me, but apparently satisfying to her aesthetic sense.

Star and Butter

So these two calves have grown until they are taller than he is, so that his best times for petting them are when they are lying down to rest. He has named them Star and Butter. "Do you call her Butter, " asks sentimental mother, "because she is the yellowest?" "I call her butter," says Sonny, "because she butts me down."

We have a new dog too. Not really our own, but one to keep for the summer. The boys went to the village with daddy the other day and brought it home. They fairly battered me with information and their excitement when they got back. "A dog, mother, for us to keep all summer!" "He's the blacksmith's, and he wants him to run around outdoors!" "In town he just has to stay at home all the time, think of that!" "Down celler, mostly: can you imagine it?" "We have to keep him tied a few days, daddy says, and then he can run and play with us." "He's a rat terrier." "and he's a mouse terrier too." "He's white and fat and has a black spot on his eye." "He's friends with us already." "Isn't he cute?" "And his name," adds solomon Sonny, in a final burst of eloquence before he is entirely out of breath, "is Betty." – Hope.

The last day of school has come and gone, and the picnic is over. It is a strenuous but happy time for children and parents alike with its ice cream and other eatables and the reports of "who passed" and the chatter about summer plans and next year's work.

At Ruth's school we had a fine big crowd. The men came in just for dinner in their field clothes, for the days are crowded to the brim with hereabouts with work hereabouts and they could not come for all day. But a matter how busy they are, it was worthwhile for them to come in for a short time on such a day. Someway the children are a little prouder and happier if an event is important enough to have daddy there. Mothers are always on deck, of course. They have to come to bring the lunch. if nothing else in they usually visit school a few times during the year. But it takes special inducement to get the fathers out. We had tons of laughing and fun. And after dinner when the men had gone back to their tractors and the little ones have gone outdoors to romp, and the "big boys" had gone to practice for the graduation operetta, the women organized a parent teachers association. That is the third rural PTA in our neighborhood, and we are proud of all of them.

And now all that activity is off our minds till fall. What we must have now, is a long pull and a strong pull and a pull in altogether to get the crop in. The women and children must look after chickens and garden, and as many of the chores as possible: lunches must be taken to the men in the fields, and every moment must be made to count. The weather stays cold and cloudy and windy but we have bad enough have had enough dry weather for plowing and disking. On a good day, we can actually count eight tractors, weaving their tireless way back-and-forth across fields from daylight to dark, trailing back black ribbons of mellow soil, and we can hear the roar of many more that are out of sight. The very proverbial peace and quiet of the countryside has disappeared for the time being.

The incessant rumble might be nerve-racking to a vacationist, but to us, it is music in our ears. It means achievement of worthwhile things to us, and it means safety and prosperity for the coming year. We'd a lot rather hear that rumble than not! The days when the tractors have to be idle, are the days that are nerve-racking to us this spring. – Hope.

It was Ruth Vernon, I believe, who began the discussion of honoring the fathers was a special day, as we do the mothers. So far as we have learned, there is no national Father's Day set apart, corresponding to the second Sunday and May now universally accepted as Mother's Day. Some of the universities celebrate dad's day on a Saturday in the fall with a big football game as the main attraction.

Father and sons banquets are increasingly popular among the churches in the YMCA but there does not seem to be a uniform day for holding them. This year, our town held these banquets in the winter, every church entertaining its own group on the same night. In some letters printed today, a Father's Day on the second Sunday in June is mentioned. That day, I believe, is observed in practically all protestant churches as children's day, the movement to call May Day children's day is growing in strength year by year. It was started by child welfare organizations.

Suggests Parents Week

Another letter printed today suggested parents week, with Mother's Day on the first Sunday and Father's Day on the next. This seems to be a good suggestion, with a lot of possibilities. Wouldn't you write what you think about it – and let's set a Father's Day for our household, even though the nation at large has not chosen one. But beginning now we may be able to work up enough sentiment to have a widespread observance next spring.

In our little Hopewell church, it is customary on Mother's Day for a committee to provide sweet peas, pink and white, and to distribute them to all the congregation. Of course, everyone who has flowers brings bouquets to church for decorations, and one of the biggest and finest is presented at the closest of the service to the oldest mother present, and one to the mother, having the largest family present, and one to the youngest mother.

The tall trees have been swishing pretty steadily for sometime, according to the little poem, but they haven't swept our skies blue much of the time. We still have rain and wind and cold and clouds, which surely make us appreciate a few bright balmy days that occur once in a while. Very little corn is in the ground, and what little has begun to grow looks yellow and dispirited. It is the time when our men are normally straining every nerve to keep the cornfields clean and yet get the alfalfa hay put up. This year there is nothing ready to plow and very little alfalfa to worry about. Much alfalfa killed out this winter. It seems strange to us to hear of the young fellows starting out to the Kansas harvest. Our wheat is growthy and green, but has not started to head. The gardens are thrifty, and I never saw the berries bloom so beautifully. The children are all out of school, and fill the long days with caring for chickens and calves and pigs.

Helped Shell Seed Corn

The other day the children, and I spent the rainy afternoon in the loft of the corn crew, helping Daddy shell the seed corn. The rain beat on the roof and shadows covered the gloomy corners, and softened the lines of the dusty things that accumulate and such a place. We sat on inverted paint, pills, and bushel baskets, and while Daddy sorted and butted and tipped, we shelled the golden grains, the brightest things in the loft, from the glowing red cobs. When the little boys have blistered their hands enough to satisfy them, they set out about other activities – Brother, at some prying and pounding that seemed intensely important to him. Sonny, piling the red cobs into intrinsic shapes. Ruth and I raced each other in the shelling. There would be silence for a while, except for the rain,then we would talk a little, then be quiet again. We covered a lot of subjects in a random way, but one remark of Daddy stands out in memory, making the little homely scene one of the pictures that we carry with us always, not important in themselves, but close to our hearts for the very simplicity.

Isolation Has Its Advantages

"Folks talk a lot," he said, "about the need children have for social life and companionship. I used to pity myself when I was young, because I was the only boy and led what I thought was a lonely life. It was lonelier in some ways than country folks have now, for we had no telephones, radios, or automobiles. But the longer I live the more I feel that there are a lot of advantages in being isolated a bit from the bustle and stir of life. A person learns of necessity to develop resources in himself to do some independent thinking, and to be satisfied without being entertained all the time."

"These children of ours, they don't see the movies in the fire engines often, and don't get to hail the ice cream cone wagon a couple times a day, and don't have enough folks around to get up a ball team, or a tug-of-war, still have some opportunities for self development. Sonny here will never be fidgety, because he hasn't a gang around; he will find contentment in something near at hand, even if it is only piling red cobs to see how high they can build before they will top. There are lots of compensations and being a country child." – Hope.

"The monotony of farm life." I wonder how that phrase originated? It is actually appeared in print but have any of you found it in actual life? Remember, how short a time ago it was that we were all excited over the beginning of gardening and the starting of baby chicks and the delay in farming caused by the heavy and continuous rains? And now before we have got our breath, the fields have grown lush and green, and the grain has turned paler and paler until it glistens in pale gold. It has been cut and shocked and tomorrow we'll thresh. Harvest is the turning point of the busy summer, and then after the rush of threshing there is the annual breathing spell when we have time to pick up the loose ends that we have been obliged to hang while the bulk of the work went on. Now is the time for a few days vacation for farm folk, if they have a vacation at all. Now is the time to plan on saving flower seed and bulbs, and consider layout out of next year's improvements in the farm and grounds, the lawns and fences. Now is the strenuous canning season, from now until frost. Then before we know it, the children must be ready for school, and the sewing must be done, and the house must be cleaned, all in time for the winter's round of meetings and holidays.

Ruth and the boys spent the early forenoon helping the men pick cucumbers, and for reward get to ride with the cucumbers to the factory. Clumsy big Fido and little whirlwind Betty follow them everywhere they go. The lusty little Leghorns fill the air all day long with their crowing. Sunny says with the twinkle inside that they say "feed the roo-roo-roosters!" And he answers them occasionally. "you are fed!" The new little white belted pigs are source of endless delight. Enumerable kittens help make life interesting. The new cat or two for pets crowd out the ones so dear for last spring, Butter and Goody and the rest. Wilbur and Ruth are counting the days until school begins. Sonny and I are wondering how we will get along without them. We have to be each other's pals. When threshing is done, we will make a flying trip to the other grandma's – and then we must settle down again to that so-called "Monotony of farm life." – Hope.

It has been a long time since we described any of the escapades of the children at the house but since so many of you have said, tell us some more about them, and since this is a pleasant leisurely time of year for chatting, this little interval between threshing and fall work, it is a good time to catch up on their summer doings. We have just had our "vacation", a weekend with the other grandma 100 miles away. We went down on Saturday and came back on Monday, leaving Ruth for an important two week visit. She is released from music lessons for the month of August and she feels quite grown-up, making a visit alone.

Sonny has had a ringworm on his scalp, caught from his pet calf, Quitile. It did not seem to give him any discomfort, but was an ugly and slow healing sore. Incidentally, he broke out in heat rash for a few days, and altogether looked well battered up – though to tell the truth that is more or less his normal appearance. I never saw a child who carried more scars of battle on his body at one time. Bruises, scratches, rash, blisters, splinters, bee stings, and so on. Furthermore, he both tan sunburns and freckles; but his darling little smile lights up the little battered face like a lily in bloom.

Speaking of Lilies

Speaking of lilies, our big boy, Wilbert has the baby light complexion of the family. He is tanned a little, but normally his skin is lovely white with a damask rose blush, and his hair is light and fluffy. That is, it is fluffy while he sleeps and in between meals. When he comes to the table, it is plastered down to his head with so much water that it fairly drips. He feels more masculine with flat hair. Margie Ruth is our dusky maiden – dark hair, black eyes, well browned summer skin. She is fragile in build, but hardly as a shrub. Never sick, never much banged up. Tough and active as a hickory sapling. Very practical in many ways but with a charming and amusing delicacy of fancy. She lives much of the time in a little fairy world of her own manufacture.

The other day she asked permission to get supper all alone, for the children and me (for we have early supper before the men come home from chores). When we came in from gathering the eggs we were asked to go around to the front door, take places at the dining table, and order for the menu card we would find. This was the menu:

Coffee      Meiligan (French)
Pink milk   Potatoes
Milkshake   Peas (cold)
Eggnog      Onions
Bread and butter

We were supposed to order Meiligan (French) as that's what she had. It was the hobo mixture that uncle Wilbert told us about years ago – bacon, potato, onion, and egg all cooked together. The children I are fond of it for sentimental associations more than its appearance and flavor, and on state occasions, two or three times a year, we have it. For a drink we were supposed to order milkshake as that was prepared, but the boys unexpectedly setting their hearts on eggnog, The service was delayed a little bit.

Good but Weak!

The next night Wilbert of course had to have a turn getting supper. He shut set himself up in the kitchen for a while, then brought out Ruth's same menu for us order from, but no matter what we ordered from it we had to take we had prepared, which was cheese sandwiches and lemonade. The sandwiches were neatly made, and very good, but the lemonade was somewhat weak, as he had filled in enormous white pitcher on the strength of two lone lemons. He told us with a shy smile that it was good, but a little weaker than common. He made a cup of coffee for me as the extra touch of a thoughtful chef.

Sonny was to have his turn the following night, but something more exciting turned up and his interest in cooking temporarily waned. Heaven only knows what he would've served.

A few days later, I was unexpectedly called away from home at about 11 o'clock to help cook for threshers at a neighbors. There was no time to prepare the children's dinner, but they were tremendously excited and pleased to be told that they might pack themselves a picnic basket, using any food whatever they could find in the house, and carry it up the road to eat with grandma. The only stipulation made about appropriating any food was that they think carefully before they took it whether they would rather save it for more more important time. They chose carefully and well, it seemed to me, none of the choice delicacies having been used. But it would be impossible for me to say whether those delicacies were left because of sound judgment or because of the fact that the tops were on so tight.

So the workdays run on full of fun and work of happiness and childhood troubles. We talk much of the good time we had at the other grandma's where seven little cousins were gathered for the first time, and we fill the days as best we can, looking forward to the time when sister will be home again, and bringing Aunt Grace and little cousin Peejee with her. – Hope.

Ever since our youngest reached the age of five last March, the word "baby" has been taboo. The two young men of the household expect to be considered "men folks" and we have become accustomed to have them act independent and self reliant, to spend more hours out of doors with Daddy than in the house with Mother.

But the last few days there have been a reversion to baby days for all of us, for we have a blonde and chubby three-year-old girl cousin visiting us. In spite of their men's style overalls and blue chambray shirts and other accoutrements of manhood, the boys have been delighted in playing with Paula Jean, no matter how childish the game she wants to play. Mud pies, building blocks, hide and seek – anything is all right when they have the joy of an extra playmate. Margie Ruth associates with them with the amused attitude of an elderly relative, but she has not lost her sense of superiority. Mainly, she spends the hours with Peejee's mother and me. She did condescend to play in the water with them, when on a hot sunny day they dressed in bathing suits and overalls, and splashed water on each other as long as they all liked. (Even quite large girls go to the beach, you know.)

Brings Forth a Thrill

But the most interesting episode of the visit has to do with the losing of a white shoe. That brought us one of the mild but satisfying thrills that are so characteristic of our quiet country life. The boys had taken Paula up to the barn to see the Guernsey, but they went first to the house to see Grandma (probably because light refreshments may usually be expected to be served). When they started to the barn, Grandma told them that if one of them would come back to the house before they went home she would have a little surprise package for them. Brother and Paula sent Sonny back for the package and they rolled under a fence and scampered across the small corn patch to take a shortcut home and surprise him. But misfortune dogged their footsteps in that cornfield; Paula lost one little white shoe, and search as they might they could not find it. They reached home hot, sweaty and discouraged – the little one sobbing because the ground hurt her foot, and brother leading her tenderly by the hand. "We couldn't find the shoe but we took off the stocking so it wouldn't get dirty," he announced. Just about the time they finished telling the story of their mishap, sunny boy arrived serene and beaming. He had taken time to visit with grandma and get scrubbed clean and shining had walked happily home by way of the road, so overflowing with pleasure in the surprise he carried that he had not thought of the two had run ahead to tease him.

The appearance of the surprise put an end to the sobs. By the time Paula and Brother were washed up, Sonny had opened up the brown paper sack and had laid out in a row four identical round packages, wrapped in wax paper with a perky little twist for fastening: one for Ruth, one for Wilbert, one for Sonny, and one for Paula. In each round package was found a chocolate iced chocolate cupcake, and a handful of little square pink and white mints.

Everybody in Good Humor

There was so much pleasure and counting the candies in admiring the cakes and eating them, that everybody was in the happiest of humor, and someone suggested that there would still be time before the men came to supper for all of us to go hunting for the little white shoe.

So away we went. Just a few rods up the road was the corner of the corn patch with a very convenient break between hedge and fence for us to climb through. We couldn't roll under and meet thunder for the fence went smack to the ground. We couldn't climb over and meet clover for there was barbed wire on top. But there was just a nice place to crawl through and meet dew, so that's the way we went. And every single person could get through all alone without a bit of help. The minute we left the fence and struck out diagonally through the field, our little adventure began. There was not that anything in particular happened, but that we stepped out of the common place into a fairy world.

Visited Fairyland

How cool and green it was in there among the tall stocks, and how remote we seemed from the land of every day. The friendly golden tassels nodded to us when we looked up at the sunny blue sky, and the lone green leaves rustled in a gentle welcome. You could not see the road nor the house nor the barn, yet how safe and contented we felt. The cool earth underfoot was so comforting in the stalks of corn were not crowded and close as they always look from the house, but spread apart in cool and generous spaces like a forest. And every few hills we would come across an enormous pumpkin vine, rich, dark green, with leaves, like elephant ears and golden blooms eight inches across. It gave us the thrill that Alice in Wonderland must've had when she drank of the bottle that made her tiny. We wondered among the crisp stalks along time with the children turning up to us, beaming faces, and squeezing our hands with their little moist ones, and drawing sharp, ecstatic breaths, like they do when they swing so high that they touch the branches, or when they side down an extra long bump-the-bumps.

And when it was time to come home and get supper we wondered leisurely back again, crawled through and met dew, petted the dogs who were barking madly with joy at our return, and stretched out on rugs and couches in the cold, dark living room as tired as if we had really been somewhere. Little simple pleasures makes such big memories! Our little adventure brought back to me so sharply similar days, we children spent with our Mother on long hikes through the Hickory grows and oak woods long ago. But we never did find the little white shoe! – Hope.

School has started and we have all settled into the routine of fall. Margie Ruth in the sixth grade is one of the "big girls" in the school now – she and her classmates are the biggest ones there are and they are not very big. We have only four beginners and a second grader and our two sixth grade grade girls this year. Not a very large group – but how they love their school and their teacher! And our parent teacher association is looking forward to another happy year of companionship.

Wilbert is learning his "see my kitty" and all the other words appropriate to the occasion. He learns by the phonetic system, which I imagine most of your schools are using and I must say it seems to be a marvelous system. Ruth could read before she started to school, but Wilbert, while he had acquired a remarkable a lot of miscellaneous information, could not read. Now after a scant two weeks, he can read 20 or 30 words. Seems to me to be a very simple, sound and logical system.

Loses Companions

Sonny is without a companion now which puzzles him sometimes, but in the main he manages to get a lot of fun out of life even yet. The weather has been intensely hot and dry ever since school began, and Daddy sent Sonny into the house one morning because the sun was so strong, telling him he looked like a boiled beet. A day or two later Sonny came to the house voluntarily and throwing off his straw hat he said "My, I'm all sweat. Do I look like a boiled turnip?""

Speaking of Sonny he's a very surprising child. He is of a disposition that doesn't need much discipline, and what he does need is very hard to supply. He is so droll that anyone who attempts to correct him is likely to burst into a fit of laughing before he gets through. The other day, while Paula Jean was still with us, the children broke down the tire swing. The rope simply wore through and the child in the swing got a little bump. But everybody had a hilarious time after the incident, and then the boys and Peejee began to rope rump with the tire and the rope. With three children and two dogs in the melee, it was not long before friction arose, and I was obliged to settle the fracas. (I used to be humiliated when my children got into such affairs. I felt it was a disgrace. I've come to accept the more philosophically now. Instead of a disgrace, I consider bickerings as a natural phenomenon of childhood. Better families than mine have quarreled).

Didn't Touch It

Anyway, I laid the tire beside the tree, took off the rope, and said with considerable sternness, "This is not to play with. We will leave it here until Daddy can put it up. Don't touch it."

Later in the day, when the children had all forgotten about the tire, Fido began to play with it and when he got weary, he left it lying flat in the middle of the lawn. I happened to be working near a window, and before long Sonny came into sight, playing gun with a stick. I noticed a great light came over his countenance when he saw the tire, similar to that which radiates from the face of a scientist when he has solved a tremendous problem. Sonny carefully stooped over the tire, and inserted his stick. Then he scampered away and came back with a second stick, the same length. When satisfied that both fit across the tire, he stepped gingerly between them, and lifting the two sticks, pulled the tire up about him like a life preserver. Then, with a great chuckling, he romped and gambled all over the yard, cutting great circles and figure eights, and wound up in front of my window with his fat little face beaming an infectious smile, crying excitedly "I haven't touched it yet Mother!"

Kept Within the Law

I suppose he had disobeyed me, and yet he had not disobeyed the letter of the law either for I said "Don't touch it." It is just such little incidences as this which prevent the art of child raising from ever becoming an exact science. No doubt a wiser parent would have devised some sort of discipline, but as for me, I did the only thing I was capable of doing in the face of such a convulsing performance. I simply laughed until I was weak. Fortunately for my reputation, the other children were not present. If they had been there, something would've had to been done about the problem. As it was, Sonny was satisfied and soon scampered off to other play. There been nothing malicious or willful about his action. He simply had a funny thought and acted upon it.

I'm sure I don't know what would've been the scientific way to handle the situation. If you do, let me know. I only know I'm thankful there's only one Sonny instead of an orphan asylum full of him. – Hope

The movement designed to get parents and teachers acquainted and interested in the school children is rapidly gaining ground, especially in rural districts. The organizations are springing up like mushrooms in our vicinity, and let's hope it won't be long until every little one room school has its own. A school district is such a small intimate unit that would be hard to find a better basis for organization. Many requests reach this desk for help in planning parent teacher meetings, and perhaps a story of what other folks have done will be the best help we can offer.

Here at Maple Grove, we have the nicest time at P.T.A as I believe any organization we belong to. Our school is so small and the membership is so cozy that there is no room for jealousy, rivalry, prejudice and ill well. Our main aim is friendliness – just that and I believe we have it in abundance. We have not tried to accomplish any material objects, like raising money for pianos and playgrounds, we have only tried to get together and be friends. The children and the teacher have some fresh decorations and hand work on display at every meeting, which the parents are proud to see, and both children and adults take part in the programs and then we have just a happy social hour at the close.

Get Men Folks Out

We meet in the evening because we want the men folks always to be present. We meet on Friday evening so all the little ones may sleep late the next day and not be overtired. We serve refreshments because it seems that is the pleasantest way of being sociable. But we keep the refreshments simple so that no one will feel burdened contributing. We have programs, we try to have every member take part at one time or another, but we do not assign any part that is a strain to the participant. We make up our programs, often with readings for magazines such as "Children", "Hygeia", and "Child Welfare".

We have never held bake sales or socials to raise money for we feel the school district should provide whatever the school needs. We can contribute work and ideas but we feel that too many organizations are trying to raise money and we will be content to engage in spiritual rather than material projects. We do not have our organization for what we can make, but for what we can give our children and our neighbors in the way of interest and friendliness. We cleaned the school house and made a picnic of it. We can get old gas pipe at the junkyard, and with the addition of some rope and boards are men can rig up a set of swings. That won't cost the district much, but we would rather do it than have a box social to raise money to buy something more expensive. Our school is a modest little white rectangle with good substantial equipment, but nothing extravagant. We keep the buildings painted and the trees trimmed in the yard mode. We are contented to keep a simple rural school plant. We would rather provide for our little ones a good teacher in a friendly spirit, than all the equipment of city school can have.

Program Was A Success

Our first program this year was a great success. At the first meeting, we made it a point to invite every household in the district whether they have children or not. We had a good crowd and our program was a surprise. The little children sang us the songs they had been working on since school began. I wish you could've seen the little beginners march up and go through their parts. Too shy little twin girls were in the line who had never "said pieces" anywhere before but they marched up happily and unafraid at this meeting, because there was nothing to be afraid of with nobody there but Mother and Daddy and the neighbors. Then we had a short business meeting and a reading of a short history of the parent teacher movement. Then came a big surprise of the evening – a side-splitting Negro, dialogue, by two of our women, who had declared in the beginning that they were never could never do such a thing. The cleverness of their costumes in their acting would've broken the ice in a far stiffer audience and ours.

That concluded the program, for we have purposely planned to devote most of the evening to sociability. We had a wiener roast, serving buns and wieners and marshmallows and pumpkin pie, and what a time we had. Everyone was hilarious and happy. Groups mingled, and broke, and separated again and everybody had a chance for a little visit with everyone else. There is any value in social life at all. Surely it is in full measure in such a neighborly gathering is this.

Plan Patriotic Program

Our next meeting will be near armistice, and we still have a patriotic program. We're hoping to adopt a splendid program. Arrange by the Kansas State Agricultural College for the homemakers club on the topic "Victories of Peace and War". There will be a part for every member for the program is divided into many parts. Each one will have a few paragraphs to read about some victory either in peace or war. No one will be overburdened and we will have real cooperation.

The next meeting after that will be based on a report from our delegate to the district convention and we are hoping that she will bring us suggestions for more formal programs. Meanwhile, we make use of whatever comes to hand either of the official parent teacher, publications, or elsewhere, and always plan to allow plenty of time for just social ability – Hope.

Memory Gem

Down the lines of August – and the bees upon the wing –
All the worlds in color now and all the songbirds sing 
Never reds will redder be, more golden than the gold.
Down the lanes of August, and the summer getting old
– Guest

Now are the days when everyone in the household is aquiver with secrets getting ready for Christmas, and all the mothers and fathers must carefully refrain from putting two and two together, or they will find out too much and spoil the surprises. When a little 10-year-old girl says virtuously an hour before bedtime. "I'll just kiss you good night down here and go up to my room alone and you don't need to come in to cover me up even if you see a light why don't bother." Any mother knows that some mystery is afoot about which she had better not inquire. And when a six-year-old boy suddenly burst into song "Up on the housetop quick quick quick", and then claps his hand so violently over his mouth that he almost upsets himself, a mother must quickly concentrat her attention elsewhere, and never once connect the song with the Christmas program at the school.

Fortunately, we are blessed with a number of cousins and aunts and uncles, so we can do a lot of planning together. In this way, the strain of secret-keeping is lessened a little. Ruth planned the wrapping this year and every bundle that goes out of our house is to be wrapped in pink tissue and plastered with Christmas seals. Evenings at playtime we usually wrap gifts nowadays, gathering in Ruth's room. She has a box for each family to whom we send gifts, and as fast as things are finished, wrapped, and labeled she drops them in the proper box. Daytimes none of us are allowed in that room, except under her chaperonage. Mother wraps, the boys stick-em-shut with seals, and Ruth labels.

Most Gifts Are Home-Made

Most of our our gifts are home-made, for whatever the children give they must give from their own pocketbook or their own skill. Their little hoards are not very big, but they have made them stretch remarkably. We have regular pink mountains of things already, and are nearly ready for the final packing. A fruitcake, some candy and nuts, and some Christmas tree decorations. Each package will supplement the gifts and make each box pretentious.

One of Sonny's original ideas was to send each family a package of bandages. Bandage rolling is one of his accomplishments, and as he reasoned "if the cousins are like us, their mothers will be glad to have some bandages already wrapped." So every box has a package of rolled bandages bandages tied with red ribbon. Brother in his first year of school is very proud that his penmanship grades even beat Ruth, and so he painstakingly made out some sheets of writing for the doting grandparents containing such choice sentiments as "Can you see me? I can run. Can you run?" and he has wrapped them as beautifully as if they were perfumes from Arabys. Ruth, having achieved the eminence of 30 cents a week allowance and having been properly frugal in spending all year, is luxuriating in buying she refers to as real gifts, although, as she quietly remarked "you can depend on it mother that most of my shopping was done in the 10 cent store."

You would be surprised at the remarkable things that can be done with spools and lacquer. Dolls, extraordinary creeping lizards, doll beds, tables and chairs. Assorted sizes from the big linen thread spools down to the tiny buttonhole twist ones, they afford a lot of fun for busy fingers. And the assortment of boxes that can be painted and used for something – oatmeal boxes, soap, boxes, and everything. All in all, we have evolved a pile of gifts out of which almost nothing at all of which none of us need to be ashamed. And what a lot of fun it has been – Hope.

Christmas is the children's day of course. Everything we do is really planned for them. But during the last tumultuous days before the holidays, how many mothers and fathers of us get so intensely wrapped up in our plans that we neglect the children, give them absent minded answers, overlook playtime, and maybe in moments of exasperation, assure them that if they don't want a good Christmas all right, but we simply cannot get things done right if we are constantly bothered, and we are doing it all for them, etc. Bless you! They'd rather have no more Christmas than extra vegetables in the soup and be "in on" plans for fixing up the house and making gifts for others and have father and mother, good natured and interested and happy with them.

Giving the children a good Christmas may not consist in giving them a great display of elaborate toys. The best we can give them is to provide experiences that will develop them into good generous and self-reliant men and women. Giving, helping, learning to do things and to plan our experiences with which the most expensive gifts cannot compare.

Action is Important

Sometimes we get the idea that Things are important to a child. Just Things mean little to him. It is doing something with Things that is important. Did you ever stop to think how full your child's life is of exciting moments of victory and satisfaction just in every day living? This old world has become so common place to us that we forget how new it is to a child. Sonny had a set of blocks given to him this fall – the bright colored ones with which you make patterns or designs. Each cube has a red side, a white side, a blue side, and a yellow side, one side half white, and half red, one side half blue and half yellow. It is amazing the number of patterns that can be devised in the little set of 16 cubes. The lid of the box was covered with patterns and I'll never forget the glow of satisfaction on Sonny's plump, a little countenance, when we surveyed the first pattern that he managed to get right. He sat and admired it a long time, compared his design with his guide on the box, and it was perfect. He had copied it all alone, and he got it right and it was beautiful. And having done it once he had confidence he could do it again. And not only order the same design, but try a harder one, and when that was done right he could do another another. That little set of cubes provided him with hours of pleasure, and it was training his eye and hand at the same time, and teaching him accuracy and persistence. How much more enjoyment it him than would an electric train, which he would wind up and watch go round and round the same way always.

Wilbert has just learned to toss up the ball and bat it. It is so long ago that I first learned it that I have forgotten it took any training or skill to do it, but his joy and victory brought him as big as thrill as it did him.

Looked Easy

Some of the boys at school could do it and it looked easy! But time after time he would throw the ball into the air and before he could swing the bat, the ball would be on the ground. Then he would get the bat ready, but when he threw the ball, it went too high or too far to the side. At last almost by accident it seemed, he tossed the ball just right, and the bat came forward just as it should, and smack! The ball and bat met squarely. "Mother, I can do it! I can!" Then more practice, with more misses than hits, but with growing confidence that it was possible to develop certain skill in those muscles that would make you sure you could hit it every time. "Now come and watch me, mother!" Another miss and, crestfallen: "Well. I did do it. Now watch!" And soon a point was reached where ball and boy and bat worked in perfect precision almost every time. There was a real victory, a study in concentration and study and persistence.

Ruth began work on a pretty little piece. She wants to play for the club. First, she learned the right hand until the notes tripped up from her fingers like drops of water. Then she learned the left hand, with its rich full chords. Then she tried to play both together – and they didn't hitch. There was one place that went wrong every time. She was discouraged, almost to the point of tears. She was ready to give up music in entirely. "I'll try once more," she finally announced. Then some way, that time, the fingers fell into the right pattern, and the sound flowed forth as they should. "Mother," she cried in rapture. "I didn't know it was so pretty." She had been so occupied with the mechanical part that she had no chance to notice the rich full harmonies. But having heard them once she had patience to practice until she could hear them every time.

We Promoted

The boys were promoted to blue chambray shirts, and overalls "just like Daddy's" sometime ago, but last month, for the first time, they got four buckle arctics that were rubber all the way up, not cloth tops like little folks wear, but rubber just like Daddy's. It was amazing to see them pose before the mirror when they thought no one was looking, with overalls tucked into arctics with just the right bagginess, hands adjusted in pocket or in bib in imitation of Daddy and what we might call the typical American farmers "sports outfit". Boys are just as vain as girls, but instead of wanting to be beautiful, they want to look like someone they admire. Heaven grant they always choose as good model as they idolize now!

Ruth has always suffered the loneliness of the only daughter with no chum of her age. She has had to adjust herself all her life to folks either much older or much younger than herself. But now she is old enough to join the Lone Girl Scouts, and that brings her into fellowship with hundreds of other lonely girls. She has just received the handbook. She is ecstatic! Almost, one might say, consecrated! She knows the rules and regulations by heart. And she has become unnaturally polite, for courtesy is one of the first laws of the Girl Scouts. It is a momentous time in our life.

Duplicated Many Times

All these little incidents are simple in common place. They are duplicated in the lives of your own children. They show that just Things do not loom large in a child's life. The more closely we can keep in touch with these little experiences that seem big to them, the more sympathy we can give them, the closer we will be to them all their lives.

So when it comes to Christmas time, don't put too much emphasis on the gifts you give your children. Keep the pre-holiday season full and interesting but try not to crowd it with too many events. Take time to enjoy the season, even if you do not have so many handmade articles to display. Give them a generous wholesome Christmas dinner, but do not try so much to make it a big feed in and to serve it prettily. Let the children plan and help but keep back some surprise.

Plan A Ritual

Plan a little ritual for Christmas Day, that they can remember always. Tell them about it ahead of time so they will enter into the spirit of the program. Perhaps you will begin the day with simple Christmas carols. Perhaps it must be understood that every child will come downstairs and skip to the kitchen without taking the teeny peek into the living room on pain of I-don't-know-what. Five minutes to dress, 10 minutes to eat, and perhaps a dignified march into the living room, or perhaps a mad scramble when mother says "Go!" Maybe you will have a tree, maybe a gaily decorated box to hold the gifts, maybe a book for each child. Or maybe you will pile everyone's things at his place at the breakfast table. Maybe the oldest child will pass the things, maybe the youngest. Maybe Santa Claus will arrive in person. But whatever you do, whether you look on the gifts at Christmas Eve or on Christmas morning, make a pretty ceremony out of it that will color of the day for all time.

After Christmas dinner, be sure to have a quiet time in an outdoor time, a twilight supper and the pleasantest of talk, and get the children early to bed – Hope.

The "Golden Gateways of Three"

If you are attempted to reveal a tale to you someone else has told,
About another let it pass, before you speak, three gates of gold.
These narrow gates: first is it true?
Then is it needful? in your mind
Give truthful answer; and the next
Is last and closest: is it kind? 
And if to reach your lips at last it passes through
These gateways three, then you may tell the tale
Nor fear what the results of speech may be

When you read this, you will still be watching the old year out, but let me be the first to greet you with the old old phrase, Happy New Year. It would be a wonderful beginning if you could all happen in on me in the course of your new year's calls – Ruth Vernon, Cinneraria, Sally Ann, and all the rest of you who have have to make another year of companionship helpful and inspiring to us all. What a visit we could have together, helping to comfort the unhappy Betty Jane, discussing babies with harassed young mothers who wanted advice, exchanging recipes with the cranky cooks, enjoying old songs and poems with the grandmothers, and comparing their early days with ours. We would take time for cherry greetings to the men folks, who would probably be wondering about the barnyard, looking over the livestock and talking shop.

Then as twilight came on, wouldn't it be nice to urge them to come on in and sit with us by the fire for a friendly visit? And we would send the daughters, big and little, to the kitchen to fix up the homely sort of pick up dip supper we enjoy on a New Year's night, especially if it is also Sunday night. And the sons, at least the little ones, would crack nuts and pass apples (the big ones would probably be obliged to leave early!) And the babies we could take away upstairs for their beauty sleep. Wouldn't it be a satisfying day?

Of course, we never meet that way. We think we would like to but since we cannot let us find comfort in long-distance friendship. For one thing, we know each other only at our best through the Household. We know each other better, perhaps than we would ever in the flesh. May we all be spared for another year of companionship and mutual helpfulness! And may this Household Department bring all of you the enrichment of spirit that brings in me! – Hope.

The New Year

I bring you, friends, with the years have brought,
Since ever man toiled, aspired or thought –
Days for labor and nights for rest:
And I bring you love, a heaven-born guest:
Space to work in, and work to do,
In faith in that which is pure and true.
Hold me in honor, and greet me dear,
And soon you'll find me a happy new year.
– Margaret Sangster.

Memory Gem

Speak a shade more kindly
Than the year before
Pray a little oftener
Love a little more
Cling a little closer
To the Father's love

Up early, everybody, this crisp late-August morning, for this is the day we clean the school! True, it is an afternoon affair, to be followed by a wienie-roast and a bonfire at night, but the excitement begins at daybreak. Margie Ruth gathers up the pails, brooms and mops, soap and cleaning rags and such necessaries, while the boys feed the rabbits and finish the morning chores. Then Daddy loads the big iron kettle into the back of the truck, already well-laden with sacks of cucumbers and the three children, and away they go. The kettle will be dropped at the school house, and after the pickles are delivered to the factory, and the wienies and buns and ice-cream procured, back will will come the hilarious family to haul the water and get it heated. Meanwhile Kooi and mother (and the corresponding Koois and mothers in all the families of the district) are hurrying through the routine tasks of home and preparing the "extras" that everyone will want to supplement the wienies at the outdoor supper. And after a hurried dinner, everyone will gather to one of the nicest, friendliest annual affairs our community knows.

School will begin the day after Labor day, as usual. This will be Miss Lita's third year with us, so there is an atmosphere of confidence; maybe not so thrilling as when a new teacher is coming, but thoroughly comfortable. There is merriment by fits and starts, as the work spins along, but there are also moments of silence broken only by the splashing of water and the rubbing of cloths. At those moments one's thoughts go racing down various bypaths; and one of the paths is in this direction: What do we owe our teacher?

Duty Begins Far Back

Our duty begins far, far back of this day of cleaning the school! From earliest babyhood our child was being prepared. To be fair to the teacher we need to send to school a child who is well physically, normal mentally, stable emotionally; one who is self-reliant and amenable to discipline. No teacher can do her best with a rude ill-mannered, helpless child. It is our place to do the preliminary nursery work.

We owe the teacher a child who is clean, well and pleasant, one whil will obey instructions and who will cooperate.

Having so prepared the child in his baby years, we owe the teacher throughout the years of schooling proper home care for the child; food, rest, health habits. Even more important than these material things, we owe our teacher our confidence and trust. We owe her an attitude which will hep instead of hinder her; we owe her interest without interference. Almost invariably a teacher wants to be successful in her teaching and to be friendly with all her patrons. Since she is frequently young and inexperienced and may naturally make mistakes in judgment, it is the duty of parents to be ready to go a little more than half-way to keep the atmosphere free from friction.

So many of us do not realize how much responsibility the teacher takes off our shoulders in raising our children; how much training she gives them that we have neither time nor ability to give. If parents will co-operate with teachers by giving every child the sort of home atmosphere he deserves -- a home where he gets proper nourishment and rest and the right kind of sympathy in all his activities, they will find that the teacher will furnish her part of the training which is needed to build good citizens. -- Hope

"Is grandma Joseph's grandma, too, or is she his great-grandma?" asked Ernest Vail the other day, and it set me thinking of how much of an "extra" generation our little newcomer seems to be. We lived our own childhood and forgot it; went along through high school and college days, clear into Plain and higher mathematics; then we married and jumped right back to Mother Goose. We lived childhood again with our three little ones who were so close together, up to grammar school days, and then just when Mother Goose and all it implies were fading from memory, along came Joseph Sidney, and we traverse the path again. It is almost like being a grandmother and a mother all at once. They say grandparents enjoy babies more than the parents do -- and that makes me seem all the more like a grandmother; for this baby is unadulterated joy.

Joseph Sidney (such a massive name for such a bit of sweetness!) is growing and thriving just as all well babies do. He gains four ounces a week -- not as much as the older boys did, but still all that could be expected during hot weather. He has been promoted to a four-hour schedule (6, 10, 2, 6, 10) and that gives his mother a little more freedom, while he grows just as fast. He has cereal at 10 in the morning, and occasionally a supplementary feeding of modified cow's milk at six in the evening. In another week he will begin to take strained vegetables. He likes being on the floor where he can toss and turn as he pleases. He laughs out loud and talks a musical but unintelligible language while he plays. He can reach out and grasp a rattle, and is especially fond of dangling a string of red and green crokinole rings which the boys strung on a stout string for him. Marie Ruth has bathed him three times and often prepared his cereal. She especially enjoys dressing him in his finest togs when he is going out in society. Jo is friendly with every one but seems a bit partial to his daddy, whom he bats in the face with soft little wandering fists to show his affection. --Hope

Today the banks are closed all over the nation and streets in far cities are a-flutter with flags. To most of you it is just Columbus day; but to us it is a wedding anniversary. Thirteen years ago, on a magnificent day in the most magnificent time of year, we began our life together. And even as that very day contained both sunshine and rain, so our succeeding years have alternated between joy and sorrow. Joy has strongly predominated, with just enough shadow for contrast. There is an ancient superstition against the number 13; for years it has been accounted unlucky. But we have never had a finer or more satisfying year, and the climax of all was the arrival of little Joseph, the 13th living grandchild in the notoriously fickle and ill-starred month of April. Maybe you think it was hard luck that he wasn't a girl, a little sister, a partner for Margie Ruth; but no! A boy is just exactly what suits us best!

Perhaps 13 gained its reputation from the fact that it is the largest integral number, indivisible by anything except itself and one. This first 13 years is a cycle in itself; an epoch. It has been a time of the gathering and blending of the days of character, and the modeling of the first rough pattern of the vase of life. May we, in the next 13 years, be given grace to mold and polish and refine that vase into a thing of strength and beauty, before the stuff permanently hardens, and our work is done. --Hope

"A mist on the far horizon, an infinite tender sky, a haze on the golden cornfields, and wild geese soaring hight." Is it any wonder the poets worship autumn, the culmination of the year? In the spring when buds are bursting, seeds, swelling, leaves unfolding, nature cries "Push, ;push!" In the midsummer, when the sun pours its light-giving rays over the teeming earth, it says "Rush, rush!" But now, at ripening time, the message is "Hush, hush!"

Homeward bound, Margie Ruth and Jo and I feel the benediction of the season. We skim the pavement hardly conscious of movement, so richly soothing is the world. Baby Jo, delighted at being able to sit up in his basket, beams on what little part of the universe is visible to him, but Ruth and I are abundantly alive to the glories round about us. A piercing blue sky arches above, the level fields roll away to either side, alternately black-velvet plowing and tawny stubble-field and green baby-wheat; the fields of ripened corn, like multitudes of ash-blonde maidens, sway and rustle in an ethereal dance; and on the far horizon the timberland, fairly sodden with color, rises out of purple shadows. It is as though vast subterranean paint-vats had boiled over, as if a volcano had thrown up geysers of color to set and glaze in this autumn air.

I know a place where the trees arch over a bridge so thick and yellow this time of year that they almost burn, and remembering it, I say to Ruth, "Shall we take the Beautiful Road home?" To my surprise, she only murmurs, "No: just go straight ahead." And, turning, I see that her eyes are full of dreams. Drenched in this beauty, she is following mythical paths of thought, apart from me. There was a time, not so many years ago, when she would have cried childishly, "Oh yes, and then by the Crooked Road, mother, where there'll be lots of color!" But now she is too old for that. Isn't she 12 years old and in the eighth grade? Perhaps she is thinking, "This time next year I'll be in the midst of all the marvels of high school, with football games and boarding in town, and lots of girls to chum with, and who can appreciate how wonderful it all will be to me?"

The Byway

So I drive over the bridge with the gorgeous yellow arch, and one big perfect yellow leaf drops to the black water and floats away. I muse, "How cheerful it is to see a lot of leaves scamper and romp in the wind, but how melancholy to see one lone leaf let go of life!" But I say nothing to Ruth of such things, for she is lost in her dreams. I turn beyond the bridge and take a "cut-across" byway that we seldom travel. It used to be an adventure and a hilarious surprise to turn here, but Ruth scarcely notices now. Then we come to a queer little place where a lane dips out of sight under dense shrubs. Such an old-fashioned little road, so out-of-the-way that it doesn't know that yellow is all the rage and is still wearing its last-summer green! We have never dared try this road, for we don't know whether it has an end; we used to like to think that it dipped right down into Brownie-Land. But today, in a droll spirit of perversity, I boldly turn. She pays no attention! Truly she is a child no longer; she is adventuring out into worlds of her own. Within a few rods we suddenly emerge from the shrubbery into level land, and behold, we are on a road that carries no mystery whatever; we are headed straight for Our Own Road, which is so familiar that it gets no special attention, and so we trundle home, in silence and in peace.

Precious little girl-child; little second self! Traveling the fascinating road of Growing-up! Little do you realize how much of my own life you re-live for me. In those next few years how many new roads you will be trying! You will think you are are blazing new paths, so strange and wonderful life will seem. Little will you realize how near our mother is to you, how much she understands. I want you to live your own life, to stand on your own feet. But no matter how many roads you travel, nor how far, real roads and dream roads, may we travel the Home Road together! --Hope

Many a moon has passed since we first began discussing water lily pools in these columns. If we have seemed to harp too much on the subject, it was partly because reading about them was as near as many of us ever hoped to get to having one. They say constant dripping will wear away a stone, and perhaps it is the persistant reference to pools that has resulted in a real pool for me. When the men finished running concrete in the forms for the new garage the other day, they began digging a hole in the back yard, and something told me it must for nothing else than a lily pool.

Sure enough, it is taking shape, about 8 by 12, two feet deep in the middle and sloping to the edges. Old woven wire fence has been laid for reinforcement, and the concrete has been poured for the bottom and part of the side. When you get that far on such a project, it is practically impossible to abandon it; and so I am counting on the consummation of an old, old dream. Let me suggest that the rest of you who long for one try the same means; Lay any reference to lily pools where it will meet the eye of the "gude man," and perhaps in very self-defense he will build you one. --Hope

Saturday morning -- and the children and their father have gone to town to get their Christmas haircuts and do their Christmas shopping, while mother and Luella, with Baby Jo looking on, hurry to hide away some of the candies and gifts that had best be out of sight. It was an exciting morning, getting all the lists made out, deciding how best to manage to make the children's modest hoards reach far enough. Even with the gifts they have made at school, they found it necessary to "go in together" on some names in order to make a presentable showing. But at last every one was accounted for and they are off. The shopping day is almost as important as Christmas itself. And the happiest feature about the whole performance is that not a person was forgotten or left out; and not a gift was planned that is not heartily and generously given. The funds are so small and the lists so large that the children put a 10-cent limit on their gifts; but the loving care with which they spend each dime lends a luster that gold could not give.

It is heart-warming to think of all the thousands of homes where the same activities are going forward this Saturday before Christmas. Even as the "belfries of all Christendom," the hearts of little children (and grownup children, too) are rolling along the unbroken song of love and fellowship. "Give, give, said the little rill," we used to sing in school. "I am small, I know, but where'er I go the fields grow greener still -- the fields grow greener still."

Time for Rejoicing

The sweetness and generosity of the Christmas spirit fill the earth. We rejoice that it is more blessed to give than to receive, and we give not alone material things, but kindliness and tolerance and love -- all in remembrance of that Greatest Gift of long ago. Do you remember how Tiny Tim hoped the people saw him in church, because he was a cripple and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas day Who made lame beggars walk and blind men see? Not a thought of himself and his afflictions, except as it might carry comfort to some one else. So all of us, at Christmastide, yearn to rise above our faults and frailties and give love and understanding to all.

I wish I might send each of you your heart's desire for Christmas. I wish I might even send every one a bayberry candle to burn, for --

"A bayberry candle burned to the socket,
Brings health to the body,
Joy to the heart,
And gold to the pocket."

But since I can't even do that, let me give you my heartfelt wish: May Christmas grant you a richer gift than any material thing. May it give you an inner light which will warm your heart for at least half the year; which will shine like a lamp of peace and good-will over all your relationships with mankind, making you slower to blame and quicker to praise; which will glow so brightly that it will irradiate and make clear to you the motives and acts of other folks; which will illumine your way so that there will be less heartache and more happiness for you and your fellow men on the path you tread this year.

And may you each have the blessing of a few minutes absolutely alone on Christmas day, when you may reread the Story in peace and quiet and mediate on what the angel-message of long ago has meant to the world: "Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which be to all people, for unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Savior, which is Christ the Lord." --Hope

Memory Gem

O brother man, fold to they heart thy brother;
Where pity dwells, the peace of God is there;
To worship rightly is to love each other,
Each smile a hymn, each kindly deed a prayer.

I heard the bells on Christmas day,
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of "Peace on earth, good will to men!"

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christiandom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of "Peace on earth, good will to men!"

Almost two weeks of fog and soft wet weather; not a ray of sunshine in all that time. And then, when every one was consistently complaining about the weather and maintaining that anything would be better, up sweeps a snowstorm from the northwest, and once more "the gray day darkens unto night, unwarmed by any sunset light." We have a change in the weather, but such a change that we almost wish we hadn't complained about the fog. Now we have a little more cold and a lot more wind, but the murky grayness is only altered by being in motion instead of being still.

Two days and two nights of blinding snow and scolding wind; no milk-trucks, no mail-cars, no school. Roads bare in spots and level-full in others. Where are those oldtimers that tell us we don't have the winters we used to have? We are re-living "Snowbound" in all its glory, almost on its anniversary. By a humorous trick of fate we have a transient marooned with us who is far more of a blessing than a burden. The bread-man with his truck of pastries, cookies and bread got this far, homeward-bound, the day the storm descended, and fortunately (for our neighborhood) slipped into a ditch. So we have a stock of provisions, as well as the mild adventure of contact with a new personality, to help us while away the hours of imprisonment. The men of the neighborhood, bundled and booted, one by one make the arduous trip across fields or along fence-rows to our house to get a loaf of bread. The bread truck was easily pushed out of the ditch and brought under shelter, but not until the drifts had piled so high that further progress was impossible.

Then in the third night the wind subsided and the snow lay down to rest. In the morning the sun shone out with amazing brilliance, and heartened by the sight, all available men set cheerfully to work to shovel the community out. First the shovels, then horses plunging, then a grader working through and at last a track is opened, and we are back to normalcy. First the milk man goes through, in bobsled instead of truck. Soon the bread man will say good-buy and eventually the mail-man will come along. And the sun is shining, and every one is well, no one has suffered, the roadmen are ruddy and hungry, and we gather around a hearty dinner to talk over another those episodes that brighten up a placid life and make milestones along the path of life. --Hope

Memory Gem

On stormy days
When the wind is high,
Tall trees are brooms
Against the sky.
They swish their branches
In buckets of rain
And swash and sweep it
Blue again.

-- Dorothy K. Aidis