NAWSA SUBJECT FILE Gilman, Charlotte P. SUFFRAGE SONGS and VERSES BY CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN THE CHARLTON COMPANY 67 Wall Street, New York Suffrage Songs and Verses By CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN 10 Cents THE CHARLTON COMPANY 67 Wall Street, New York 1911 Left Side TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE Another Star.................... 23 Anti-Suffragists. The..... 17 Anti and the Fly, The..... 19 Boys Will Be Boys........... 5 Coming............................... 3 For Fear............................... 5 Females............................... 10 Girls of To-day................. 12 Housewife, The................. 8 Locked Inside.................... 3 Mother to Child................ 6 Malingerer. The................. 17 Now ..................................... 4 Question. A ........................ 8 Reassurance ......................... 15 She Walketh Veiled and Sleeping.....1 She Who Is To Come............ 24 Socialist and the Suffragist. The .....16 Song for Equal Suffrage......... 22 To the Indifferent Woman ...... 19 Women of To-day ................ 4 Women to Men......... 13 Women Do Not Want It ..... 21 Wedded Bliss .............................. 9 We As Women .............................. 11 NOTE -- The poems marked * are from In This Our World by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Copyright, 1898, by Small, Maynard and Co., and are reprinted by the kind permission of the publishers. Those marked + are from the Woman's Journal, and those marked f are from THE FORERUNNER. Right Side: SHE WALKETH VEILED AN SLEEPING * SHE WALKETH veiled and sleeping, For she knoweth not her power; She obeyeth but the pleading Of her heart, and the high leading Of her soul, unto this hour. Show advancing, halting, creeping, Comes the Woman to the hour!- She walketh veiled and sleeping, For she knoweth not her power. COMING f Because the time is ripe, the age is ready, Because the world her woman's help demands, Out of the long subjection and seclusion Come to our field of warfare and confusion The mother's heart and hands. Long has she stood aside, endured and waited. While man swung forward, toiling on alone; Now, for the weary man, so long ill-mated, Now, for the world for which she was created, Comes woman to her own. Not for herself! though sweet the air of freedom: Not for herself, though dear the new-born power; But for the child, who needs a nobler mother, For the whole people, needing one another, Comes woman to her hour. LOCKED INSIDE f She beats upon her bolted door, With faint weak hands; Drearily walks the narrow floor; Sullenly sits, blank walls before; Despairing stands. Life calls her, Duty, Pleasure, Gain - Her dreams respond; But the bland daylights was and wane, Dull peace, sharp agony, slow pain - No hope beyond. 3 Left side: Till she comes a thought! She lifts her head, The world grows wide! A voice - as if clear words were said - "Your door, O long imprisoned, Is locked inside!" NOW f With God Above - Beneath - Beside- Without - Within - and Everywhere; Rising with the resistless tide Of life, and Sure of Getting There. Patient and Nature's long delay, Proud of our conscious upward swing; Not sorry for a single day, And Not Afraid of Anything! With Motherhood at last awake- With Power to Do and Light to See- Women may not begin to Make The People we are Meant to Be! WOMEN OF TO-DAY * You women of today who fear so much The women of the future, showing how The dangers of her course are such and such - What are you now? Mothers and Wives and Housekeepers, forsooth! Great names, you cry, full scope to rule and please, Room for wise age and energetic youth! - But are you these? Housekeepers? Do you then, like those of yore, Keep house with power and pride, with grace and ease? No, you keep servants only! What is more- You don't keep these! Wives, say you? Wives! Blessed indeed are they Who hold of love the everlasting keys, Keeping their husbands' hearts! Alas the day! You don't keep these! 4 Right Side: And mothers? Pitying Heaven! Mark the cry From cradle death-beds! Mothers on their knees! Why, half the children born, as children die! You don't keep these! And still the wailing babies come and go, And homes are waste, and husband's hearts fly far; There is no hope until you dare to know The thing you are! BOYS WILL BE BOYS f "Boys will be boys," and boys have had their day; Boy-mischief and boy-carelessness and noise Extenuated all, allowed, excused and smoothed away, Each duty missed, each damaging wild act, By this meek statement of unquestioned fact- Boys will be boys! Now, "women will be women." Mark the change; Calm motherhood in place of boisterous youth; No warfare now; to manage and arrange, To nurture with wise care, is woman's way, In peace and fruitful industry her sway, In love and truth. FOR FEAR f For fear of prowling beasts at night They blocked the cave; Women and children hid from sight, Men scarce more brave. For fear of warrior's sword and spear They barred the gate; Women and children lived in fear, Men lived in hate. For fear of criminals today We lock the door; Women and children still to stay Hid evermore. Come out! Ye need no longer hide! What fear you now? No wolf nor lion waits outside- Only a cow. 5 Come out! The world approaches peace, War nears its end ; No warrior watches your release - Only a friend. Come out! The night of crime has fled - Day is begun ; Here is no criminal to dread - Only your son. The world, half yours, demands your care, Waken and come! Make it a woman's world ; safe, fair, Garden and home. MOTHER TO CHILD * How best can I serve thee, my child! My child! Flesh of my flesh and dear heart of my heart! Once thou wast within me - I held thee - I fed thee - By the force of my loving and longing I led thee - Now we are apart! I may bind thee with kisses and crush with embracing, Thy warm mouth in my neck and our arms interlacing ; But here in my body my soul lives alone, And thou answerest me from a house of thine own - That house which I builded! Which we builded together, they father and I ; In which thou must live, O my darling, and die! Not one stone can I alter, one atom relay - Not to save or defend thee or help thee to stay - That gift is completed! How best can I serve thee? O child, if they knew How my heart aches with loving! How deep and how true, How brave and enduring how patient, how strong, How longing for good and how fearful of wrong, Is the love of thy mother! 6 Could I crown thee with riches! Surround, overflow thee With fame and with power till the whole world should know thee ; With wisdom and genius to hold the world still, To bring laughter and tears, joy and pain, at thy will, Still - thou mightst not be happy! Such have lived - and in sorrow. The greater the mind The wider and deeper the grief it can find. The richer, the gladder, the more thou canst feel The keen stings that a lifetime is sure to reveal. O my child! Must thou suffer? Is there no way my life can save thine from a pain? Is the love of a mother no possible gain? No labor of Hercules - search for the Grail - No way for this wonderful love to avail? God in Heaven - O teach me! My prayer has been answered. The pain thou must bear Is the pain of the world's life which they life must share. Thou art one with the world - though I love thee the best ; And to save thee from pain I must save all the rest - Well - with God's help I'll do it. Thou art one with the rest. I must love thee in them. Thou wilt sin with the rest ; and thy mother must stem The world's sin. Thou wilt weep, and thy mother must dry The tears of the world lest her darling should cry. I will do it - God helping! And I stand not alone. I will gather a band Of all loving mothers from land unto land. Our children are part of the world! Do ye hear? They are one with the world - we must hold them all dear! Love all for the child's sake! 7 For the sake of my child I must hasten to save All the children on earth from the jail and the grave. For so, and so only, I lighten the share Of the pain of the world that my darling must bear - Even so, and so only! A QUESTION f Why is it, God, that mother's hearts are made So very deep and wide? How does it help the world that we should hold Such welling floods of pain till we are old, Because when we were young one grave was laid - One baby died? THE HOUSEWIFE f Here is the House to hold me - cradle of all the race ; Here is my lord and my love, here are my children dear - Here is the House enclosing, the dear-loved dwelling place ; Why should I ever weary for aught that I find not here? Here for the hours of the day and the hours of the night ; Bound with the bands of Duty, rivetted tight ; Duty older than Adam - Duty that saw Acceptance utter and hopeless in the eyes of the serving squaw. Food and the serving of food - that is my daylong care ; What and when we shall eat, what and how we shall wear ; Soiling and cleaning of things - that is my task in the main - Soil them and clean them and soil them - soil them and clean them again. 8 To work at my trade by the dozen and never a trade to know ; To plan like a Chinese puzzle - fitting and changing so ; To think of a thousand details, each in a thousand ways ; For my own immediate people and a possible love and praise. My mind is trodden in circles, tiresome, narrow and hard, Useful, commonplace, private - simply a small backyard ; And I the Mother of Nations! - Blind their struggle and vain! - I cover the earth with my children - each with a housewife's brain. WEDDED BLISS * "O come and be my mate!" said the Eagle to the Hen ; "I love to soar, but then I want my mate to rest Forever in the nest!" Said the Hen, "I cannot fly, I have no wish to try, But I joy to see my mate careening through the sky!" They wed, and cried, "Ah, this is Love, my own!" And the Hen sat, and the Eagle soared, alone. "O come and be my mate!" said the Lion to the Sheep ; "My love for you is deep! I slay, a Lion should, But you are mild and good!" Said the sheep, "I do no ill - Could not, had I the will - . But I joy to see my mate pursue, devour and kill." They wed, and cried, "Ah, this is Love, my own!" And the Sheep browsed, the Lion prowled, alone. 9 "O come and be my mate!" said the Salmon to the Clam; "You are not wise, but I am. I know sea and stream as well, You know nothing but your shell." Said the Clam, "I'm slow of motion, But my love is all devotion, And I joy to have my mate traverse lake and stream and ocean!" They wed, and cried, "Ah, this is Love, my own!" And the Clam sucked, the Salmon swam, alone. FEMALES * The female fox she is a fox; The female whale is a whale; The female eagle holds her place As representative of race As truly as the male. The mother hen doth scratch for her chicks, And scratch for herself beside; The mother cow doth nurse her calf, Yet fares as well as her other half In the pasture free and wide. The female bird doth soar in air; The female fish doth swim; The fleet-foot mare upon the course Doth hold her own with the flying horse- Yea and she beateth him! One female in the world we find Telling a different tale. It is the female of our race, Who holds a parasitic place Dependent on the male. Not so, saith she, ye slander me! No parasite am I. I earn my living as a wife; My children take my very life; Why should I share in human strife, To plant and build and buy? 10 The human race holds highest place In all the world so wide, Yet these inferior females wive, And raise their little ones alive, And feed themselves beside. Thre race is higher than the sex, Though sex be fair and good; A Human Creature is your state, And to be human is more great Than even womanhood! The female fox she is a fox; The female whale is a whale; The female eagle holds her place As representative of race As truly as the male. "WE AS WOMEN" * There's a cry in the air about us - We hear it before, behind - Of the way in which "We, as women," Are going to lift mankind! With our white frocks starched and ruffled, And our soft hair brushed and curled - Hats off! for "We, as women," Are coming to save the world. Fair sisters, listen one moment - And perhaps you'll pause for ten: The business of women as women Is only with men as men! What we do, "We, as women," We have done all through our life; The work that is ours as women Is the work of mother and wife. But to elevate public opinion, And to lift up erring man, Is the work of the Human Being; Let us do it - if we can. 11 But wait, warm-hearted sisters - Not quite so fast, so far. Tell me how we are going to lift a thing Any higher than we are! We are going to "purify politics," And to "elevate the press." We enter the foul paths of the world To sweeten and cleanse and bless. To hear the high things we are going to do, And the horrors of man we tell, One would think, "We, as women," were angels, And our brothers were fiends of hell. We, that were born of one mother, And reared in the self-same place, In the school and the church together, We of one blood, one race! Now then, all forward together! But remember, every one, That 'tis not by feminine innocence The work of the world is done. The world needs strength and courage, And wisdom to help and feed - When, "We, as women" bring these to man, We shall lift the world indeed. GIRLS OF TO-DAY * Girls of today! Give ear! Never since time began Has come to the race of man A year, a day, an hour, So full of promise and power As the time that now is here! Never in all the lands Was there a power so great, To move the wheels of state, To lift up body and mind, To waken the deaf and blind, As the power that is in your hands! 12 Here at the gates of gold You stand in the pride of youth, Strong in courage and truth, Stirred by a force kept back Through centuries long and black, Armed with a power threefold! First: You are makers of men! Then Be the things you preach! Let your own greatness teach! When Mothers like this you see Men will be strong and free - Then, and not till then! Second: Since Adam fell, Have you not heard it said That men by women are led? True is the saying - true! See to it what you do! See that you lead them well. Third: You have work of your own! Maid and mother and wife, Look in the face of life! There are duties you owe the race! Outside your dwelling-place There is work for you alone! Maid and mother and wife, See your own work be done! Be worthy a noble son! Help man in the upward way! Truly, a girl today Is the strongest thing in life! WOMEN TO MEN Dear father, from my cradle, I acknowledge All your wise kindness, tender care, and love, Through days of kindergarten, school and college. Now there is one gift lacking - one above All other gifts of God, this highest trust is, The one great gift, beyond all power and pelf - Give me my freedom, father; give me justice, That I may guard my children and myself. 13 My brother, you and I were reared together; We played together, even-handed quite; We went to school in every kind of weather, Studied and ranked together as was right. We work together now and earn our living, You know how equal is the work we do; Come, brother, with the love you're always giving, Give justice! It's for me as well as you. And you, my lover, kneeling here before me With tender eyes that burn, warm lips that plead, Protesting that you worship, aye, adore me; Begging my love as life's supremest meed, Vowing to make me happy. Ah, how dare you! Freedom and happiness have both one key! Lover and husband, by the love I bear you, Give justice! I can love you better, free! Son my own son! Man-child that once was lying All rosy, tender, helpless on my breast, Your strength all dimples, your stern voice but crying, Looking to me for comfort, food and rest, Asking your life of me, and not another - And asking not in vain till life be done - Oh, my boy-baby! Is it I, your mother, Who comes to ask of justice from her son? Now to the voter - tax-payer (or shirker), Please lay your private feelings on the shelf; O Man-at-large! Friend! Comrade! Fellow-worker; I am a human being like yourself. I'm not your wife and mother. Can't be, whether I would or not; each to his own apart; But in the world we're people altogether - Suffrage is not a question of the heart. Son - Father - Brother - Lover unsupplanted - We'll talk at home. This thing concerns the nation; A point of justice which is to be granted By men to women who are no relation. Perceive this fact, as salient as a steeple, Please try to argue from it if you can; Women have standing-room on earth as people Outside of their relation to some man. 14 As wife and sweetheart, daughter, sister, mother, Each woman privately her views explains; As people of America - no other - We claim the right our government maintains. You who deny it stand in history's pages Withholding justice! Pitiless and plain Your record stands down all the brightening ages - You fought with progress, but you fought in vain. REASSURANCE * Can you imagine nothing better, brother, Than that which you have always had before? Have you been so content with "wife and mother," You dare hope nothing more? Have you forever prized her, praised her, sung her, The happy queen of a most happy reign? Never dishonored her, despised her, flung her Derision and disdain! Go ask the literature of all the ages! Books that were written before women read! Pagan and Christian, satirists and sages - Read what the world has said. There was no power on earth to bid you slacken The generous hand that painted her disgrace! There was no shame on earth too black to blacken That much-praised woman-face. Eve and Pandora! - always you begin it - The ancients called her Sin and Shame and Death. "There is no evil without woman in it," The modern proverb saith. She has been yours in uttermost possession - Your slave, your mother, your well-chosen bride - And you have owned in million-fold confession, You were not satisfied. Peace then! Fear not the coming woman, brother. Owning herself, she giveth all the more. She shall be better woman, wife and mother Than man hath known before. 15 THE SOCIALIST AND THE SUFFRAGIST f Said the Socialist to the Suffragist: "My cause is greater than yours! You only work for a Special Class, We for the gain of the General Mass, Which every good ensures!" Said the Suffragist to the Socialist: "You underrate my Cause! While women remain a Subject Class, You never can move the General Mass, With your Economic Laws!" Said the Socialist to the Suffragist: "You misinterpret facts! There is no room for doubt or schism In Economic Determinism - It governs all our acts!" Said the Suffragist to the Socialist: "You men will always find That this old world will never move More swiftly in its ancient groove While women stay behind!" "A lifted world lifts women up," The Socialist explained. "You cannot lift the world at all While half of it is kept so small," The Suffragist maintained. The world awoke, and tartly spoke: "Your work is all the same: Work together or work apart, Work, each of you, with all your heart - Just get into the game!" 16 THE MALINGERER f Exempt! She "does not have to work!" So might one talk Defending long, bedridden ease, Weak yielding ankles, flaccid knees, With, "I don't have to walk!" Not have to work. Why not? Who gave Free pass to you? You're housed and fed and taught and dressed By age-long labor of the rest - Work other people do! What do you give in honest pay For clothes and food? - Then as a shield, defence, excuse, She offers her exclusive use - Her function - Motherhood! Is motherhood a trade you make A living by? And does the wealth you so may use, Squander, accumulate, abuse, Show motherhood as high? Or does the motherhood of those Whose toil endures, The farmers' and mechanics' wives, Hard working servants all their lives - Deserve less price than yours? We're not exempt! Man's world runs on, Motherless, wild; Our servitude and long duress, Our shameless, harem idleness, Both fail to serve the child. THE ANTI-SUFFRAGISTS * Fashionable women in luxurious homes, With men to feed them, clothe them, pay their bills, Bow, doff the hat, and fetch the handkerchief; Hostess or guest; and always so supplied With graceful deference and courtesy; Surrounded by their horses, servants, dogs - These tell us they have all the rights they want. 17 Successful women who have won their way Alone, with strength of their unaided arm, Or helped by friends, or softly climbing up By the sweet aid of "woman's influence"; Successful any way, and caring naught For any other woman's unsuccess - These tell us they have all the rights they want. Religious women of the feebler sort - Not the religion of a righteous world, A free, enlightened, upward-reaching world, But the religion that considers life As something to back out of! - whose ideal Is to renounce, submit, and sacrifice, Counting on being patted on the head And given a high chair when they get to heaven - These tell us they have all the rights they want. Ignorant women - college bred sometimes, But ignorant of life's realities And principles of righteous government, And how the privileges they enjoy Were won with the blood and tears by those before - Those they condemn, whose ways they now oppose; Saying, "Why not let well enough alone? Our world is very pleasant as it is" - These tell us they have all the rights they want. And selfish women - pigs in petticoats - Rich, poor, wise, unwise, top or bottom round, But all sublimely innocent of thought, And guiltless of ambition, save the one Deep, voiceless aspiration - to be fed! These have no use for rights or duties more. Duties today are far more than they can meet, And law insures their right to clothes and food - These tell us they have all the rights they want. And, more's the pity, some good women, too; Good, conscientious women with ideas; Who think - or think they think - that woman's cause Is best advanced by letting it alone; That she somehow is not a human thing. 18 And not to be helped on by human means, Just added to humanity - an "L" - A wing, a branch, an extra, not mankind - These tell us they have all the rights they want. And out of these has come a monstrous thing. A strange, down-sucking whirlpool of disgrace, Women uniting against womanhood, And using that great name to hide their sin! Vain are their words as that old king's command Who set his will against the rising tide. But who shall measure the historic shame Of these poor traitors - traitors are they all - To great Democracy and Womanhood! THE "ANTI" AND THE FLY f The fly upon the Cartwheel Thought she made all the Sound; He thought he made the Cart go on - And made the wheels go round. The fly upon the Cartwheel Has won undying fame For Conceit that was colossal, And Ignorance the same. But today he was a Rival As we roll down History's Track - For the "Anti" on the Cartwheel Thinks she makes the Wheels go back! TO THE INDIFFERENT WOMEN * A SESTINA You who are happy in a thousand homes, Or overworked therein, to a dumb peace; Whose souls are wholly centered in the life Of that small group you personally love - Who told you that you need not know or care About the sin and sorrow of the world? 19 Do you believe the sorrow of the world Does not concern you in your little homes? That you are licensed to avoid the care And toil for human progress, human peace, And the enlargement of our power of love Until it covers every field of life? The one first duty of all human life Is to promote the progress of the world In righteousness, in wisdom, truth and love ; And you ignore it, hidden in your homes, Content to keep them in uncertain peace, Content to leave all else without your care. Yet you are mothers! And a mother's care Is the first step towards friendly human life, Life where all nations in untroubled peace Unite to raise the standard of the world And make the happiness we seek in homes Spread everywhere in strong and fruitful love. You are content to keep that mighty love In its first steps forever; the crude care Of animals for mate and young and homes, Instead of pouring it abroad in life, Its mighty current feeding all the world Till every human child shall grow in peace. You cannot keep your small domestic peace, Your little pool of undeveloped love, While the neglected, starved, unmothered world Struggles and fights for lack of mother's care, And its tempestuous, bitter, broken life Beats in upon you in your selfish homes. We all may have our homes in joy and peace When woman's life, in its rich power of love Is joined with man's to care for all the world. 20 WOMEN DO NOT WANT IT * When the woman suffrage argument first stood upon its legs, They answered it with cabbages, they answered it with eggs, They answered it with ridicule, they answered it with scorn, They thought it a monstrosity that should not have been born. When the woman suffrage argument grew vigorous and wise, And was not to be answered by these opposite replies , They turned their opposition into reasoning severe Upon the limitations of our God-appointed sphere. We were told of disabilities––a long array of these, Till one could think that womanhood was merely a disease ; And "the maternal sacrifice" was added to the plan Of the various sacrifices we have always made––to man. Religonists and scientists, in amity and bliss, However else they disagreed, could all agree on this, And the gist of all their discourse, when you got down in it, Was––we could not have the ballot because we were not fit! They would not hear the reason, they would not fairly yield, They would not own their arguments were beaten in the field; But time passed on, and someway, we need not ask them how, Whatever ails those arguments––we do not hear them now ! You may talk of suffrage now with an educated man. And he agrees with all you say, as sweetly as he can : 'T would be better for us all, of course, if womanhood was free; But "the women do not want it"––and so it must not be ! 21 'T is such a tender thoughtfulness ! So exquisite a care! Not to pile on our frail shoulders what we do not wish to bear! But, oh, most generous brother! Let us look a little more–– Have we women always wanted what you gave to us before? Did we ask for veils and harems in the Oriental races? Did we beseech to be "unclean," shut out of sacred places? Did we beg for scolding bridles and ducking stools to come? And clamor for the beating stick no thicker than your thumb? Did we ask to be forbidden from all the trades that pay? Did we claim the lower wages for a man's full work today? Have we petitioned for the laws wherein our shame is shown: That not a woman's child––not her own body–– is her own? What women want has never been a strongly acting cause, When woman has been wronged by man in churches, customs, laws; Why should he find this preferences so largely in his way, When he himself admits the right of what we ask today? SONG FOR EQUAL SUFFRAGE + Day of hope and day of glory! After slavery and woe, Comes the dawn of woman's freedom, and the light shall grow and grow Until every man and woman equal liberty shall know, In Freedom marching on! 22 Woman's right is woman's duty! For our share in life we call! Our will it is not weakened and our power it is not small. We are half of every nation! We are mothers of them all! In Wisdom marching on! Not for self but larger service has our cry for freedom grown, There is crime, disease and warfare in a world of men alone, In the name of love we're rising now to serve and save our own, As Peace comes marching on! By every sweet and tender tie around our heart-strings curled, In the cause of nobler motherhood is woman's flag unfurled, Till every child shall know the joy and peace of mother's world–– As Love comes marching on! We will help to make a pruning hook of every out-grown sword, We will help to knit the nations in continuing accord, In humanity made perfect is the glory of the Lord, As His world goes marching on! ANOTHER STAR f (Suffrage Campaign Song for California) TUNE: "Buy a Broom." There are five a-light before us, In the flag flying o'er us, There'll be six on the next election–– We bring a new star! We are coming like the others, Free Sisters, Free Brothers, In the pride of our affection For California. CHORUS: A ballot for the Lady! For the Home and for the Baby! Come, vote ye for the Lady, The Baby, the Home! 23 Star of Hope and Star of Beauty! Of Freedom! Of Duty! Star of childhood's new protection, That rises so high! We will work for it together In the golden, gay weather, And we'll have it next election, Or we will know why. CHORUS: A ballot for the Lady! For the Home and for the Baby! Come, vote ye for the Lady, The Baby, the Home! SHE WHO IS TO COME* A woman--in so far as she beholdeth Her one Beloved's face; A mother-- with a great heart that enfoldeth The children of the Race; A body, free and strong, with that high beauty That comes of perfect use, is built thereof; A mind where Reason ruleth over Duty, And Justice reigns with Love; A self-poised, royal soul, brave, wise and tender, No longer blind and dumb; A Human Being, of an unknown splendor, Is she who is to come! 24 BOOKS BY CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN In This Our World (verse) ............................... $1.25 net Women and Economics .................................... 1.50 " Concerning Children ........................................... 1.25 " The Yellow Wall Paper .......................................... .50 " The Home ................................................................ 1.00 " Human Work .......................................................... 1.00 " What Diantha Did ................................................. 1.00 " The Man-made World ........................................ 1.00 " Bound Volume I, THE FORERUNNER 1.25 " READY, FALL OF 1911 Moving the Mountain ..................................... $1.00 net The Crux .................................................................. 1.00 " Order of your dealer or from us direct THE CHARLTON COMPANY 67 Wall Street, New York THE FORE RUNNER A monthly magazine, written edited, owned and published by CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN REGULAR SUBSCRIPTION RATES: Per Year [ Domestic ............. $1.00 [ Canadian ................ 1.12 Per Copy, 10c. [ Foreign .................... 1.25 SPECIAL OFFERS: Trial subscription of three months ..................................................................... $ .25 One annual subscription and Bound Volume I ................................................ 2.00 One annual subscription and one of Mrs. Gilman's $1.00 books ............. 1.75 For Club Rates See THE FORERUNNER "The Forerunner," it is really good. This new magazine is by--not "edited by"--Charlotte Perkins Gilman. For its thirty-two pages she writes the stories, short and serial, the articles, the verse, the book reviews, and the editorials. ............... The miracle demands chontcling: it is all interesting. The views presented have as their raison d'etre not that they are her own but that they are true. And with so much of "advanced" writing impossibly nebulous and sentimental, it is a pleasure to read matter that is clear and sane and entertaining withal. All of which sounds very improbable, but, fortunately, may be proved by any reader for himself. -Evening Post, Chicago. $1.00 A YEAR .10 A COPY The Woman's Column. VOL. V. BOSTON, MASS., DECEMBER 10, 1892. No. 50. The Woman's Column. Published Weekly at 3 Park Street, Boston, Mass. EDITOR: ALICE STONE BLACKWELL. Subscription, . . . . 25 cents per annum. Advertising Rates, . . 25 cents per line. [Entered as second-class matter, at the Boston, Mass Post-Office, Jan 18th, 1888.] CHICAGO WOMEN NEED THE MUNICIPAL BALLOT. The public-spirited women of Chicago are disturbed over the sanitary conditions of their city. For months the municipal Order League and the Woman's Alliance have agitated the matter, and have labored in every way possible to bring about a reform. At a mass meeting held by the Municipal Order League on the evening of Nov. 28, and at a meeting of the Woman's Alliance held a few days later, the urgent need of an immediate and united effort, on the part of the citizens and the city authorities, was vividly presented by speakers representing many diverse interests. The dangerous sanitary conditions of Chicago, as shown by the press reports of these meetings, are a disgrace to a civilized community. That they should exist in a city of such magnificent business enterprise and of so many noble organizations and institutions, is amazing. The fact that these perilous conditions are sufficient to cause the ultimate failure of the World's Fair ought to rouse the authorities to action, however indifferent they may be in regard to public safety. The editor of the "Woman's Kingdom" of the Chicago Inter-Ocean, Miss Mary H. Krout, takes occasion in her columns to point a moral in this connection. She recounts the efforts of public-spirited and patriotic women, who have begged, argued, petitioned, and held mass meetings to little purpose. The water supply remains poisoned, filth and garbage sow death broadcast, typhoid fever is epidemic, and the contagious disease hospital, after nearly a year's delay, is still unbuilt. In all munificent Chicago, not a hospital door will open to the friendless sufferer afflicted with diphtheria, scarlet fever or small-pox. "For years," says Miss Krout, "the injured picked up in the streets were conveyed to the hospital in patrol wagons, until one woman, through her individual energy and perseverance, succeeded in presenting the rich municipality with an ambulance-its first! "Public baths, such as they are-nothing compared to these conveniences in other cities-were also obtained by the efforts and intercessions of women. But they have reached a point now where they admit they are powerless." And this is the conclusion she reaches, which is hereby commended to the thoughtful consideration of every woman resident of a city: It may just as well be admitted first as last that a woman without a vote is a cipher with no numeral to give it integral value. She stands alone and counts for nothing. The most cultured, capable and intelligent woman in Chicago will find herself of no consequence compared to the naturalized citizen who is supposed to control the vote of his ward. So far as a woman is concerned, an educational or property qualification counts for nothing. She is penniless compared to the man, no matter who or what he is, who has a vote. The real worth of disfranchised "influence," its length and breadth, its height and depth, has been tested thoroughly, not once or twice, but in the efforts of years, which when all is done, have availed little. That the city will pay heavily for its sins, both of commission and omission, when the time of reckoning comes, can not be doubted. But, even if this be true, it is still worth while for women to realize fully and at any cost just how futile that effort is which is not indorsed and strengthened by the dignity of citizenship. The venal hirelings who crowd the offices, waste the public money, and leave undone the work they are hired to perform, care no more for the speech-making and petitioning of non-voting women than they care for the blowing of the wind. But let there once be the authority of a full and unrestricted franchise behind the petition and the protest, and their attitude will change; but not until then. The old means have been tested, and have failed. All the new [[??]] the dawn of the new era, and to work and hope and pray for its advent. FLORENCE M. ADKINSON. WANTED-COURAGE. Mrs. Julia Ward Howe said, in her address at the annual meeting of the Massachusetts Woman Suffrage Association, on Dec. 6: Though we suffragists are proud and glad to stand by each other and by our banner, most women have not yet the courage to stand by their opinions. They have not the opinions, in many cases. While much that we see abroad makes us glad and thankful that we are Americans, the one thing I am ashamed of is the cowardice of our women. They do not think things out, and even when they do, they have not courage to stand up and say they have thought them out, and to stand by them. Years ago, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps proposed that we should have a woman suffrage prayer-meeting, and we had it, in James Freeman Clarke's church, and we prayed very earnestly-I do not know with how much result. If we were to hold one now, I should want our women to pray to be delivered from this mean fear of men, this fear to stand up and confess what they believe, and to stand by their convictions. In delightful contrast to this bad want of courage was the recent action of the women of Memphis. The Association for the Advancement of Women was received there with true Southern hospitality; and finding that we had no paper on suffrage on our programme, the women asked us to devote one evening to that topic. We told them we had supposed they would be rather afraid of that subject; but they promised us the best audience of all for that evening, and they kept their word. I am afraid that the same class of people in Boston, if the A. A. W. had held its meeting here, would have been more likely to tell us to talk of temperance, of the labor question, and even of dress reform, if we must, but to avoid suffrage. Boston should take a lesson from Memphis. But the outlook is most encouraging. Years ago, the advocates of equal rights for men and women were very few, only voices in the wilderness, crying, "Prepare ye the way of the Lord!" But now we want spades and mattocks to prepare the way of the Lord; and soon we shall want the trumpets and the torches of victory. At seventy-four years of age, one cannot promise, but I expect we live to see it. MISS KATHLEEN MURPHY, of Dublin, has carried off the $1,500 prize for the best examination in modern literature at the Royal University of Ireland. MISS SADIE BOYD, studying at the Denver (Col.) University, travelled all the way to her home at Cheyenne in Wyoming, a distance of 110 miles, to cast her first ballot at the late presidential election. The annual meeting of the Massachusetts Woman Suffrage Association, on Dec. 6, passed off well, with good speaking and an unusually large attendance. A full report is given in the Woman's Journal of Dec. 6. It is reported that a woman has been elected road overseer in Clay County, Kan. If she is one of the many women who are kept closely at home on the farm for six months of the year because of the almost impassable roads, she will make good use of the opportunities afforded by her office. MRS. MARY HALL, attorney at law, conducts a class in "civil government," at Woodside Seminary, Hartford, Ct. Politics, the tariff, etc., are discussed. The Hartford Times commends the idea, and says this class is proving a great success. It continues: "One important branch, that of the different property and marriage laws of each State, will probably be taught, so that each young pupil will be conversant with the laws of her own State, at least concerning matters so important to her interests. The girls and women of the past have been most unpardonably ignorant of them, resulting, in many cases, in disastrous consequences to themselves." The police authorities of Munich were lately guilty of a singular and medieval piece of conservatism. The German Association for the Reform of Women's Education was forbidden to meet there, because the participation of women in a political movement could not be allowed! It was shown that the Association excluded religious and political questions from its discussions, that it was allowed to hold meetings in other German cities, and that similar meetings had been previously held in Munich; but the city authorities were obdurate. The women's meeting was held in Wiesbaden without objection. THE WOMAN'S COLUMN. Similar Cases. By Charlotte Perkins Stetson. [*Gilman*] One. There was once a little animal, no bigger than a fox, And on five toes he scampered over Tertiary rocks. They called him Eohippus, and they called him very small, And they thought him of no value when they thought of him at all; For the lumpish Dinoceras and Coryphodont so slow Were the heavy aristocracy in the days of long ago. Said the little Eohippus: "I am going to be a Horse! And on my middle finger-nails to run my earthly course! "I'm going to have a flowing tail! I'm going to have a mane! I'm going to stand fourteen hands high on the Psychozoic plain!" The Coryphodont was horrified, the Dinoceras shocked; And they chased young Eohippus, but he skipped away and mocked. Then they laughed enormous laughter, and they groaned enormous groans, And they bade young Eohippus "Go and view his father's bones!" Said they: "You always were as low and small as now we see, And therefore it is evident you're always going to be!" "What! Be a great, tall, handsome beast with hoofs to gallop on! Why, you'd have to change your nature!" said the Loxolophodon. Then they fancied him disposed of, and retired with gait serene; That was the way they argued in "the Early Eocene." Two. There was once an Anthropoidal Ape, far smarter than the rest, And everything that they could do he always did the best; So they naturally disliked him, and they gave him shoulders cool, And when they had to mention him, they said he was a fool. Cried this pretentious ape one day: "I'm going to be a Man! And stand upright, and hunt, and fight, and conquer all I can! "I'm going to cut down forest trees to make my houses higher! I'm going to kill the Mastodon! I'm going to make a Fire!" Loud screamed the Anthropodial Apes with laughter wild and gay; Then tried to catch that one boastful one, but he always got away. So they yelled at him in chorus, which he minded not a whit; And they pelted him with cocoanuts, which didn't seem to hit. And then they gave him reasons which they thought of much avail To prove how his preposterous attempt was sure to fail. Said the sages: "In the first place, the thing can not be done! And second, if it could be, it would not be any fun! "And third, and most conclusive, and admitting no reply, You would have to change your nature! We should like to see you try!" They chuckled then triumphantly, those lean and hairy shapes; For these things passed as arguments - with the Anthropoidal Apes! Three. There was once a Neolithic Man, an enterprising wight, Who made his simple implements unusually bright. Unusually clever he, unusually brave, And he sketched delightful mammoths on the borders of his cave. To his Neolithic neighbors, who were startled and surprised, Said he: "My friends, in course of time, we shall be civilized! "We are going to live in cities, and build churches, and make laws! We are going to eat three times a day, without the natural cause! "We're going to turn life upside-down about a thing called Gold! "We're going to want the earth, and take as much as we can hold! "We're going to wear a pile of stuff outside our proper skins! We are going to have Diseases! and Accomplishments!! and Sins!!!" Then they all rose up in fury against their boastful friend, For prehistoric patience comes quickly to an end. Said one: "This is chimerical! Utopian! Absurd!" Said another: "What a stupid life! Too dull, upon my word!" Cried all: "Before such things can come, you idiotic child, You must alter Human Nature!" and they all sat back and smiled. Thought they: "An answer to that last it will be hard to find!" It was a clinching argument--to the Neolithic mind! -- Nationalist. WOMEN AT LOS ANGELES ELECTION Some of us women went to the polls on election day with our suffrage petitions and literature. It was the first election since the adoption of the Australian system. We learned several things, or rather, we saw points that we already knew illustrated. One was that men do not know things intuitively, but must be taught as well as women; also that the men we meet at church and in the home behave just as well at the polls as in the other places. Those we had never happened to see anywhere behaved well also. It is a slander on American manhood to think that men will not be gentlemen, as a rule, and control the few who are not, when women go to the polls. It might as well have been the church as the polls, as far as disorder went, at either of the precincts out in our ward. Of course it is different in the heart of the city, but experience has shown that voting is not to be dreaded, even there. Very few refused to sign our petition. One man snapped out a short "No." Another said fiercely: "I will not." A third informed us he "wa'n't a signin' nothin' to-day." The first two, we learned, were ward strikers from the city; the last a rancher, who had doubtless signed to his hurt sometime, at some agent's persuasion. Two men refused to sign because we could not go to war. One of these had just been helping a feeble, deaf old man up the stairs so that he could vote. A paralytic who could hardly sign his name has just passed in, and an old blind man followed, so feeble that it took a man to get him up the stairs and two to get him down. But that was different, of course! The majority were favorable, intelligently so. One old man said he hoped we should vote, as it would make things "more decenter." Another, a young man, came out of the room where the voting was being done (we were in an ante-room) for leaflets of each kind to give to a friend. He was one of the judges of the election, and was evidently working for a convert. All took their leaflets politely, folded them and put them in their pockets to read at leisure. One man brought his little girl in his arms. Several brought their wives, leaving them outside in the buggy while they themselves voted. It seemed strange to imagine that these women would have been demoralized by coming in, if allowed. One man had been clerk of election in Wyoming, and testified to the quietness there where the women come with the men. Another old gentleman, and acquaintance, wanted us to help him learn the new method, and a third innocently brought us his number, thinking we were some of the officials. One of the ward strikers, who had evidently been keeping an eye on us, promptly stepped into the room and whisked the poor old man off. At the other precinct the ladies of the Methodist church served lunch in a room adjoining the polling place. One of our good W.C.T.U women took charge of a petition, and gave out literature. A great deal of good seed has been sown. EMMA HARRIMAN. Los Angeles, Cal. FRANCHISE AT THE DENVER CONVENTION A private letter from Rev. Anna H. Shaw gives a very graphic and encouraging account of the franchise sentiment manifest at the recent National W.C.T.U. convention at Denver. Miss Shaw says: I think you would have enjoyed the meeting highly. I have not enjoyed a National W.C.T.U. meeting so much for years. It would have done Mrs. Lucy Stone's eyes good to see the decorations. One could not help wondering whether it was a suffrage or a temperance convention. The yellow was as prominent as the white. It impressed itself upon you as soon as you arrived at the headquarters. At one side of the elevator in the hotel was a big white bow, and on the side of a yellow bow of equal size; and the hotel was decorated the same way. At the church where the meeting was held, it was the same. On each side of the pulpit there are boxes as in a theatre. The box at the left was decorated with white. The one at the right was trimmed in yellow, and adorned with the motto "No Sex in Citizenship," and with the one-star flag of Wyoming and the franchise banner. The decorations about the platform were white and yellow commingled. The Elec- C. P. - Gilman Mrs. CHARLOTTE PERKINS STETSON, of Pasadena, Cal., addressed a large audience Thursday afternoon at Greenacre, Me., upon "The Social Organism," dealing with a practical side of the science of sociology. Mrs. Stetson is well-known both here and in England by her volume of poems yclept "In This, Our World," wherein the bias of her mind toward viewing life in the active and not as a dreamer is well portrayed; but as a lecturer, also, she has appeared before many audiences in behalf of progress in its largest sense, unfettered by traditionalism, and by her frank and sincere directness has everywhere left a marked impression of confidence and conviction. W. Col Sept 4, 1897 The Pastors' Union of Toledo, O., recently passed a resolution asking the Legislature to give suffrage to women on CHARLOTTE PERKINS STESON'S POEMS. [*12/30/?*] A small volume of extremely bright and original poems, by Mrs. Charlotte Perkins Stetson, has lately been published by McCombs & Vaughn, Oakland, Cal., in paper covers. It contains "Similar Cases," and seventy-two other poems, including those recited by Miss Spence, of Australia, at her recent lecture in this city on "Proportional Representation," so much to the satisfaction of her audience. One may not agree with quite all the doctrines advocated in these brilliant verses, but there is a great amount of good sense in most of them, and on the woman question they are entirely sound. Price, 25 cents; or Volume 2. No. 1. JANUARY 1911 THE FORERUNNER BY Charlotte Perkins Gilman. CONTENTS The Widow's Might. This Is the Year. Hope. Time. The Crux. B. C. Past, Present and Future. The Old Woman and the New Year. Moving the Mountain. Wild Rivers. Comment and Review. For 1911. 1.00 A YEAR 67 WALL ST. NEW YORK .10 A COPY THE FORERUNNER A Monthly Magazine WRITTEN, EDITED, OWNED AND PUBLISHED By Charlotte Perkins Gilman "THE CRUX" Mrs. Gilman's new novel, appears in THE FORERUNNER, of 1911 This touches upon one of the most vivid and vital of our marriage problems; and has more than one kind of love story in it. Also, published serially, her next book, "Moving the Mountain" Those who believe this world is a good place, easily made better, and who wish to know how to help it, will enjoy reading this book. Those who do not so believe and wish may not enjoy it so much, but it will do them good. The Forerunner carries Mrs. Gilman's best and newest work; her social philosophy, her verse, satire, fiction, ethical teaching, humor, and comment. It stands for Humanness in Women, and in Men: for better methods in Child-culture; for the Home that is no Workshop; for the New Ethics, the New Economics, the New World we re to make-- are making. THE FORERUNNER CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN'S MAGAZINE -------------19---------- CHARLTON CO.. 67 WALL ST., NEW YORK ---------------------------------------------- Please find inclosed $------- as subscription to "The Forerunner" from -----------------------19------to----------------19 ----------------------- ----------------------- ----------------------- Domestic------$1.00 a year Canadian-------1.12 '' ------------------------- Foreign---------1.25 '' $0.10 a copy THE FORERUNNER for 1910, bound, $1.25 The Forerunner Success Magazine For December and January December Our Prize Fiction Number A Few Of Our January Articles When "MOLLY MAKE-BELIEVE" appeared, our readers gave us no peace until we promised another story by the same author. Our Christmas number opens with "THE PINK SASH," by Eleanor Hallowell Abbott. In "THE HAZARD," Katherine Cecil Thurston gives an exciting romance of the days when feelings ran high in the fight for a maiden's hand. Rupert Hughes' story, full of snow, Christmas presents, soldiers and a girl, is entitled "DUMBHEAD." In the "FIRE-BLUE NECKLACE," by Samuel Hopkins Adams, the well-known detective hero, "Average Jones," while in search for the adventure of life, lends Cupid a helping hand. "THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER," by Seumas MacManus, is the first of a series of delightful Irish sketches. John Kendrick Bangs comes into our Christmas issue with one of his up-to-date fairy stories, "PUSS IN THE WALDORF." Among the many entertaining stories in our January issue there is one by Mary Heaton Vorse, entitled "THEY MEANT WELL"––a story of too many chaperons and what happened to the girl ; also, in "THE LITTLE MOTHER AND THEIR MAJESTIES," Evelyn Van Buren accomplishes her usual feat of making the reader laugh and cry at the same time. The Boy Scout movement, its purpose and its laws, is treated by Ernest Thompson Seton in the article "ORGANIZED BOYHOOD." Miriam Finn Scott in "SHOW GIRLS OF INDUSTRY" relates interestingly how beauty of form and features figure as a big asset in the Business World. "THE STORY OF WENDELL PHILLIPS," by Charles Edward Russell, is a vivid and inspiring character sketch of this great orator and friend of freedom. Franklin Clarkin, in a beautifully illustrated article, "CITY BEAUTY PAYS," proves that it pays big to make a city beautiful–– pays in actual dollars and cents. In "THE EVERYDAY MIKADO," Adachi Kinnosuke gives a lot of interesting and hitherto unknown facts about the Emperor of Japan, his daily life and his responsibility for the modern movement in the Island Empire. "A SOFT-PEDAL STATESMAN," by Robert Wickcliffe Woolley, is a slashing character picture of the rich, influential and reactionary Senator Murray Crane, of Massachusetts. SUBSCRIPTION, $1.00. AT NEWS-STANDS, 15 Cts. PER COPY The Forerunner Subscribe for The Woman's Journal 585 Boylston St., Boston, Mass. Official Organ of the National American Woman Suffrage Association A weekly newspaper devoted to winning the ballot for women Contains all the best news about women and their progress FOUNDED 1870 BY LUCY STONE AND HENRY B. BLACKWELL Edited by Alice Stone Blackwell The Woman's Journal is published in Boston and controlled by the National American Woman Suffrage Association whose headquarters are at 505 Fifth Avenue, New York City. It gives suffrage news from every state in the Union, and especially from the states where campaigns are under way; it gives official announcements and rousing news. Thousands of women read it every week from beginning to end. Nobody who has read it one month can ever do without it. It is the only paper of its kind in this country. Send for sample copies for yourself and ask us to send them to your friends. Try our fourth months trial subscription for 25 cents REGULAR SUBSCRIPTION RATES DOMESTIC 1 year ................ $1.00 6 months ............... .50 4 months on trial ........... .25 Single copies .............. .05 CANADIAN 1 year ................ $1.50 FOREIGN 1 year ................ $1.50 A full year's subscription costs only .......... $1.00 CAN YOU AFFORD TO BE WITHOUT IT? Volume II. No. 1 JANUARY 1911 THE FORERUNNER A MONTHLY MAGAZINE BY CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN 1.00 A YEAR .10 A COPY AUTHOR, OWNER & PUBLISHER 67 Wall Street, New York COPYRIGHT 1911 C. P. GILMAN ENTERED IN NEW YORK POST OFFICE, N.Y., OCTOBER 29, 1909, AS SECOND-CLASS MATTER We are all mysteriously interested in Another Life. Every one of us can have Another Life at any time we choose to make it. Now is a good time to begin. THE WIDOW'S MIGHT JAMES had come on to the funeral, but his wife had not; she could not leave the children-that is what he said. She said, privately, to him, that she would not go. She never was willing to leave New York except for Europe or for Summer vacations; and a trip to Denver in November-to attend a funeral-was not a possibility to her mind. Ellen and Adelaide were both there: they felt it a duty-but neither of their husbands had come. Mr. Jennings could not leave his classes in Cambridge, and Mr. Oswald could not leave his business in Pittsburg-that is what they said. The last services were over. They had a cold, melancholy lunch and were all to take the night train home again. Meanwhile the lawyer was coming at four to read the will. "It is only a formality. There can't be much left," said James. "No," agreed Adelaide, "I suppose not." "A long illness eats up everything," said Ellen, and sighed. Her husband had come to Colorado for his lungs years before and was still delicate. "Well," said James rather abruptly, "What are we going to do with Mother?" "Why, of course-" Ellen began, "We could take her. It would depend a good deal on how much property there is-I mean, on where she'd want to go. Edward's salary is more than needed now," Ellen's mental processes seemed a little mixed. "She can come to me if she prefers, of course," said Adelaide. "But I don't think it would be very pleasant for her. Mother never did like Pittsburg." James looked from one to the other. "Let me see-how old is Mother?" "Oh she's all of fifty," answered Ellen, "and much broken, I think. It's been a long strain, you know." She turned plaintively to her brother. "I should think you could make her more comfortable than either of us, James-with your big house." "I think a woman is always happier living with a son than with a daughter's husband," said Adelaide. "I've always thought so." "That is often true," her brother admitted. "But it depends." He stopped, and the sisters exchanged glances. They knew upon what it depended. "Perhaps if she stayed with me, you could-help some," suggested Ellen. "Of course, of course, I could do that," he agreed with evident relief. "She might visit between you-take turns-and I could pay her board. About how much ought it to amount to? We might as well arrange everything now." 4 The Forerunner "Things cost awfully in these days," Ellen said with a criss-cross of fine wrinkles on her pale forehead. "But of course it would be only just what it costs. I shouldn't want to make anything." "It's work and care, Ellen, and you may as well admit it. You need all your strength--with those sickly children and Edward on your hands. When she comes to me, there need be no expense, James, except for clothes. I have room enough and Mr. Oswald will never notice the difference in the house bills--but he does hate to pay out money for clothes." "Mother must be provided for properly," her son declared. "How much ought it to cost--a year--for clothes." "You know what your wife's cost," suggested Adelaide, with a flicker of a smile about her lips. "Oh, no," said Ellen. "That's no criterion! Maude is in society, you see. Mother wouldn't dream of having so much." James looked at her gratefully. Board--and clothes--all told; what should you say, Ellen?" Ellen scrabbled in her small black hand bag for a piece of paper, and found none. James handed her an envelope and a fountain pen. "Food--just plain food materials--costs all of four dollars a week now--for one person," said she. "And heat--and light--and extra service. I should think six a week would be the least, James. And for clothes and carfare and small expenses--I should say--well, three hundred dollars! "That would make over six hundred a year," said James slowly. "How about Oswald sharing that, Adelaide?" Adelaide flushed. "I do not think he would be willing, James. Of course if it were absolutely necessary---" "He has money enough," said her brother. "Yes, but he never seems to have any outside of his business--and he has his own parents to carry now. No--I can give her a home, but that's all." "You see, you'd have none of the care and trouble, James," said Ellen. "We--the girls--are each willing to have her with us, while perhaps Maude wouldn't care to, but if you could just pay the money---" "Maybe there's some left, after all," suggested Adelaide. "And this place ought to sell for something." "This place" was a piece of rolling land within ten miles of Denver. It had a bit of river bottom, and ran up towards the foothills. From the house the view ran north and south along the precipitous ranks of the "Big Rockies" to westward. To the east lay the vast stretches of sloping plain. "There ought to be at least six or eight thousand dollars from it, I should say," he concluded. "Speaking of clothes," Adelaide rather irrelevantly suggested, "I see Mother didn't get any new black. She's always worn it as long as I can remember." "Mother's a long time," said Ellen. "I wonder if she wants anything, I'll go up and see." "No," said Adelaide, "She said she wanted to be let alone--and rest. She said she'd be down by the time Mr. Frankland got here." "She's bearing it pretty well," Ellen suggested, after a little silence. "It's not like a broken heart," Adelaide explained. "Of course Father meant well---" "He was a man who always did his duty," admitted Ellen, "But we none of us--loved him--very much." "He is dead and buried," said James. "We can at least respect his memory. "We've hardly seen Mother--under that black veil," Ellen went on. "It must have aged her. This long nursing." "She had help toward the last--a man nurse," said Adelaide. "Yes, but a long illness is an awful strain--and Mother never was good at nursing. She has surely done her duty," pursued Ellen. "And now she's entitled to a rest," said James, rising and walking about the room. " I wonder how soon we can close up affairs here--and get rid of this place. There might be enough in it to give her almost a living--properly invested." Ellen looked out across the dusty stretches of land. "How I did hate to live here!" she said. The Forerunner 5 "So did I," said Adelaide. "So did I," said James. And they all smiled rather grimly. "We don't any of us seem to be very--affectionate, about Mother," Adelaide presently admitted "I don't know why it is--we never were an affectionate family, I guess." "Nobody could be affectionate with with Father," Ellen suggested timidly. "And Mother--poor Mother! She's had an awful life." "Mother has always done her duty," said James in a determined voice, "and so did Father, as he saw it. Now we'll do ours." "Ah," exclaimed Ellen, jumping up to her feet, "Here comes the lawyer, I'll call Mother." She ran quickly upstairs and tapped at her mother's door. "Mother, oh Mother," she cried. "Mr. Frankland's come." "I know it," came back a voice from within. "Tell him to go ahead and read the will. I know what's in it. I'll be down in a few minutes." Ellen went slowly back downstairs with the fine criss-cross of wrinkles showing on her pale forehead again, and delivered her mother's message. The other two glanced at each other hesitatingly, but Mr. Frankland spoke up briskly. "Quite natural, of course, under the circumstances. Sorry I couldn't get to the funeral. A case on this morning." The will was short. The estate was left to be divided among the children in four equal parts, two to the son and one each to the daughters after the mother's legal share had been deducted, if she were still living. In such case they were furthermore directed to provide for their mother while she lived. The estate, as described, consisted of the ranch, the large, rambling house on it, with all the furniture, stock and implements, and some $5,000 in mining stocks. "That is less than I had supposed, said James. "This will was made ten years ago," Mr. Frankland explained. "I have done business for your father since that time. He kept his faculties to the end, and I think that you will find that the property has appreciated. Mrs. McPherson has taken excellent care of the ranch, I understand--and has had some boarders." Both the sisters exchanged pained glances. "There's an end to all that now," said James. At this moment, the door opened and a tall black figure, cloaked and veiled, came into the room. "I'm glad to hear you say that Mr. McPherson kept his faculties to the last, Mr. Frankland," said the widow. "It's true. I didn't come down to hear that old will. It's no good now." They all turned in their chairs. "Is there a later will, madam?" inquired the lawyer. "Not that I know of. Mr. McPherson had no property when he died." "No property! My dear lady--four years ago he certainly had some." "Yes, but three years and a-half ago he gave it all to me. Here are the deeds." There they were, in very truth--formal and correct, and quite simple and clear--for deeds, James R. McPherson, Sr., had assuredly given to his wife the whole estate. "You remember that was the panic year," she continued. "There was pressure from some of Mr. McPherson's creditors; he thought it would be safer so." "Why--yes," remarked Mr. Frankland, "I do remember now his advising with me about it. But I thought the step unnecessary." James cleared his throat. "Well, Mother, this does complicate matters a little. We were hoping that we could settle up all the business this afternoon--with Mr. Frankland's help--and take you back with us." "We can't be spared any longer, you see, Mother," said Ellen. "Can't you deed it back again, Mother," Adelaide suggested, "to James, or to--all of us, so we can get away?" "Why should I?" "Now, Mother," Ellen put in persuasively, "we know how badly you feel, 6 The Forerunner and you are nervous and tired, but I told you this morning when we came, that we expected to take you back with us. You know you've been packing-" "Yes, I've been packing," replied the voice behind the veil. "I dare say it was safer-to have the property in your name-technically," James admitted, "but now I think it would be the simplest way for you to make it over to me in a lump, and I will see that Father's wishes are carried out to the letter." "Your father is dead," remarked the voice. "Yes, Mother, we know-we know how you feel," Ellen ventured. "I am alive," said Mrs. McPherson. "Dear Mother, it's very trying to talk business to you at such a time. We all realize it," Adelaide explained with a touch of asperity, "But we told you we couldn't stay as soon as we got here." "And the business has to be settled," James added conclusively. "It is settled." "Perhaps Mr. Frankland can make it clear to you," went on James with forced patience. "I do not doubt that your mother understands perfectly," murmured the lawyer. "I have always found her a woman of remarkable intelligence." "Thank you, Mr. Frankland. Possibly you may be able to make my children understand that this property- such as it is-is mine now." "Why assuredly, assuredly, Mrs. McPherson. We all see that. But we assume, as a matter of course, that you will consider Mr. McPherson's wishes is regard to the disposition of the estate." "I have considered Mr. McPherson's wishes for thirty years," she replied. "Now, I'll consider mine. I have done my duty since the day I married him. It is eleven hundred days-to-day." The last with sudden intensity. "But madam, your children-" "I have no children, Mr. Frankland. I have two daughters and a son. These two grown persons here, grown up, married, having children of their own- or ought to have-were my children. I did my duty by them, and they did their duty by me-and would yet, no doubt." The tone changed suddenly. "But they don't have to. I'm tired of duty." The little group of listeners looked up, startled. "You don't know how things have been going on here," the voice went on. "I didn't trouble you with my affairs. But I'll tell you now. When your father saw fit to make over the property to me-to save it-and when he knew that he hadn't many years to live, I took hold of things. I had to have a nurse for your father-and a doctor coming : the house was a sort of hospital, so I made it a little more so. I had a half a dozen patients and nurses here- and made money by it. I ran the garden -kept cows-raised my own chickens- worked out doors-slept out of doors. I'm a stronger woman to-day than I ever was in my life!" She stood up, tall, strong and straight, and drew a deep breath. "Your father's property amounted to about $8,000 when he died," she continued. "That would be $4,000 to James and $2,000 to each of the girls. That I'm willing to give you now-each of you-in your own name. But if my daughters will take my advice, they'd better let me send them the yearly income -in cash-to spend as they like. It is good for a woman to have some money of her own." "I think you are right, Mother," said Adelaide. "Yes, indeed," murmured Ellen. "Don't you need it yourself, Mother?" asked James, with a sudden feeling of tenderness for the stiff figure in black. "No, James, I shall keep the ranch, you see, I have good reliable help. I've made $2,000 a year-clear-off it so far, and now I've rented it for that to a doctor friend of mine-woman doctor." "I think you have done remarkably well, Mrs. McPherson-wonderfully well," said Mr. Frankland. "And you'll have an income of $2,000 a year," said Adelaide incredulously. "You'll come and live with me, won't you," ventured Ellen. "Thank you, my dear, I will not." "You're more than welcome in my big house," said Adelaide. The Forerunner 7 "No thank you, my dear." "I don't doubt Maude will be glad to have you," James rather hesitatingly offered. "I do. I doubt it very much. No thank you, my dear." "But what are you going to do?" Ellen seemed genuinely concerned. "I'm going to do what I never did before. I'm going to live!" With a firm swift step, the tall figured moved to the windows and pulled up the lowered shades. The brilliant Colorado sunshine poured into the room. She threw off the long black veil. "That's borrowed," she said. "I didn't want to hurt your feelings at the funeral." She unbuttoned the long black cloak and dropped it at her feet, standing there in the full sunlight, a little flushed and smiling, dressed in a well-made traveling suit of dull mixed colors. "If you want to know my plans, I'll tell you. I've got $6,000 of my own. I earned it in three years-off my little rancho-sanitarium. One thousand I have put in the savings bank-to bring me back from anywhere on earth, and to put me in an old lady's home if it is necessary. Here is an agreement with a cremation company. "They'll import me, if necessary, and have me duly-expurgated -or they don't get the money. But I've got $5,000 to play with, and I'm going to play." Her daughters looked shocked. "Why Mother-" "At your age-" James drew down his upper lip and looked like his father. "I knew you wouldn't any of you understand," she continued more quietly. "But it doesn't matter any more. Thirty years I've given you-and your father. Now I'll have thirty years of my own." "Are you-are you sure you're-well, Mother," Ellen urged with real anxiety. Her mother laughed outright. "Well, really well, never was better, have been doing business up to to-day- good medical testimony that. No question of my sanity, my dears! I want you to grasp the fact that your mother is a Real Person with some interests of her own and half a lifetime yet. The first twenty didn't count for much-I was growing up and couldn't help myself. The last thirty have been-hard. James perhaps realizes that more than you girls, but you all know it. Now, I'm free." "Where do you mean to go, Mother?" James asked. She looked around the little circle with a serene air of decision and replied. "To New Zealand. I've always wanted to go there," she pursued. "Now I'm going. And to Australia- and Tasmania-and Madagascar-and Terra del Fuego. I shall be gone some time." They separated that night -three going East, one West. THIS IS THE YEAR Forget all the Buried and welcome the Born ! Those that are coming are Real ! Plough fo the Beautiful Dream of the Corn- Build The Ideal ! Changeless the Past, but the Future is ours- Open for us to endow ; Fruit of our purposes, proof of our powers- Work for it Now ! All we desire is for us to create- Here in our hands, here ! This is the Hour that is Never Too Late, This is The Year ! 8 The Forerunner HOPE "And now abideth faith, hope, love, these three: But the greatest of these is love." 1 Corinthians, xiii, 13. "We look before and after And pine for what is not." OF COURSE we do. To look before and after is the condition of human consciousness, the essential quality of our kind of brain. Even the rudiments of memory give power to look "after." Elephants have considerable capacity for this. Like most of us, their hindsight is better than their foresight. But we seem to stand alone in our ability to look before—to Hope. There is no more valuable faculty in the human mind ; no wonder it stands high among the virtues, sister to Faith and Love. Like most of our virtues, it is little understood, and largely misrepresented. In its commonest and most useful form— the constant vision of better things and the desire for them—we have nullified the real virtue of Hope by offsetting it with the arbitrary alleged virtue of contentment. Contentment is the death of Hope. In the study of the rise and fall of what we call virtues, one thing is always evident : a given virtue at a given time is so recognized on account of its usefulness. The virtues of a human being are so named on the same ground as the virtues of a given substance or object ; the "virtue" of salt is its saltness, of steel is its strength, of window-glass is its transparency. So we have our human virtues, varying with sex, class and period, but always qualities of special usefulness. Those of most universal value rank highest, and Hope, in our religion, is among the first three. Unfortunately this virtue, like many others, was grossly misrepresented by the early church, and its sphere of action quite removed from this world to another. Hope, to orthodox religion, was the hope of Heaven, and for this earth we were offered, not Hope, but Contentment, Patience, Endurance, Submission, Resignation. This was a most grievous misinterpretation of human needs and human virtues, but was natural enough to the blind old days which had no knowledge of real life—to which "this world" was a "vale of tears," and "the other world" the only place worth thinking about. For this world of law and loveliness, they had no Hope, being ignorant. Into this dark, dreary state of mind came at last the blessedest Hope man's eyes have ever seen—the Hope that rests on knowledge, upon laws understood and followed, upon Evolution. For some sixty years this World-Light has been slowly filtering through the mists of superstition, the heavy darkness of ignorance and gross misbelief. Slowly the mind of man is waking to the Great New Hope ; the world is not a "vale of tears," it is a mountain of joy. We no longer look back with shame and remorse at a dim past when we had a Garden of Eden and lost it. We look back, open-eyed and unashamed, at a long, slow, upward struggle from beast to savage, savage to barbarian, barbarian to our varying stages of semi-civilization. Thus far have we climbed, blindly, miserably, without Hope—save of post-mortal chances. Now, standing here in the new light of knowledge, we can look before and after, farther and more clearly than ever before, but need no longer pine for what is not, because there is no need to pine—we can have it. We can make it. We are making it. I would have painted on the walls of every school house the vivid pictures of The Rise of Man. Every child should see about him the steps we have so far ascended, beginning low down at the floor with our small, dark savagery, mounting by degrees with new invention and new knowledge, not stopping with to-day, but leading on, in clearer light, in lovelier colors, with the glowing imagery of the greatest artists, to the world before us—ours to make. Contentment? At what period of the tremendous journey would you recommend contentment? In what stage of ignorance, with what limitations, should the human race have been contented? The Forerunner 9 Never. Never in the years behind us, never in the years before us, surely not now—when we have our only chance to help. Life is action, all of it. Human life is a process, a long and complicated process, and we to-day are just learning something of its nature and how to help instead of hindering. Are you satisfied with the world as you find it? Are you contented with the waste and the wickedness, the folly and sin and misery which need not be? This virtue of contentment belongs to blind paralytics—not to live men and women. Why be contented with bad things when you can have better? Look behind and see the contrast between our present degree of peace and happiness and the black squalor of the past. See how we have grown and improved, and then look before and see how rapidly we may grow and improve still more. We have millions of miles of bad roads—shall we be contented with them? Never. We will hope for better ones, and, hoping, build them. We have a ghastly percentage of disease, and of crippled, defective, degenerate, idiotic and insane. Shall we be contented with this shame, this needless shame? Never. We shall hope for a clean race, a healthy race, and in the light of that hope—a hope founded upon knowledge—we shall bear and rear better people—we, the wakened mothers of the world. We have still on this wide, lovely earth, warfare on land and sea, deliberate destruction and malicious injury to life and property. Shall we be contented with this archaic evil? Never. We shall hope for the time when international peace shall be maintained as is the peace of a civilized land, or a civilized family, and work to fulfil that hope. We have—on this rich, fruitful earth, in this bright world of diffused knowledge, of crowding new inventions, of endlessly remultiplied powers—we still have poverty. Of all disgraces to human intelligence none is more conspicuously shameful than this. With plenty, overflowing plenty, with knowledge and power and love, with twenty centuries of Christianity, we still have poverty. Shall we be contented with poverty? any of us? for we all suffer from it. Never. We have now on earth a New Hope, based on knowledge, a hope of real Humanity at last, of a world where every child that is born will be assured the best of care and nurture, where the full powers of every one of us will have room to grow, where the enlarged productivity of life will fill the whole wide field with comfort and luxury, art and beauty, high health and noble culture, true education of the entire human race. This Hope should be taught to every child as an abiding need, a lofty virtue. To bear in mind forever what the world may be, and live to make it so—that is a duty for all of us, a virtue of virtues for us all. TIME "Time was!" said the Brazen Head— Moved nor man nor beast. "Time is!" said the Brazen Head— Naught stirred in the least. "Time is past!" said the Brazen Head— And ceased. Then opened living eyes— Lips not metal-dumb; Spur to limitless endeavor, Hope and Joy and Power forever, Heart and Brain and Wisdom spoke, Voice of Truth and Wisdom spoke "Time is to come!" 10 The Forerunner THE CRUX Chapter I. THE BACK WAY. Along the same old garden path, Sweet with the same old flowers; Under the lilacs, darkly dense, The easy gate in the backyard fence— Those unforgotten hours! THE "Foote Girls" were bustling along Margate Street with an air of united purpose that was unusual with them. Miss Rebecca wore her black silk cloak, by which it might be seen that "a call" was toward. Miss Josie, the thin sister, and Miss Salie, the fat one, were more hastily attired. They were persons of less impressiveness than Miss Rebecca, as was tacitly admitted by their more familiar nicknames, a concession never made by the oldest sister. Even Miss Rebbeca was hurrying a little, for her, but the others were swifter and more impatient. "Do come on, Rebecca. Anybody'd think you were eighty instead of fifty!" said Miss Sallie. "There's Mrs. Williams going in! I wonder if she's heard already. Do hurry!" urged Miss Josie. But Miss Rebecca, being concerned about her dignity, would not allow herself to be hustled, and the three proceeded in irregular order under the high-arched elms and fence-topping syringas of a small New England town toward the austere home of Mr. Samuel Lane. It was a large, uncompromising, square, white house, planted starkly in the close-cut grass. It had no porch for summer lounging, no front gate for evening dalliance, no path-bordering beds of flowers from which to pluck a hasty offering or more redundant tribute. The fragrance which surrounded it came from the back yard, or over the fences of neighbors; the trees which waved greenly about it were the trees of other people. Mr. Lane had but two trees, one on each side of the straight and narrow path, evenly placed between house and sidewalk—evergreens. Mrs. Lane received them amiably; the minister's new wife, Mrs. Williams, was proving a little difficult to entertain. She was from Cambridge, Mass., and emanated a restrained consciousness of that fact. Mr. Lane rose stiffly and greeted them. He did not like the Foote girls, not having the usual American's share of the sense of humor. He had no enjoyment of the town joke, as old as they were, that "the three of them made a full yard;" and had frowned down as a profane impertinence the man—a little sore under some effect of gossip—who had amended it with, "make an 'ell, I say." Safely seated in their several rocking chairs, and severally rocking, the Misses Foote burst forth, as was their custom, in simultaneous, though by no means identical remarks. "I suppose you've heard about Morton Elder?" "What do you think Mort Elder's been doing now?" "We've got bad news for poor Miss Elder!" Mrs. Lane was intensely interested. Even Mr. Lane showed signs of animation. "I'm not surprised," he said. "He's done it now," opined Miss Josie with conviction. "I always said Rella Elder was spoiling that boy." "It's too bad—after all she's done for him! He always was a scamp!" Thus Miss Sallie. "I've been afraid of it all along," Miss Rebecca was saying, her voice booming through the lighter tones of her sisters. "I always said he'd never get through college." "But who is Morton Elder, and what has he done?" asked Mrs. Williams as soon as she could be heard. This lady now proved a most valuable asset. She was so new to the town, and had been so immersed in the suddenly widening range of her unsalaried duties as "minister's wife," that she had never even heard of Morton Elder. A new resident always fans the languishing flame of local conversation. The whole shopworn stock takes on a fresh lustre, topics long trampled flat in much discussion lift their heads anew, The Forerunner 11 opinions one scarce dared to repeat again become almost authoritative, old stories flourish freshly, acquiring new detail and more vivid color. Mrs. Lane, seizing her opportunity while the sisters gasped a momentary amazement at anyone's not knowing the town scapegrace, and taking advantage of her position as old friend and near neighbor of the family under discussion, swept into the field under such headway that even the Foote Girls remained silent perforce; surcharged, however, and holding their breaths in readiness to burst forth at the first opening. "He's the nephew—orphan nephew— of Miss Elder—who lives right back of us—our yards touch—we've always been friends—went to school together, Rella's never married—she teaches, you know —and her brother—he owned the home —it's all hers now, he died all of a sudden and left two children—Morton and Susie. Mort was about seven years old and Susie just a baby. He's been an awful cross—but she just idolizes him—she's spoiled him, I tell her." Mrs. Lane had to breathe, and even the briefest pause left her stranded to wait another chance. The three social benefactors proceeded to distribute their information in a clattering torrent. They sought to inform Mrs. Williams, in especial, of numberless details of the early life and education of their subject; matters which would have been treated more appreciatively if they had not been blessed with the later news; and, at the same time, each was seeking for a more dramatic emphasis to give this last supply of incident with due effect. No regular record is possible where three persons pour forth statement and comment in a rapid tumultuous stream, interrupted by cross currents of heated contradiction, and further varied by the exclamations and protests of three hearers; or at least, of two, for the one man present soon relapsed into disgusted silence. Mrs. Williams, turning a perplexed face from one to the other, inwardly condemning the darkening flood of talk, yet conscious of a sinful pleasure in it, and anxious as a guest, and a minister's wife, to be most amiable, felt like one watching three kinetescopes at once. She saw, in confused pictures of blurred and varying outline. Orella Elder, the young New England girl, only eighteen, already a "school ma'am," suddenly left with two children to bring up, and doing it, as best she could: She saw the boy, momentarily changing, in his shuttlecock flight from mouth to mouth, through pale shades of open mischief to the black and scarlet of hinted sin; the terror of his neighborhood; the darling of his aunt; clever, audacious, scandalizing the quiet town. "Boys are apt to be mischievous, aren't they?" she suggested when it was possible. "He's worse than mischievous," Mr. Lane assured her sourly. "There's a mean streak in that family." "That's on his mother's side," Mrs. Lane hastened to add. "She was a queer girl—came from New York." The Foote Girls began again, with rich profusion of detail, their voices rising shrill, one above the other, and playing together at their full height like emulous fountains. "We ought not to judge, you know;" urged Mrs. Williams. "What do you say he's really done?" Being sifted, it appeared that this last and most terrible performance was to go to "the city" with a group of "the worst boys of college," to get undeniably drunk, to do some piece of mischief. (Here was great licence in opinion, and in contradiction.) "Anyway he's to be suspended!" said Miss Rebecca with finality. "Suspended!" Miss Josie's voice rose in scorn. "Expelled! They said he was expelled." "In disgrace!" added Miss Sallie. Vivian Lane sat in the back room at the window, studying in the lingering light of the long June evening. At least, she appeared to be studying. Her tall figure was bent over her books, but the dark eyes blazed under their delicate level brows, and her face flushed and paled with changing feelings. She had heard—who, in the same house, could escape hearing the Misses Foote?—and had followed the torrent of description, hearsay, surmise and 12 The Forerunner allegation with an interest that was painful in its intensity. "It's a shame!" she whispered under breath. "A shame! And nobody to stand up for him!" She half rose to her feet as if to do it herself, but sank back irresolutely. A fresh wave of talk rolled forth. "It'll half kill his aunt." "Poor Miss Elder! I don't know what she'll do!" "I don't know what he'll do. He can't go back to college." "He'll have to go to work." "I'd like to know where—nobody'd have him in this town." The girl could bear it no longer. She came to the door, and there, as they paused to speak to her, her purpose ebbed again. "My daughter, Vivian, Mrs. Williams," said her mother; and the other callers greeted her familiarly. "You'd better finish your lessons, Vivian," Mr. Lane suggested. "I have, Father," said the girl, and took a chair by the minister's wife. She had a vague feeling that if she were there, they would not talk so about Morton Elder. Mrs. Williams hailed the interruption gratefully. She liked the slender girl with the thoughtful eyes and pretty, rather pathetic mouth; and sought to draw her out. But her questions soon led to unfortunate results. "You are going to college, I suppose?" she presently inquired; and Vivian owned that it was the desire of her heart. "Nonsense!" said her father. "Stuff and nonsense, Vivian! You're not going to college." The Foote girls now burst forth in voluble agreement with Mr. Lane. His wife was evidently of the same mind; and Mrs. Williams plainly regretted her question. But Vivian mustered courage enough to make a stand, strengthened perhaps by the depth of the feeling which had brought her into the room. "I don't know why you're all so down on a girl's going to college. Eve Marks has gone, and Mary Spring is going— and both the Austin girls. Everybody goes now." "I know one girl that won't," was her father's incisive comment; and her mother said quietly. "A girl's place is at home—'till she marries." "Suppose I don't want to marry?" said Vivian. "Don't talk nonsense," her father answered. "Marriage is a woman's duty." "What do you want to do?" asked Miss Josie in the interests of further combat. "Do you want to be a doctor, like Jane Bellair?" "I should like to very much indeed," said the girl with quiet intensity. "I'd like to be a doctor in a babies' hospital." "More nonsense," said Mr. Lane. "Don't talk to me about that woman! You attend to your studies, and then to your home duties, my dear." The talk rose anew, the three sisters contriving all to agree with Mr. Lane in his opinions about college, marriage and Dr. Bellair, yet to disagree violently among themselves. Mrs. Williams rose to go—and in the lull that followed, the liquid note of a whippoorwill met the girl's quick ear. She quietly slipped out, unnoticed. The Lane's home stood near the outer edge of the town, with an outlook across wide meadows and soft wooded hills. Behind, their long garden backed on that of Miss Orella Elder, with a connecting gate in the grey board fence. Mrs. Lane had grown up here. The house belonged to her mother, Mrs. Servilla Pettigrew, though that able lady was seldom in it, preferring to make herself useful among two growing sets of grandchildren. Miss Elder was Vivian's favorite teacher. She was a careful and conscientious instructor, and the girl was a careful and conscientious scholar; so they got on admirably together; indeed, there was a real affection between them. And just as the young Martha Pettigrew had played with the younger Orella Elder, so Vivian had played with little Susie Elder, Miss Orella's orphan niece. Susie regarded the older girl with worshipful affectation, which was not at all unpleasant to an emotional young creature with unemotional parents, and no brothers or sisters of her own. The Forerunner 13 Moreover, Susie was Morton's sister. The whippoorwill's cry sounded again through the soft June night. Vivian came quickly down the garden path between the bordering beds of sweet alyssum and mignonette. A dew-wet rose brushed against her hand. She broke it off, pricking her fingers, and hastily fastened it in the bosom of her white frock. Large old lilac bushes hung over the dividing fence, a thick mass of honeysuckle climbed up by the gate and mingled with them, spreading over to a pear tree on the Lane side. In this fragrant, hidden corner was a rough seat, and from it a man's hand reached out and seized the girl's, drawing her down beside him. She drew away from him as far as the seat allowed. "Oh Morton!" she said. "What have you done? What have you done?" Morton was sulky. "Now Vivian, are you down on me too? I thought I had one friend." "You ought to tell me," she said more gently. "How can I be your friend if I don't know the facts? They are saying perfectly awful things." "Who are?" "Why—the Foote Girls—everybody." "Oh those old maids aren't everybody, I assure you. You see, Vivian, you live right here in this old oyster of a town— and you make mountains out of molehills like everybody else. A girl of your intelligence ought to know better." She drew a great breath of relief. "Then you haven't—done it?" "Done what? What's all this mysterious talk anyhow? The prisoner has a right to know what he's charged with before he commits himself." The girl was silent, finding it difficult to begin. "Well, out with it. What do they say I did?" He picked up a long dry twig and broke it, gradually, into tiny, half-inch bits. "They say you—went to the city— with a lot of the worst boys in college—" "Well? Many persons go to the city every day. That's no crime, surely. As for 'the worst boys in college',"—he laughed scornfully—"I suppose those old ladies think if a fellow smokes a cigarette or says 'darn' he's a tough. They're mighty nice fellows, that bunch—most of 'em. Got some ginger in 'em, that's all. What else?" "They say—you drank." "O ho! Said I got drunk, I warrant! Well—we did have a skate on that time, I admit!" And he laughed as if this charge were but a familiar joke. "Why Morton Elder! I think it is a —disgrace!" "Pshaw, Vivian!—You ought to have more sense. All the fellows get gay once in a while. A college isn't a young ladies' seminary." He reached out and got hold of her hand again, but she drew it away. "There was something else," she said. "What was it?" he questioned sharply. "What did they say?" But she would not satisfy him—perhaps could not. "I should think you'd be ashamed, to make your aunt so much trouble. They said you were suspended—or—expelled!" He shrugged his big shoulders and threw away the handful of broken twigs. "That's true enough—I might as well admit that." "Oh, Morton!—I didn't believe it. Expelled!" "Yes, expelled—turned down—thrown out—fired! And I'm glad of it." He leaned back against the fence and whistled very softly through his teeth. "Sh! Sh!" she urged. "Please!" He was quiet. "But Morton—what are you going to do?—Won't it spoil your career?" "No, my dear little girl, it will not!" said he. "On the contrary, it will be the making of me. I tell you, Vivian, I'm sick to death of this town of maiden ladies—and 'good family men.' I'm sick of being fussed over for ever and ever, and having wristers and mufflers knitted for me—and being told to put on my rubbers! There's no fun in this old clamshell—this kitchen-midden of a town—and I'm going to quit it." He stood up and stretched his long arms. "I'm going to quit it for good and all." The girl sat still, her hands gripping the seat on either side. 14 The Forerunner "Where are you going?" she asked in a low voice. "I'm going west - clear out west. I've been talking to Aunt Rella about it Dr. Bellair'll help me to a job, she thinks. She's awful cut up, of course. I'm sorry she feels bad - but she needn't I tell her. I shall do better there than I ever should have here. I know a fellow that left college - his father failed - and he went into business and made two thousand dollars a year. I always wanted to take up business - you know that!" She knew it - he had talked of it freely before they had argued and persuaded him into the college life. She knew, too, how his aunt's hopes all centered in him, and in his academic honors and future professional life. "Business," to his aunt's mind, was a necessary evil, which could at best be undertaken only after a "liberal education." "When are you going?" she asked at length. "Right off - to-morrow." She gave a little gasp. "That's what I was whipporwilling about - I knew I'd get no other chance to talk to you 0 I wanted to say good-by, you know." The girl sat silent, struggling not to cry. He dropped beside her - stole an arm about her waist - and felt her tremble. "Now, Viva, don't you go and cry! I'm sorry - I really am sorry - to make you feel bad." This was quite too much for her, and she sobbed frankly. "Oh, Morton! How could you! How could you! - And now you've got to go away!" "There now - don't cry - sh! - they'll hear you." She did hush at that. "And don't feel so bad - I'll come back some time - to see you." "No, you won't!" she answered with sudden fierceness, "You'll just go - and stay - and I never shall see you again!" He drew her closer to him. "And do you care - so much - Viva?" "Of course, I care!" she said. "Haven't we always been friends, the best of friends?" "Yes - you and Aunt Rella have been about all I had," he admitted with a cheerful laugh. "I hope I'll make more friends out yonder. But Viva" - his hand pressed closer - "is it only - friends?" She took fright at once and drew away from him. "You mustn't do that, Morton!" "Do what?" A shaft of moonlight shone on his teasing face. "What am I doing?" he said. It is difficult - it is well nigh impossible - for a girl to put a name to certain small cuddlings not in themselves terrifying, nor even unpleasant, but which she obscurely feels to be wrong. Viva blushed and was silent - he could see the rich color flood her face. "Come now - don't be hard on a fellow!" he urged. "I shan't see you again in ever so long. You'll forget all about me before a year's over." She shook her head, still silent. "Won't you speak to me - Viva?" "I wish -" She could not find the words she wanted. "Oh, I wish you - wouldn't!" "Wouldn't what, Girlie? Wouldn't go away? Sorry to disoblige - but I have to. There's no place for me here." A girl felt the sad truth of that. "Aunt Rella will get used to it after a while. I'll write to her - I'll make lots of money - and come back in a few years - astonish you all! - Meanwhile - kiss me good-by, Viva!" She drew back shyly. She had never kissed him. She had never in her life kissed any man younger than an uncle." "No, Morton - you mustn't -" She shrank away into the shadow. But there was no great distance to shrink to, and his strong arm soon drew her close again. "Suppose you never see me again," he said. "Then'll you'll wish you hadn't been so stiff about it." She thought of this dread possibility with a sudden chill of horror, and while she hesitated, he took her face between his hands and kissed her on the mouth. Steps were heard coming down the path. "They're on," he said with a little laugh. "Good-by, Viva!" He vaulted the fence and was gone. The Forerunner 15 "What are you doing here, Vivian?" demanded her father. "I was saying good-by to Morton," she answered with a sob. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself - philandering out here in this middle of the night with the scapegrace! Come in the house and go to the bed at once - it's ten o'clock." Bowing to this confused but almost equally incriminating chronology, she followed him in, meekly enough as to her outward seeming, but inwardly in a state of stormy tumult. She had been kissed! Her father's stiff back before her could not blot out the radiant, melting moonlight, the rich sweetness of the flowers, the tender, soft, June night. "You'll go to bed," said he once more. "I'm ashamed of you." "Yes, father," she answered. Her little room, when at last she was safely in it and has shut the door and put a chair against it - she had no key - seemed somehow changed. She lit the lamp and stood looking at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were star-bright. Her cheeks flamed softly. Her mouth looked guilty and yet glad. She put the light out and went to the window, kneeling there, leaning out in the fragrant stillness, trying to arrange in her mind this mixture of grief, disapproval, shame and triumph. When the Episcopal church clock struck eleven, she went to bed in guilty haste, but not to sleep. For a long time she lay there watching the changing play of moonlight on the floor. She felt almost as if she were married. ------------- B.C. Stood a man in History - Very much B.C., Unbeliever, Infidel, Heretic and Doomed to Hell - Sinful man was he. Wouldn't worship manuscripts - Priestly lore and craft; Wouldn't bring his doves and lambs, Fat of kidneys, cauls, and hams - Called the tithing "graft." They said, "Bow rebellious knee To thy Father's God! Ways commanded in the past Must for all the future last - Be forever trod!" He said, "Ye are Dull and Blind! Blind and Deaf and Dumb Little could our fathers say Of the Ever-Widening Way - In our Children's Children's Day God is yet to come! 16 The Forerunner PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE THE New Year is a favorite time for moralizing, a sort of annual Sunday when we expect to consider our present, to repent of our past, and to make resolutions for our future. The three departments of life are not appreciated on their merits. We greatly exaggerate the importance of the present, most falsely and foolishly venerate the past, and ignore the most important part of life - the future. Every normal child is born with a lively interest in the future. Every healthy grown person still has it. It is a characteristic of a sane mind always to have enough interests in prospect to stimulate and sustain even in the face of an unattractive present and a past best forgotton. But our thinkers and preachers have taken a distinctly wrong view of these degrees of consciousness. The future, which should be the most practical handle of life, they have hung up out of reach, placing it in a remote posthumous position, a thing of vague promise and terrific threats; and greatly overworked it is a long-range influence. In view of this artificially removed future, the mind, robbed of its natural interest in a near possible, hand-made one, has fallen back into a dull consideration of the present or an utterly fruitless dwelling upon the past. We have pursued our long upward path of social development with our eyes forcibly fixed on the steps behind us, with our whole perspective so confused and erroneous that the rising path was believed to be a descending one, and the black mists of antiquity had a rosy glow upon them - the glamor of the "age of gold." It may be physically easier to remember than to anticipate, it certainly is to old folks, and from the days of oral tradition down through all the carven records, the dim old manuscripts, and the accumulating pages of printed history, we have had The Past kept always before us to study and revere. The past should be studied, of course, in a discriminating manner, that we may cull from it our achievements and successes and learn to condemn and avoid our pitifully numerous mistakes. Not thus has it been taught us. The mere bulk of the study required of that period has furnished all our minds with a disproportionate sense of importance in the ages behind us. The dead languages are steadily pumped into us that we may visualize and revivify the dead centuries and their dead peoples - most beneficently dead and removed to make way for their betters. The ideas of the past, the beliefs of the past; the prejudices, traditions, superstitions of the past; the habits, mental and physical; the sins and diseases of the past - all these are solemnly handed down to us, to transmit to our children. The whole long movement of our race-growth has been and still is to escape the past, if by any means we could do so; but it has pursued us like a mechanical mummy - a thing long dead yet active beyond belief. With education, religion, customs and habit all forcing us to look backward, (much against our wills when young,) with our future, the joy of our hearts, forcibly removed from us and set beyond the gulf of death; we have fallen back into a short-sighted philosophy of the present - to "eat, drink and be merry for to-morrow we die," or "after us, the deluge." We have been taught by these petty moralists to be contended with the present, to live in the present, to be "practical" and not to indulge in "visions" or "theories." Every great thing ever done was a vision before it was a fact. Every learned law of nature was erected as a theory first - proven afterward. Our conscious progress is made by projecting the mind into the future - and dragging ourselves up to it. Without this foresight, this vision, we drift aimless, we are the helpless sport of circumstances, we make a thousand missteps, follow side paths, repeat our own mistakes and those of our ancestors, or worse than all, we remain stationary, a dead weight The Forerunner 17 upon the growing world - even sink backward! The years of our racial infancy are interesting as those of personal infancy; we may exercise a fond patience in excusing our many mistakes; we may well be proud of our first successes, exalting this or that historic achievement as we do the composition that took the prize, or the time we won the boat race or the ball game. But we should no more devote ourselves to the study and admiration of our racial youth than of our personal youth. Under the false educational methods which have forced us to do this - with every cultural influence retroactive upon us, with our very God introduced to us though prolonged study of most ancient literature, always the "God of our Fathers," never the "God of Our Children" - we have come down through history with our lantern light thrown backward, painfully striving to illuminate the paths behind us, blundering and stumbling along the path before us, as if yesterday were a fact and to-morrow a myth. To-morrow is as real as To-day, and more important. As to Yesterday, the less said about it the better. "Let the dead bury their dead!" Of what account are a hundred ancestors compared to one child! We must turn around that lantern of ours and light up in front - a long way in front. Those who talk about The Present - "enjoying the present," "living in the present" - might as well counsel the acrobat who skips nimbly on the revolving barrell to enjoy the stave he steps on. Yon can't. It doesn't last long enough. You can anticipate a feast for a year; you can remember a feast for a year, but you can't eat it more than a couple hours at the longest - unless you are a regurgutating Roman, which is undesirable. There is a sort of inch-worm philosophy which preaches a doctrine of taking "one step at a time," of "doing the duty which lies nearest," of "living for this day only." Such teaching may be suitable for oysters, or at the utmost for snails. It is in no way applicable to human endeavor. One would thing, to follow this teaching, that our splendid progress was no more conscious or intentional than the spread of spilled molasses. Did the discoverers of new lands accept this "one step at a time" theory - simply start going and follow their feet? It is simply a doctrine beautifully suited to console the operators of treadmills ad to keep them therein, but not useful in real life. The duty which lies nearest is, of course, the easiest to see, the most obvious. To look for the larger duties, to live up to one's full powers, to widen the range of action, to uplift and develop - this is not so easy. Think what the world would have lost is Americus and Columbus and Drake and Magellan and the rest of them had stuck to "the coast-wise trade;" if Pallisy had saved the furniture and lost the porcelain; if Galileo had been content with a stationary world, and Keats had remained a drug clerk. The duty that lies farthest is often the one that needs us most, the call that rouses us to consider not only our nearest and dearest but those of the uttermost parts of the earth. As for "this day only" - we're nor ephemera! Even as persons we may live for a hundred years and should demean yourselves accordingly; and as Human Beings we are members of a continuing society and owe to it the far-seeing service of a lifetime. It is not only "the greatest good to the greatest number" that we should consider - but for the longest time. The future, our real, possible, makeable human future, is the only thing worth thinking about. That poor childish past of our life we may study to learn our bearings, to ascertain certain points, to draw certain lines, and to judge from them our probable direction and method of advance. Then, consciously, with a new sense of light, hope, power, courage, we should fix our minds of this beautiful Future of ours. Suppose we began with our children - with the stories we tell them in infancy, oral and written - and instead of the everlasting repetition of "had beens" we gave them bright pictures of "are-to-bes." Instead of the old "once-upon-a-time" method, giving all the early impressions of joy and interest, excitement 18 The Forerunner and admiration in the past; why not, in those sacred early years, tell them of the best and lovliest things we can imagine and hope for. Then, instead of the saddening sense that those "good old times" are gone, we can all grow up with an underlying consciousness of something beautiful ahead of us—something not to be regarded with useless regret, but striven for in hope and courage. With all the necessary teaching of history—and much less history is necessary than we think—no mere accumulation of events should be given, but only such samples of our past actions as best show the journey we have made, and these always in sequence and connection, showing the antecedent conditions from which this action sprung with its tendencies and results, tracing it to fruition in the present and projecting its influence on the future. Human Life is not "a tale that is told" but a tale untold, a tale that is in the telling, and which we may alter most glowingly for later readers to enjoy. The first chapters have been much garbled heretofore. We've had our rigamarole of blood-shed and conquest. our procession of conquering kings for boys to emulate and girls to admire; whereas we should have, in our condensed, illuminated history of the Real Past, an account of the slow, terrible Progress of the People, the suffering, enduring, achieving People, now at last coming into their period of conscious, happy life. The History that treats only of Wars and Conquests is like a history of cattle which describes nothing but their horns. Cattle do fight—male cattle—but that is not what we keep them for. The little child, rightly taught, would soon grow to feel that behind us lies all dark savagery, all the painful, pitiful, ridiculous mistakes of a long ignorance; that our present is a stirring seedtime, wherein, he must plow and sow; that our future is a Habitable Period, a time of Real Life, a season where others will reap what he is sowing. Then we shall grow into a method of living wherein the most vital and common topic of discussion will be, not what we have done, but what we shall do and have, and how best to achieve it. Proposed new ways of living will be studied, not laughed at; experimented with cautiously and in a scientific spirit, not dismissed with scorn. Given this earth: Given this people: Given ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred years: What may we naturally expect? Then will those come forward to show how this and this process and tendency, if not checked, will tend to develop thus and so, and we shall listen respectfully and use our minds to understand, agreeing or disagreeing according to our powers and knowledge. Some will urge this conduct and some that, this method or that; but always with evidence based on facts behind us and results promised or threatened in the years before us; and we shall consider our conduct and our methods with a view to the effect on the future. Time was when we could not plan ahead for lack of brain power. Time is when we can but will not. Time is coming when we can and will; our condensed, classified, neatly-labeled Past laid on the shelf for reference; our Present, swiftly busy, never dwelt upon; our Future open—endless—and lived in. The Forerunner 19 THE OLD WOMAN AND THE NEW YEAR SHE sat alone, at night, late at at night, holding stiff hands over the shrunken fire. She looked at her hands and chafed them. "They used to be so white!—so soft!—so supple!" she sighed. A loose wisp of hair fell over her check. She drew it forward and looked at it. It was gray and dry and thin. "It used to be so long and thick, so soft and lustrous!" she said, and sighed. Her shawl slipped down from her angular shoulders, and she pulled it about her with a little shiver; hating her own bones. "Gone!" she said. "All gone! Youth! Beauty! Love! Happiness! I am sixty years old. Why can I not die!" "Because I am here," said a small, cheerful voice. There before the fire was a sturdy infant, standing like a man, warming his dimpled hands, regarding her shrewdly. "It is Love!" she cried, "O cruel Love! Why do you come to mock me?" But the Child laughed at her. "You don't see any of those foolish wings, do you? Or any game of archery? I am not that Baby, I am the New Year." "And why do you come here?" she asked. "Why not? As much as anywhere? I come to everyone; I have to." "But what have I to do with you?" she asked bitterly. "As much as anybody," he replied cheerfully. "You have to begin again like the rest of us, turn over a new leaf." She groaned and turned away her face. "There is no new leaf for me," she murmured, "the Book is closed for ever." "You poor, ignorant woman," said the Child, "Do you really believe that?" "I know it!" she answered, "Alas; Too well! Too well!" "All foolishness," said the Child, "The book you've read is only a Primer. That's not the Book." "What?" She sat up and stared at him. He smiled back at her serenely. "My Book only a Primer, my beautiful Book?" "Maybe it wasn't even that," he answered. "Maybe it was only a Dream-Book! Any way you've got to begin over again." "Begin," said she, in sad scorn, "Begin what?" "Begin Life," said the New Year. "I have lived my Life;" she answered in a miserable voice, "for good or ill. I have known Love and Love has gone, for ever!" "I daresay, he's a poor dependence, that Flutterbudget;" said the Child. "By the way, you shouldn't call him Love, really—he's not Love." "Not Love? Who is he then?" "Oh, he's only a Preiminary, pleasant enough, but temporary. Love's quite a different thing. But even at that, even if you're done with him, Life remains. The woman laughed shrilly. She touched her thin gray hair, she stretched out her stiff fingers. She turned her withered face to him. "Life," she cried, "for Me!" "Yes," for you, "replied the New Year. "My dear Lady, I am going to perform a surgical operation on your soul." He rose before her, in height and power and majesty. She cowered away from him, but he took her in his hands. There was a wrenching and a spreading and a tearing apart. He broke across his knee the stiff case of Custom and Convention in which she had lived; he tore loose her mental processes from their long anchorage among Stagnant Traditions; he ripped up and cast away the bonds of Age-old Habit; he thrust firm fingers among her heart-strings and unwound the knots and tangles; he dislodged and threw away the cumbersome masses of Inherited Ideas which had clogged her mind, and brushed it clean again. 20 The Forerunner She suffered as one being born. When he had done with her and she stood there, facing him, her body and its limitations had become of as small importance to her as to the world in general, and she saw—Life. She stood in a blazing Universe of Stars, Living Worlds that whirled and sang through breathless gulfs of space. She saw them born. She saw then die. She saw them calmly going on by millions and millions, for Time Unending. She saw this Earth of ours cool, crust, grown green, blossom and throb with life. Serene, colossal creatures, and monads as serene, appeared and disappeared upon it. Wave on wave of changing vegetation swept over its face. Continents rose and fell. Climates were made and unmade. The great living thing worked out its mighty processes before her. Man came, hairy, ferocious, stupid; and with a yearning pity, she watched his baby steps of progress, his horrible mistakes, his unnecessary sufferings. "Oh they suffer so," she cried, "let me help them, let me show them." But he held her fast, and the great game swept on. The ages shortened, Races that she recognized came on the scene. History began to move before her, galloping faster and faster beneath her eyes, over all the earth at once. She saw the world's real life, the thinking and doing, inventing and discovering; the ploughing peasant, the building artisan, the weaving woman, those who feed and house and clothe the world. And she saw them suffer, suffer under the Red Terror of War, the Black Scourge of Disease, the Gray Pall of Poverty; suffer from ignorance and injustice, and the pride and selfishness of their oppressors, oppressors themselves ignorant and helpless. The huge spectacle drew ever more swiftly to the time she knew, and spread and widened there as if the whole world were lit by a blazing sun, and she could see it all: The myriads of people, all over the earth: The growth, the change, the splendid pushing power, now bursting through in every land: The wakening of the people, the stir, the light, the hope among them. She stood on an earth, of which each land lay before her as a picture in beauty beyond measure, wherein each nation showed her its heart, deep strong, warm and aching. She saw her own land, from coast to coast, and felt the demand of ninety million hearts, old and young, black and white. She caught vast, breathless glimpses of the Arts, each an unfolding world of Beauty; of the Sciences, each with its following of glad Truth Seekers; of the Crafts and Trades, by which the whole world lives; of that wide intricate network of Labor and Patience and Courage and Skill which holds our lives together. She saw the dangers, old and new, and the knowledge by which to avoid them. She saw, like an Army of Angels, the New Hopes of the World, coming swiftly. She saw the real things, the things that count, the big blessed growing good, the trailing cloud of evil, not fully seen, not yet outgrown; and now, even now, to-day, in every city of her land, she saw the people still suffering for lack of knowledge. "Oh stupid! stupid!" she cried. "Oh you poor darlings! Don't you see, this is what ails you! Let me show you! Wait! I am coming!" She struggled loose, with a cry, and stood upon her feet, her arms outstretched. A heavy metal tongue boomed twelve in the clear winter's night, and a thousand deep-throated whistles, thin horns and every chiming bell in town burst into high rejoicing. It was the New Year. The Forerunner 21 MOVING THE MOUNTAIN Chapter I. ON A gray, cold, soggy Tibetan plateau stood, staring at one another, two white people—a man and a woman. With the first, a group of peasants; with the second, the guides and carriers of a well equipped exploring party. The man wore the dress of a peasant, but around him was a leather belt— old, worn, battered—but a recognizable belt of no Asiatic pattern, and showing a heavy buckle made in twisted initials. The woman's eye had caught the sunlight on this buckle before she saw that the heavily-bearded face under the hood was white. She pressed forward to look at it. "Where did you get that belt?" she cried, turning for the interpreter to urge her question. The man had caught her voice—her words. He threw back his hood and looked at her, with a strange blank look, as of one listening to something far away. "John!" she cried. "John! My Brother!" He lifted a groping hand to his head, made a confused noise that ended in almost a shout of, "Nellie," reeled and fell backward. ——— When one loses his mind, as it were, for thirty years, and finds it again; when one wakes up; comes to life; recognizes oneself an American citizen twenty-five years old— No. This is what I find it so hard to realize. I am not twenty-five. I am fifty-five. ——— Well, as I was saying, when one comes to life again like this, and has to renew acquaintances with one's own mind, in a sudden swarming rush of hurrying memories—that is a good deal of pressure for a brain so long unused. But when on top of that, one is pushed headlong into a world immeasurably different from the world one has left at twenty-five—a topsy-turvy world, wherein all one's most cherished ideals are found to be reversed, rearranged, or utterly gone; where strange new facts are accompanied by strange new thoughts and stranger new feelings—the pressure becomes terrific. Nellie has suggested that I write it down, and I think for once she is right. I disagree with her on so many points that I am glad to recognize the wisdom of this idea. It will certainly be a useful process in my re-education; and relieve the mental tension. So, to begin with my first life; being now in my third— ——— I am the only son of a Methodist minister of South Carolina. My mother was a Yankee. She died after my sister Ellen was born, when I was seven years old. My father educated me well. I was sent to a small Southern vollege, and showed such a talent for philology that I specialized in ancient languages, and, after some teaching and the taking of various degrees, I had a wonderful opportunity to join an expedition into India and Tibet. I was eager for a sight of those venerable races, those hoary scriptures, those timehonored customs. ——— We were traveling through the Himalayas—and the last thing I remember was a night camp, and a six-months-old newspaper from home. We had rejoicingly obtained it from a party we met in the pass. It was read and re-read by all of us—even the advertisements—even the editorials, and in one of these I learned that Mrs. Eddy had been dead some time, and that another religion had burst forth and was sweeping the country, madly taken up by the women. That was my last news item. I suppose it was this reading—and the discussions we had—that made me walk in my sleep that night. That is the only explanation I can give. I know I lay down just as I was—and about money," I said to her when she told me about our increased fortune. 22 The Forerunner that's all I know, until Nellie found me. ——— The party reported me lost. They searched for days, made what inquiry they could. No faintest clue was ever found. Himalayan precipices are very tall, and very sudden. ——— My sister Nellie was traveling in Tibet and found me, with a party of peasants. She gathered what she could from them, through interpreters. It seems that I fell among those people—literally; bruised, stunned, broken, but not dead. Some merciful —or shall I say unmerciful?—trees had softened the fall and let me down easy—comparatively speaking. They were good people—Buddhists. They mended my bones, and cared for me, and it appears made me quite a chief man, in course of time, in their tiny village. But their little valley was so remote and unknown, so out of touch with any and everything, that no tale of this dumb white man ever reached Western ears. I was dumb until I learned their language, was "as a child of a day," they said—knew absolutely nothing. They taught me what they knew, I suppose I turned a prayer mill: I suppose I was married—Nellie didn't ask that, and they never mentioned such a detail. Furthermore, they gave so dim an account of where the place was that we don't know now; should have to locate that night's encampment, and then look for a precipice and go down it, with ropes. As I have no longer any interest in those venerable races and time-honored customs, I think we will not do this. Well, she found me, and something happened. She says I knew her— shouted "Nellie," and fell down—fell on a stone too, and hit my head so hard they thought I was dead this time "for sure." But when I "came to," I came all the way, back to where I was thirty years ago; and as for those thirty years—I do not remember one day of them. Nor do I wish to. I have those filthy Tibetan clothes, sterilized and packed away, but I never want to look at them. I am back in the real world, back where I was at twenty-five. But now I an fifty-five—— ——— Now about Nellie. I must go slowly and get this thing straightened out for good and all. My little sister! I was always fond of her, and she adored me. She looked up to me, naturally; believed everything I told her; minded me like a litte dog—when she was a child. And as she grew into girlhood, I had a strong restraining influence upon her. She wanted to be educated—to go to college—but Father wouldn't hear of it, of course; and I backed him up. If there is anything on earth I always hated and despised, it is a strong-minded woman! That is—it was. I certainly cannot hate and despise my sister Nellie. Now it appears that soon after my departure from this life, Father died, very suddenly. Nellie inherited the farm—and the farm turned out to be a mine, and the mine turned out to be worth a good deal of money. So that poor child, having no natural guardian or protector, just set to work for herself—went to college to her heart's content, to a foreign university too. She studied medicine, practiced a while, then was offered a chair in a college and took it; then—I hate to write it—but she is now president of a college—a co-educational college! "Don't you mean, 'dean?'" I asked her. "No." she said. "There is a dean of the girl's buildings—but I am the president." My little sister! ——— The worst of it is that my little sister is now forty-eight, and I—to all intents and purposes—am twenty-five! She is twenty-three years older than I am. She has had thirty years of world-life which I have missed entirely; and this thirty years, I begin to gather, has covered more changes than an ordinary century or two. It is lucky about that mine. "At least I shall not have to worry The Forerunner 23 She gave one of those queer little smiles, as if she had something up her sleeve, and said. "No. You won't have to worry in the least about money." ——— Having all that medical skill of hers in the background, she took excellent care of me up there on those dreary plains and hills, brought me back to the coast by easy stages, and home on one of those new steamers—but I mustn't stop to describe all the details of each new thing I notice! I have sense enough myself—even if I'm not a doctor—to use my mind gradually, not to swallow too fast as it were. Nellie is a little inclined to manage me. I don't know as I blame her. I do feel like a child, sometimes. It is so humiliating not to know little common things such as everybody else knows. Air ships I had expected, of course. They had started before I left. They are common enough, all sizes; but water is still the cheaper route— as well as slower. Nellie said she didn't want me to get home too quick; she wanted time to explain things. So we spend long quiet hours in our steamer chairs, talking things over. It's no use asking about the family; there's only a flock of young cousins and "once removeds" now; the aunts and uncles are mostly gone. Uncle Jake is left. Nellie grins wickedly when she mentions him. "If things get too hard on you, John, you can go down to Uncle Jake's and rest up. He and Aunt Dorcas havn't moved an inch. They fairly barricade their minds against a new idea—and he ploughs and she cooks up on that little mountain farm just as they always did. People go to see them—" "Why shouldn't they?" I asked— and she smiled that queer little smile again. "I mean they go to see them as if they were the Pyramids." "I see," said I. "I might as well prepare for some preposterous nightmare of a world, like—what was that book of Wells', "The Sleeper Awakened?" "Oh yes. I remember that book," she answered, "and a lot of others. People were already guessing about things as they might be, weren't they? But what never struck any of them was that the people themselves could change." "No," I agreed. "You can't alter human nature." Nellie laughed—laughed out loud. Then she squeezed my hand and patted it. "You Dear!" she said. "You precious old Long Lost Brother! When you get too utterly upset and lonesome I'll wear my hair down, put on a short dress and let you boss me awhile—to keep your spirits up. That was just the phrase, wasn't it? 'You can't alter human nature!' and she laughed again." There is something queer about Nellie, very queer. It is not only that she is different from my little sister— that's natural; but she is different from any woman of forty eight I ever saw— from any woman of any age I ever saw. In the first place she doesn't look old—not at all. Women of forty, in our region, were old women, and Nellie's near fifty! Then she isn't—what shall I call it—dependent—not the least in the world. As soon as I became really conscious, and strong enough to be of any use, and began to offer her those little services and attentions due to a woman, I noticed this difference. She is brisk, firm, assured—not unpleasantly so; I don't mean a thing of that sort, but somehow like—almost like a man! No, I certainly don't mean that. She is not in the least mannish, nor in the least self-assertive; but she takes things so easily—as if she owned them. ——— I suppose it will be some time before my head is absolutely clear and strong as it used to be. I tire rather easily. Nellie is very reassuring about it. She says it will take about a year to re-establish connections and renew mental processes. She advises me to read and talk only a little every day, to sleep all I can, and not to worry. "You'll be all right soon, my dear," she says, "and plenty of life before you. You seem to have led a very healthy outdoor 24 The Forerunner life. You're really well and strong —and as good looking as ever." At least she hasn't forgotten that woman's chief duty is to please. "And the world is a much better place to live in than it was," she assures me. "Things will surprise you of course— things I have gotten used to and shall forget to tell you about. But the changes are all good ones, and you'll soon get—acclimated. You're young yet." ——— That's where Nellie slips up. She cannot help having me in mind as the brave young brother she knew. She forgets that I am an old man now. Finally I told her that. "Now John Robertson," said she, "that's where you are utterly wrong. Of course you don't know what we're doing about age—how differently we feel. As a matter of physiology we find that about one hundred and fifty ought to be our natural limit; and that with proper conditions we can easily get to be a hundred now. Ever so many do." "I don't want to be a hundred," protested. "I saw a man of ninety-eight once—and never want to be one." "It's not like that now," she said. "I mean we live to be a hundred and enjoy life still—'keep our faculties' as they used to put it. Why the ship's doctor here is eighty-seven." This surprised me a good deal. I had talked a little with this man, and had thought him about sixty. "Then a man of a hundred—according to your story—would look like— like——" "Like Grandpa Ely," she offered. I remembered my mother's father—a tall, straight, hale old man of seventy-five. He had a clear eye, a firm step, a rosy color in his face. Well, that wasn't so bad a prospect. "I consent to be a hundred—on those terms," I told her. ——— She talked to me a good bit, in small daily doses, of the more general changes in the world, showed me new maps, even let me read a little in the current magazines. "I suppose you have a million of these now," I said. "There were thousands when I left!" "No," she answered. "There are fewer, I believe, but much better." I turned over the one in my hand. It was pleasantly light and thin, it opened easily, the paper and presswork were of the best, the price was twenty-five cents. "Is this a cheap one—at a higher price? Or have the best ones come down?" "It's a cheap one," she told me, "if you mean by that a popular one, and it's cheap enough. They have all of a million subscribers." "And what's the difference, beyond the paper and the print?" I asked. "The pictures are good." I looked it through again. "Yes, very good, much improved. But I don't see anything phenomenal— unless it is the absence of advertisements." Nellie took it out of my hand and ran it over. "Just read some of that," she said. "Read this story—and this article—and that." So I sat reading in the sunny silence, the gulls wheeling and dipping just as they used to, and the wide purple ocean just as changeable—and changless—as ever. One of the articles was on an extention of municipal service, and involved so much comment on preceding steps that I found it most enlightening. The other was a recent suggestion in educational psychology, and this too carried a retrospect of recent progress which gave me food for thought. The story was a clever one. I found it really amusing, and only on a second reading did I find what it was that gave the queer flavor to it. It was a story about women, two women who were in business partnership, with their adventures singly and together. I looked through it carefully. They were not even girls, they were not handsome, they were not in the process of being married—in fact, it was not once mentioned whether they were married or not, ever had been or ever wanted to be. Yet I had found it amusing! I laid the magazine on my rug-bound knees and meditated. A queer sick feeling came over me—mental, not physical. I looked through the magazine The Forerunner 25 again. It wasn't what I should have called "a woman's magazine," yet the editor was a woman, most of the contributors were women, and in all the subject matter I began to detect allusions and references of tremendous import. Presently Nellie came to see how I was getting on. I saw her approaching, a firm brisk figure, well and becomingly dressed, with a tailored trimness and convenience, far indeed from the slim, graceful, yielding girl I had once been so proud to protect and teach. "How soon do we get in, Lady Manager?" I asked her. "Day after to-morrow," she answered back promptly—not a word about going to see, or asking anyone! "Well, ma'am, I want you to sit down here and tell me things—right now. What am I to expect? Are there no men left in America?" She laughed gaily. "No men! Why bless you, there are as many men as there are women, and a few more, I believe. Not such an over plus as there used to be, but some to spare still. We had a million and a-half extra in your day, you know." "I'm glad to learn we're allowed to live!" said I. "Now tell me the worst— are the men all doing the housework?" "You call that 'the worst,' do you?" inquired Nellie, cocking her head on one side and looking at me affectionately and yet quizzically. "Well, I guess it was—pretty near 'the worst!' No, dear, men are doing just as many kinds of business as they ever were." I heaved a sigh of relief and chucked my magazine under the chair. "I'd begun to think there weren't any men left. And they still wear trousers, don't they?" She laughed outright. "Oh yes. They wear just as many trousers as they did before, too." "And what do the women wear," I demanded suspiciously. "Whatever kind of clothing their work demands," she answered. "Their work? What kind of work do they do now?" "All kinds, anything they like." I groaned and shut my eyes. I could see the world as I left it, with only a small proportion of malcontents, and a large majority of contented and happy homes; and then I saw this awful place I was coming to, with strange, masculine women and subdued men. "How does it happen that there aren't any on this ship?" I inquired. "Any what?" asked Nellie. "Any of these—New Women?" "Why, there are. They're all new, except Mrs. Talbot. She's older than I am, and rather reactionary." This Mrs. Talbot was stiff, pious, narrow-minded old lady, and I had liked her the least of any on board. "Do you mean to tell me that pretty Mrs. Exeter is—one of this new kind?" "Mrs. Exeter owns—and manages— a large store, if that is what you mean." "And those pretty Borden girls?" "They do house-decorating—have been abroad on business." "And Mrs. Green—and Miss Sandwich?" "One of them is a hat-designer, one a teacher. This is towards the end of vacation, and they're all coming home, you see." "And Miss Elwell?" Miss Elwell was quite the prettiest woman on board, and seemed to have plenty of attention—just like the girls I remembered. "Miss Elwell is a civil engineer," said my sister. "It's horrid," I said. "It's perfectly horrid! And aren't there any women left?" "There's Aunt Dorcas," said Nellie mischievously, "and Cousin Drusilla. You remember Drusilla?" (To be continued.) ————— WILD RIVERS Brown ragged rivers, straying wide Through western ranges, fenceless, free; Pushing their guardian banks aside, In boisterous sport, in stubborn pride; Wasting and washing to the sea, In one wild weltering freshet's glee, Soil for a principality. 26 The Forerunner COMMENT AND REVIEW DR. SARGENT'S MISTAKE For many years I have known and admired Dr. Dudley Allen Sargent, the wise and successful promoter of physical education in this country. Therefore I grieve to see him falling into the common error of confounding human with masculine characteristics. He ignores, or forgets, as we all so generally do, that there is such a thing as the Human Type, just as there is a deer type, or a fish type, or a bird type. We, in our partially developed consciousness, have been so overwhelmingly taken up with our man-ness and our woman-ness that we have completely ignored our Human-ness. Dr. Sargent is quoted as saying (and apology is herein offered for using no better authority than a newspaper account), "Women in the savage state were so like men in form that it was well nigh impossible to tell them apart." Behold the error: what should be said is that they were "so human in form." They were not like men. They could be told apart precisely by their difference from men. But they were both less differentiated in minor associative sex characteristics. He says that woman's physique is approximating that of a man; that her shoulders are becoming "well-knit, athletic and broad;" that "her back, likewise, is better developed." Shoulders and back are not sex distinctions. There is a normal human proportion in back and shoulder. Men may have an excellent development, beyond the norm; but unless women pass that norm and really develop the excessive breadth and heaviness of the man, she is only becoming normal—not masculine. Dr. Sargent goes on with specifications as to the neck, hands, feet, etc., etc., saying still that "the women of to-day are getting to be more like men." He even says (we repeat the apology as to source of quotation), "For it is a rule that one may take few exceptions to, that if a man devotes himself to the activities of a woman, or if a woman devotes herself to the activities of a man, there is bound to be loss of sex." This is a truly pitiful distrust of one of the most deep-seated distinctions in nature. Of course, if woman should by any possibility undertake the really masculine functions—those of fatherhood— or if men should manifest the capacity for the really feminine functions—those of motherhood—there would be grave reason for amazement. But the physical proportions and general activities of which Dr. Sargent speaks are not those of sex; they are merely human functions and activities, and as such as fit and proper to women as to men. In Turkey they might hold that if a woman goes unveiled she is becoming like a man; in China, that for a woman to have normal feet would make her like a man. Neither of these opinions would be correct —nor are these quoted of Dr. Sargent. ————— "Social Diseases and Marriage." We are just beginning to awaken to the peculiar facts of "race psychology, to the persistence of certain mental habits and attitudes in the race-mind for centuries and tens of centuries through varying conditions of every kind, including the widest class and national differentiation. Among these none is older and more deeply rooted, more widely and commonly manifested, than that morbid group of arrested and perverted thought centers in relation to "the sex taboos." When men first began to think, they thought about what interested them most, inevitably; and in the dawn of religion, with its inchoate philosophy and redundant symbolism, the two main subjects of attention were food habits and sex habits. What we should and should not eat, with whom we should and should not mate, with all manner of ceremonial and penalty—these form the universal subject matter of the primitive religions. In the course of history we have struggled free of most of the food taboos— the Jewish and Buddhistic still perhaps most hampered among existent faiths; but many of the sex taboos are in full force among us to this day. Ask any The Forerunner 27 intelligent person why we are so ignorant on these matters; and his, or her, efforts to explain are frankly amusing. Why should a mother lie to her own child about motherhood? Most of them do. What is it that holds us tongue-tied before a child's frank questions? It is this long-range influence of the cruelly enforced taboos of the remote past; it is a matter of race psychology. Under this pressure, as well as the more blameworthy influence of a vicious self-interest, we have allowed to grow up and persist among us a condition of affairs as absurd as it is horrible. We conceal, we ignore, practical facts, physiological and pathological, of the most deadly importance. We have allowed to develop and spread wide in the world, the most terrible of contagious diseases, and have carefully suppressed all knowledge of it! Fancy treating an epidemic of cholera in this way? Considering it improper to mention, to know the name of, treating the complaints of the cholera patient as a "sacred confidence," and falsifying the reports of death from cholera that the public be prevented from knowing their numbers. Suppose also cholera to be hereditary! This has been, up to the present time, the attitude of the world towards the most universal and most dangerous of diseases; most dangerous, not in a swift mortality, but in the unspeakably terrible consequences of the contagion. At last the intelligence of to-day is waking to its duty in this matter. Modern bacteriology has shown the danger of the most common of the venereal infections, hitherto ignored by its innumerable victims; and the peculiar horror by which clean, healthy brides, and the innocent child unborn, are often poisoned by the husband and the father, has at last forced its way into our consciousness. On this special point a great book has been written by a great man, "Social Diseases and Marriage," by Dr. Prince A. Morrow, of New York. This is not a treatise on morality; the subject is discussed from a wholly pathological standpoint. Dr. Morrow speaks with calm, far-seeing wisdom, with moderation, with the most quiet, generous allowance for all the facts in the case. In this book, full, thorough information may be obtained, wide reference to the best authority, fact upon fact—yet no unbridled feeling. Its calm, practical spirit; the sense of ample knowledge and experience it conveys; the impartial, gentle, yet immovable judgment shown, patient with offenders, allowing for ignorance, not demanding hasty or extreme remedies, commend it to any thoughtful reader. To any wishing full and authoritative information on the subject this volume is of extreme value. As a book it is most attractive—good paper, good type, good binding, with a glossary and index. "Social Diseases and Marriage," by Prince A. Morrow, A.M., M.D. Lea Bros. & Co., New York and Philadelphia, 1910; price, $3.00. ————— A clear, brief reliable work is this study of the educational situation of women. It reviews their "Activities, Past and Present": The Industrial and Social Change, The Civic Change, The Philanthropic Change, The Domestic Change, The Social Change; it surveys "The Educational Machinery": School Attendance, The Public Schools of Boston, The Public Schools of Chicago, A Woman's College, A State University, Educational Progress; and then gives a short, thorough and suggestive analysis of "The Collegiate Education of Women": The Elective System, The College Curriculum, Social Activities, Hygienic Education, The Domestic Environment, Educational Needs of College Women. Dean Talbot is well equipped for such a work as this. She has a natural love for her subject, broad knowledge, and years of intimate and practical experience. On a solid basis of specific information, wide in range and well digested, she sets forth the present trend and future hope of our educational system, especially as applied to women. The need for a complete and radical reorganization of our public school system as recommended by the National 28 The Forerunner Education Association is clearly explained; and it is made evident that our college curriculum is also open to improvement. The chapters on "Social Activities," and "Hygienic Education" are of most vital and timely interest. "The Education of Women," by Marion Talbot, Dean of Women and Professor in the University of Chicago. The University of Chicago Press, 1910. ————— So much is being said today on the subject of instructing children in sex physiology, and so many persons are interested in the subject and eager for assistance, that there is room for a wide range of teaching and suggestion. "Confidences," by Dr. Edith B. Lowry, is a well-constructed, extremely delicate and gentle little book, quite safely suited to girls from ten to fourteen. "Confidences. Talks with a Young Girl Concerning Herself," by Edith B. Lowry. M. D. Forbes & Co., Chicago, 1910; price, 50 cents. ————— The Maverick Press has sent out another little verse-book. It is called "An Old Man's Garden," but reminds one very much of "A Child's Garden of Verse." Here is one, however, from a distinctly "grown-up" feeling. There's a queer little spot in the midst of my breast, And that is the spot where thou art not. And someway it never will let me rest, It ties in a knot, where thou art not. It ties in a knot where there's nothing to tie. And that is what hurts so and makes it so dry. It used to be there where thy soft head would lie, But now 'tis a knot where thou are not. Now this tight little knot keeps on tying more tight, This bad little spot where thou art not, Until thy poor father cannot sleep at night, He has such a knot where thou art not, If once he has got back his baby again, I think he will never know any more pain, And so he is coming through sunshine and rain, To untie the knot where thou art not. "In an Old Man's Garden," by Hervey White. The Maverick Press, Woodstock, N. Y., 1910. ————— We mean to carry lists of books useful to our readers. We wish to prove that it will pay publishers to advertise with us. If you order any book reviewed here, please send your order to The Forerunner. "Pure Sociology," by Leter F. Ward. MacMillan, Pub.; $4.00. "Hygiene and Morality," by Lavinia L. Dock, R.N. G. P. Putnams's Sons, Pub.; $1.25. "Marriage as a Trade," by Cicely Hamilton. Moffat, Yard & Co., Pub.; $1.25. "The Century of the Child," by Ellen Key, G. P. Putnam's Sons, Pub., $1.50. "Social Diseases and Marriage," by Prince A. Morrow, A.M., M.D., Lea Bros. & Co., Pub., New York and Philadelphia; $3.00. "The Education of Women," by Marion Talbot. The University of Chicago Press, Pub. ————— FOR 1911 THE Forerunner enters upon its second year with a thankful heart. So earnest and warm has been the appreciation given us, that no better assurance could be asked of the existence of the special place this little magazine is meant to fill. There are people, many people, who find it interesting; some who find it distinctly serviceable and worth while. In a world cluttered with waste paper, noisy with printed out-cry, surfeited with entertainment good bad and tediously indifferent, stiumlated with much exhortation and over-fed with facts and information, a real need must be shown to justify the appearance of another magazine. The need The Forerunner seeks to to meet is not of a general and popular sort, but is no less real for all that; being the demand of a rather special group of people for clear expression of their rather special views. The main ground of appeal of this magazine, is the Near Sure Perfectly Possible Improvement of Life; offering to that end its quota of thought and The Forerunner 29 feeling, its presentation in fact, fiction, fable, fancy, verse and prose. Its views upon the Woman Question is that which sees women as human beings, not merely struggling for freedom, privilege and power, but as heavily behind hand in their duty to the world; holding in their gift a mighty fund of Love and Service which we can no longer do without. It sees in Socialism the natural evolution of our economic system; long since begun, now already introduced in many lines in varying degree, sure of ultimate adoption, and calling for the intelligent study and recognition of every conscientious citizen. For one year and two months, this small voice has spoken, to an audience that grows in a gradual but reassuring manner. We cannot make a definite statement as yet, many of our subscribers having not sent in either renewal or discontinuance, but by the time this reaches our readers they will all have received cards asking them to notify us of their intentions for the coming year. Many have already renewed, many have added one or more new subscriptions, many have been most generous in ordering our new books and the bound volume. ——— Here this inexperienced editor and publisher wishes to extend to many kind friends a most heartfelt apology for annoying delays. Even in large professional publishing houses, as this author sadly knows, there is often annoying delay; and in this small new one, in its first year's efforts, it is hardly to be wondered at that there has been some cause for complaint. If any still rage, let it be remarked that these delinquencies have cost us more than anyone else. ——— The Office is now making its New Years Resolutions: We mean to get out or new books in October next time! And our bound volume ready to mail the first week in December! ——— The "Personal Problems" department did not arouse enough interest to justify its continuance, therefore it stops. If any more problems come in they can be commented on or reviewed. Our little book list is proving useful. People order of us, as we hoped they would. The special standing list is not to cover all that we review, nor even all the good ones, but those thought most in line with the inerests of our readers. We have not room or time for large general reviewing, but we wish to make that list useful to those who ask, "What ought I to read on these questions?" Our special offer to agents closes with 1910. ——— There remains the standing rate, to agents, of 25 per cent. commission on new paid subscriptions. Here is a fine New Year's card sent to the Editor, and hereby offered to all friends: "May you live as long as you wish, and have all you wish as long as you live!" ————— FROM LETTERS OF SUBSCRIBERS "That little sermon in your last issue, on the Ten Commandments, was great. The world has been waiting a hundred years or more for it." "So heartily have we enjoyed, so sympathized with contents of the May Forerunner that we must send it to one or more friends." * * * "I'm filled with admiration, love, and pleasure when I consider you write all the articles in the magazine. I hope you have a chest full of poems, stories, comments on men and women, ready to publish." "I am expecting much enjoyment from your magazine, but have not had time to do much more than turn over some of the leaves yet. But I have read 'The Three Thanksgivings' and liked it very much, and chuckled greatly over 'How Doth the Hat.' Also I've 30 The Forerunner read 'According to Solomon. Delightful. You're a wonderful woman." "A friend of mine recently sent me The Forerunner with all back numbers. I think I can say I have never before felt so much pure satisfaction in so short a time as the reading of this magazine has afforded. Where nearly all others miss, you hit the nail squarely on the head—and to see this particularly stubborn and elusive nail hit is extremely gratifying." * * * "I know a few enlightened people who with intelligence, and by dint of great perseverance, have managed to settle here and there a problem —but none so comprehensively as you." "Enclosed please find one dollar in payment of the year's subscription. It (the magazine) goes the rounds of the family. Everybody wants to read it." "Enclosed is subscription for one year for The Forerunner. Both my husband and myself are extremely pleased with your paper. The articles on 'Our Androcentric Culture' are particularly interesting. We both wish The Forerunner a long and successful career. I should like to thank you for the great part your writings are taking in the awakening of our sex." "I must tell you what a joy to my soul is your brilliant little magazine. I glory in your pluck and independence, and do myself the honor to quote from you on occasion." * * * "I picked up your April number, for your address, and have just re-read your Chapter VI —Games and Sports. It is the most keenly discriminating, the most reasonable and convincing word on the subject. I wish everybody capable of comprehending, was instructed to read it." "Congratulations upon your suggestive little magazine! I enjoy reading it and passing it on to my friends." "Your brilliant, keen, simple writings have been of the greatest pleasure and profit. How on earth you do it is a constant and increasing wonder to me." * * * "Now comes The Forerunner and I am left dumb—we want to know you—to ask questions and get answers. May we?" "I am just in receipt of the splendid magazine edited by yourself, The Forerunner. You express my sentiments and I shall be glad to give it a welcome each month, so please find enclosed one dollar for a year's subscription. I should like to begin with the first number." "Your name 'Forerunner' is a fitting one. The magazine is full of stimulation and food for thought and of prophesy for a better order of things." "The Forerunner is a great joy! I would like to see a new one each week." "I have read my three Forerunners— and I am so glad it is published and that I can get it!" * * * "With many thanks to you for voicing in such terseness many, many 'feelings' of mine that could not find themselves unaided." "I have read all your works, all the articles I have had access to, and now congratulate you most heartily on your paper. I enclose one dollar for the year's subscription to The Forerunner. Will you kindly start with the first issue of the paper?" "I agree with you from the bottom of my sole in your remarks concerning shoes on page 24 of the May number of The Forerunner." "I take pleasure in enclosing one dollar for one subscription to The Forerunner. I have been very much interested in reading the back numbers of this magazine, which I secured from a friend." The Forerunner 31 What Diantha Did A NOVEL BY CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN We have had military novels, and marine novels; novels of adventure, of mystery and crime; religious novels, historic novels; novels of business life, trades unions and the labor question; novels of "local color," dialect novels; and romances pure and simple—also impure and complicated. ∴ This novel deals with the most practical problem of women's lives to-day—and settles it— NOT by cooperation ∴ ∴ ∴ ∴ ∴ ∴ ∴ ∴ ∴ Mailed post-paid by Handsomely bound, $1.00 THE CHARLTON COMPANY 67 WALL STREET, NEW YORK CITY 32 The Forerunner The Man-made World Or, Our Androcentric Culture BY CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN Many books have been written about women, as such--women as females .. This is a book about men, as such--men as males .. Women have been considered as a sex, and their character and action so discussed .. This book considers men as a sex, and their character and actions as so discussed .. Too much of women's influence is dreaded as "Feminization --as likely to render our culture "effeminate." Too much of men's influence is here studied as "Masculization" and as having rendered our culture--there is no analogue for "effeminate." .. We have heard much of the "eternal womanly:" this book treats much of the eternal manly .. "Cherchez la femme!" is the old hue and cry: this book raises a new one: "Cherchez l'homme!" Mailed post-paid by Handsomely bound, $1.00 THE CHARLTON COMPANY 67 WALL STREET, NEW YORK CITY The Forerunner Books by Charlotte Perkins Gilman Sent postpaid by THE CHARLTON COMPANY 67 WALL STREET, NEW YORK "Women and Economics" $1.50 Since John Stuart Mill's essay there has been no book dealing with the whole position of women to approach it in originality of conception and brilliancy of exposition. - London Chronicle. A remarkable book. A work on economics that has not a dull page - the work of a woman about women that has not a flippant word. - Boston Transcript. Will be widely read and discussed as the cleverest, fairest, most forcible presentation of the view of the rapidly increasing group who look with favor on the extension of industrial employment to women. - Political Science Quarterly. "Concerning Children" $1.25 WANTED: A philantropist, to give a copy to every English-speaking parent. - The Times, New York. Should be read by every mother in the land. - The Press, New York. Wholesomely disturbing book that deserved to be read for its own sake. - Chicago Dial. "In This Our World" (Poems) $1.25 There us a joyous superabundance of life, of strength, of health, in Mrs. Gilman's verse, which seems born of the glorious sunshine and rich gardens of California. - Washington Times. The poet of women and for women, a new and prophetic voice in the world. Montaigne would have rejoiced in her. - Mexican Herald. "The Yellow Wall Paper" $0.50 Worthy of a place beside some of the weird masterpieces of Hawthorne and Poe. -Literature. As a short story it stands among the most powerful produced in America. - Chicago News. "The Home" $1.00 Indeed, Mrs. Gilman has not intended her book so much as a treatise for scholars as a surgical operation on the popular mind. - The Critic, New York. It is safe to say that no more stimulating arraignment has ever been taken shape and the argument of the book is noble, and, on the whole, convincing. - Congregationalist, Boston. "Human Work" $1.00 Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman has been writing a new book, entitled "Human Work." It is the best thing that Mrs. Gilman has done, and it is meant to focus all of her previous work, so to speak. - Tribune, Chicago. In her latest volume, "Human Work," Charlotte Perkins Gilman places herself among the foremost students and elucidators of the problem of social economics. - San Francisco Star. It is impossible to overestimate the value of the insistence on the social aspect of human affairs as Mrs. Gilman has outlined it. -Public Opinion. "What Diantha Did" (A Novel) $1.00 IN PREPARATION: "The Man Made World": or, "Our Androcentric Culture" . $1.00 Orders taken for Bound Vols. THE FORERUNNER, $1.25 The Forerunner To Each Subscriber: We have given you fourteen numbers of the first year's subscription: We have sent you a post card announcing expiry of subscription; and modestly expressing a wish for your renewal: If you are intending to renew will you please inform us: If you are intending to discontinue will you please inform us: Otherwise you are still considered a subscriber: The Magazine will be sent to you- And the Bill. Babel's Masterpiece WOMAN AND SOCIALISM Thoroughly revised and enlarged this year 510 pages Elegantly bound $1.50 postage paid The most comprehensive treatment of the Woman Question from a religious, political, economic and pathological standpoint Order of THE FORERUNNER, 67 Wall St., New York City Volume 2. No. 5. MAY 1911 THE FORERUNNER BY Charlotte Perkins Gilman. CONTENTS Three Women. A Socialist Prayer. A Word from the Great Auk. This "Superiority." The Artist. The Crux. Chapter V. Lovely Pie. The "Article of Fact." Moving the Mountain. Chapter V. Comment and Review. 1.00 A YEAR 67 WALL ST. NEW YORK .10 A COPY THE FORERUNNER A Monthly Magazine WRITTEN, EDITED, OWNED AND PUBLISHED by Charlotte Perkins Gilman "THE CRUX" Mrs. Gilman's new novel appears in THE FORERUNNER, of 1911 This touches upon one of the most vivid and vital of our marriage problems; and has more than one kind of love story in it. Also, published serially, in her next book, "MOVING THE MOUNTAIN" Those who believe this world is a good place, easily made better, and who wish to know how to help it, will enjoy reading this book. Those who do not so believe and wish may not enjoy it so much, but it will do them good. The Forerunner carries Mrs. Gilman's best and newest work; her social philosophy, her verse, satire, fiction, ethical teaching, humor, and comment It stand for Humanness in Women, and in Men; for better methods in Child-culture; for the Home that is no Workshop; for the New Ethics, the New Economics, the New World we are to make- are making. THE FORERUNNER for 1910, bound, $1.25 THE FORERUNNER CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN'S MAGAZINE CHARLTON CO.. 67 WALL ST.. NEW YORK [?]... $1.00 a year Canadian ... 1.12 a year Foreign ... 1.25 a year .10 a copy ____19 Please find enclosed $__ as subscription to "The Forerunner" from _______19___ to ______19___ The Forerunner WHAT DIANTHA DID A NOVEL BY CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN FROM OUT REVIEWS "What Diantha Did" is a sensible book; it gives a new and deserved comprehension of the importance and complexity of housekeeping. . . . We would not undervalue Mrs. Gilman's attempt to let some light in upon the distracting situation of woman in domestic work. It is needed there is in any business in the world.––The Independent. Mrs. Gilman is as full of ideas as ever, and her Diantha is a model for all young women. . . . Diantha's plans may well furnish a solution to the problems of domestic life that have long been pressing intolerably upon the American woman, and are by no means negligible in European countries.––The Englishwoman. The story is full of action and humorous situations. . . . Diantha is a clever and most engaging young woman, and her experience is related in such a manner, with facts and figures, as to be of practical value to other aspiring housekeepers.––Chicago Socialist. What she did was to solve the domestic service problem for both mistress and maid in a southern California town ; and she illustrated in her own life Mrs. Gilman's theory that a wife, mother and housekeeper can easily be also a business man.––The Survey. The interest in all this lies partly in the reader's continual questioning of the possibility of such results and the shrewdness with which Mrs. Gilman meets these inevitable questions with trenchant facts and incontestable figures. At the end one may not be convinced, but one has been impressed. The kitchen, whose sordid demands have thwarted the aspirations of so many women and prevented any measure of real life, has a real interest in the hands of such a serious and clever writer.––The Chicago Evening Post. ––––––– Mailed post-paid by Handsomely bound, $1.00 THE CHARLTON COMPANY 67 WALL STREET, NEW YORK CITY The Forerunner The Man-made World Or, Our Androcentric Culture BY CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN "Since the beginning of recorded history the most civilized part of our world has held that woman was at the bottom of all the evil from which we are suffering. Now comes a woman who tells us that it is all the other way. In so far as the world is bad, she says, it is so because man has made it to suit himself, without regard for woman's ways and woman's needs. "Furthermore, this woman says that for six thousand years, at least, man has been writing books about woman, as woman making her out to be everything but what she really is. This one woman is tired of the process. She wants to get even with man, and so she has written a book about man—as man. She knows that he will not like it, but she does not care. For she feels that the world can never become what it ought to be until woman gets a hand at its remaking, and for this reason the truth must be told first of all. "Of the future Mrs. Gilman says in this conclusion: "The scope and purpose of human life is entirely above and beyond the field of sex relationship. Women are human beings, as much as men, by nature; and as women, they are even more sympathetic with human processes. To develop human life in its true powers we need full equal citizenship for woman." —N. Y. Times, Sunday, January 15, 1911. Mailed post-paid Price, $1.00 THE CHARLTON COMPANY 67 WALL STREET, NEW YORK CITY Volume II, No. 5 MAY, 1911 THE FORERUNNER A MONTHLY MAGAZINE BY CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN 1.00 A YEAR .10 A COPY AUTHOR, OWNER & PUBLISHER 67 Wall Street, New York COPYRIGHT 1911 C. P. GILMAN ENTERED IN NEW YORK POST OFFICE, N.Y., OCTOBER 29, 1909, AS SECOND-CLASS MATTER If a moral distinction between men and women is necessary, men may be blamed for the sins of commission—women for the sins of omission. THREE WOMEN A ONE-ACT PLAY Copyright, 1911, by Charlotte Perkins Gilman CHARACTERS Aline Morrow: A kindergartner of about twenty-five, at first plainly dressed; a good-looking, pleasant, friendly girl; kind, strong, reliable. Later, blossoms out into an ultra-feminine and attractive gown, coiffure, manner, etc. Mrs. Morrow: Her mother. A quiet, rather sad-faced, very domestic, elderly-looking woman of about fifty, somewhat old-fashioned, dressed in black. Miss Upton: Her aunt. Some ten years younger than Mrs. Morrow, vivacious, handsome, richly dressed, successful and popular. Mrs. Ellis: Mother of some of Aline's pupils. Excitable, staccato little woman, devoted to Aline and her work. Dr. Russell: A physician. Wishes to marry Aline. A Maid: Scene: Mrs. Morrow's parlor. Time: Forty-five minutes. THREE WOMEN SCENE—Parlor in Mrs. Morrow's home. Evening. Center table with shaded light. Mrs. Morrow discovered rocking in a low chair and darning stockings, humming a little hymn tune, as "Abide With Me." (Bell heard. Enter maid.) MAID—Mrs. Ellis. MRS. MORROW—Show her right in. (Enter Mrs. Ellis) MRS. MORROW—Glad to see you, Mrs. Ellis. Won't you sit down—and lay off your things? MRS. ELLIS—Oh, no, thank you! I can't stop but a moment—just a moment! Excuse my intruding, but I just couldn't want to show her the babies' pictures! Where is she? MRS. MORROW—She's at Mrs. Anderson's. More of her babies there, you know. But she'll be there directly, I'm sure. Won't you show them to me? MRS. ELLIS—Why, yes, of course! Do you care for children as she does? Now, Mrs. Morrow, I wonder if you appreciate that daughter of yours! The children simply worship her! MRS. MORROW—And she seems to worship them, Mrs. Ellis. MRS. ELLIS—Oh, she does! She does! If ever there was a world-mother it's that girl! She has genius—absolute genius! (Enter Miss Upton. She is in evening dress and carries an evening wrap over her arm.) MISS UPTON—What genius have you discovered now, Mrs. Ellis? MRS. ELLIS—Oh, good evening, Miss Upton! I'm so glad to see you. It's that wonderful niece of yours, Miss Upton. She has such a genius for her work, her beautiful work—the kindergarten, you know. MISS UPTON—Yes, Aline's an artist in her line—a real one. MRS. ELLIS—Of course, it's not like yours—not like Art! We hear wonderful things about you, Miss Upton. 116 Three Women MISS UPTON—Thank you, Mrs. Ellis. I wish I were doing wonderful things. MRS. ELLIS—Oh, you are! You are! Why, that article about you in the Centurion quite staggered me, Miss Upton. To think that I really knew a woman who could paint such marvelous pictures! MISS UPTON—I see you've brought us some marvelous pictures, Mrs. Ellis. (Takes photos.) These are excellent— excellent. MRS. MORROW—Clara is very fond of children's pictures, Mrs. Ellis. MRS. ELLIS—Yes, I know. What was it the great critic said? That you not only painted mothers and children—you painted motherhood! (Enter Aline.) ALINE—Well, mother. Good evening, all. (All rise to welcome her. She greets Mrs. Ellis cordially, puts an arm about both mother and aunt, kisses each affectionately. Sees photos.) Ah, my babies! (Takes pictures and looks at them with evident delight.) MRS. ELLIS—(Admiringly.) I do believe you love our babies as well as we mothers do! MISS UPTON—Better than some mothers I've seen, Mrs. Ellis. I believe that mothers are born and not made. MRS. MORROW—You're right, Clara. MRS. ELLIS—I'm so glad you like them, Miss Morrow! These are for you. I couldn't wait to show them. Good evening, all! I have to go back and put the children to bed. Good night, Miss Upton. Good night, Mrs. Morrow. Good night, dear Miss Morrow! (Exit Mrs. Ellis.) MRS. MORROW—How fond those children's mothers are of you, Aline! ALINE—They are very kind indeed— most of them. Aren't you rather unusually gorgeous, Aunt Clara? Going out, of course! MISS UPTON—Yes—later. It's the Jainville's reception. ALINE—And which of your forty adorers is coming for you, Auntie? MISS UPTON—A woman of forty needs forty adorers, Aline. But, speaking of gorgeousness—aren't you going to change your dress? ALINE—What for? I don't have forty adorers. MISS UPTON—No, but you have one, and that's much more important. (Bell heard. Maid appears.) MAID—Dr. Russell. MISS UPTON—Come, now, run along and put on a pretty frock, child—do! ALINE—Why should I? (Looks in mirror.) This is a perfectly good dress. MISS UPTON—(Kissing her.) You are a perfectly good—goose, Aline Morrow. (Enter Dr. Russell. Coat on, gloves in hand. Greets them all most politely.) DR. RUSSELL—Good evening, Mrs. Morrow—Miss Upton. Good evening, Miss Morrow. MRS. MORROW—Sit down, Dr. Russell, sit down. Take your coat off, won't you? DR. RUSSELL—Thank you, Mrs. Morrow. I've only a moment. (Looks at watch.) On my way to a patient. (Miss Upton rises, gathers cloak about her.) DR. RUSSELL—Allow me. (Offers to (Exit both.) MISS UPTON—No, thank you. I need a practiced hand for a few moments. Sister, you'll have to come and help me. MRS. MORROW—Yes, certainly, Clara. (Exit both.) DR. RUSSELL—Your aunt is a very popular lady. ALINE—Isn't she! She's like a young girl! Everybody likes her. It's a beautiful life. Don't you admire her work, Dr. Russell? DR. RUSSELL—I do, indeed. And yet— even with all her friends, and her successes —it is a pity that so lovely a woman is not married. Don't you think so, Miss Morrow? ALINE—Oh—I don't know! I've seen many married women that couldn't compare with Aunt Clara for happiness. Look at the last addition to my family. (Shows him the photographs.) DR. RUSSELL—Very pretty, very pretty. ALINE—Did I ever show you my jewels —a la Cornelia? (Brings out a great array of photos of children and sets them up.) DR. RUSSELL—You are very fond of children, aren't you? ALINE—Fond of children! Of course. What are women for? The Forerunner 117 DR. RUSSELL—I thought you held they were for many other purposes. ALINE—Oh, yes—as persons—for any kind of work they like. You always forget that women are persons. But as women—they are for children. DR. RUSSELL—I can't see the difference. I see only the woman. (Looks at her admiringly. She is looking at the photos. He rises. Comes to her, takes the pictures from her hands, seizes her hands.) DR. RUSSELL—I cannot wait another day, Aline! When will you marry me? ALINE—Marry you! Why, I did not know— (Laughs softly.) I can't lie to save me. I did know you wanted me to—at least, I hoped so. DR. RUSSELL—Hoped? Oh, Aline! My Aline! (She holds him at arm's length.) ALINE—Wait! Wait! I haven't said I would yet. DR. RUSSELL—You said you loved me. At least, you said you hoped I— Aline! You do love me? ALINE—(Soberly) I do love you, Gordon. I've loved you—ever so long. (He tries to embrace her.) No! No! We've got to talk a little first. DR. RUSSELL—What is there to talk about? If you love me that's all there is to it. (He takes one hand and kisses it over and over. She withdraws it with a little breathless sob.) ALINE—Don't do that—yet! I can't think—and I've got to think now! (She stands away from him, puts a chair before her and confronts him.) DR. RUSSELL—What do you mean, Aline? (Half seriously.) Is there A Past between us? ALINE—No—but there is a Future! DR. RUSSELL—(Puzzled.) The future will be ours together, surely. ALINE—(Slowly.) Some of it will— and some of it won't. We may have a beautiful future together— (She drops her voice lovingly at the word, then lifts her head and goes on clearly) but we also want a beautiful future separately. DR. RUSSELL—Separately? What do you mean? ALINE—Didn't you have a big, bright future before you knew me—hopes of advancement in your profession—ambition to do great work—to serve humanity? DR. RUSSELL—Of course I had—and have yet. But that is not separate, dear. My whole life will be yours. All that I have—all that I do—all my hope and ambition and success—it is all for you. You shall share it. ALINE—That is true, I hope. I should, gladly, share in your professional ambition and success—but would you also share in mine? DR. RUSSELL—(Looks puzzled.) In yours? ALINE—(Watches his eagerly, gives a little disappointed cry.) Oh, haven't you even thought that my work was dear to me—as dear as yours to you? (Comes a little toward him.) DR. RUSSELL—(Regarding her confusedly.) Do you mean that you would wish to go on teaching school—after we were married? ALINE—Yes. DR. RUSSELL—For a while, you mean. ALINE—All my life. DR. RUSSELL—You never mentioned this before. ALINE—How could I? DR. RUSSELL—(Turns, walks up and down. He crosses to her suddenly.) You love me? Say it again! ALINE—(Solemnly.) I love you. DR. RUSSELL—Do you not love me well enough to give up teaching school? ALINE—Do you love me well enough to give up practicing medicine? DR. RUSSELL—Aline! It is not the same thing. ALINE—Why not? DR. RUSSELL—A man does not have to give up his work to marry. ALINE—Neither does a woman, nowadays. DR. RUSSELL—Nowadays! Women haven't left off being women nowadays, have they? ALINE—No—but they have begun to be something more. DR. RUSSELL—(Coming closer, holding her hand. Draws her to a sofa.) Come, dear. Let us sit and talk it over. I love you too well to deny you anything in reason, but surely—the duties of the wife and mother come first in a woman's life. You believe that, don't you? ALINE—No honestly—I don't agree with you. I think the first duty of anybody —man or woman—is to do their best 118 Three Women work for the world. Oh, my dear, don't make it so—hard! See—I am willing to be your wife. I should hope to be (her voice drops reverently) a mother. But I am by nature, by habit, by seven years' training, a teacher—and I cannot give it up. DR. RUSSELL—(Takes both her hands and leans nearer.) Not for love's sake? (She hesitates.. He slips his arm around her, draws her to him.) Look at me, Aline! Ah, my dearest! Only marry me and I will engage to make you forget your school-teaching. (She starts up; he follows her.) Trust me, Aline. You love me; that is enough. I have not had one kiss yet—not one. And I've been wanting it so—ever since I first saw you—for two years. (He tries to turn her face to his, but she breaks from him breathlessly.) ALINE—No! No! Gordon—not yet! You—move me so—I find it hard to be wise. (He comes nearer.) Don't touch me—go and sit over there. (He sits.) Don't look at me—please. Look at the table. (He looks at it, smiling. They sit opposite.) We must be perfectly agreed about this before it is too late. DR. RUSSELL—It is too late already, Aline. If a woman gives her heart to a man— ALINE—She may still refuse to marry him if she so choose—even if it breaks her heart. DR. RUSSELL—And his? ALINE—Yes—even that. Two broken hearts are better than one broken marriage. DR. RUSSELL—(Drumming on the table —trying to be patient.) I wish you would consider this thing practically, dear. ALINE—(Eagerly.) That is just what I am trying to do. Now, see. You know how we live here—you know how good the food is—and how cheap—and how little service is required, or management. If we had a house this way—with meals and service from outside—I could be as free as I am now. DR. RUSSELL—(Rising.) You forget Aline. A girl does. There is more than housekeeping to consider. The best use of all your kindergartening will be to help you when your own little ones demand your care. Can you not foresee? ALINE—(Rising, facing him squarely, standing tall and pale.) Can I not foresee? You, a man, ask me, a woman, if I cannot foresee motherhood! I have foreseen it since I was a child. Since I was a girl of fifteen I have planned and worked and tried to live my best, in the hope that some day—I tell you I am not a girl. I am a woman. DR. RUSSELL—You glorious woman! I knew your heart would guide you. I knew the Teacher would give way to the Mother. (Approaches her, tries to embrace her, she holding him of.) ALINE—(Pleadingly.) Don't misunderstand me, Gordon. I should still be a teacher—and a better mother because of it. DR. RUSSELL—(Angry, disappointed, hurt, stands by, folds his arms.) You propose, then, that my home shall be the adjunct of a boarding-house—and that I rent an office as I do now, and live as the husband of a school-teacher? ALINE—I propose nothing, Dr. Russell. I understood you to propose marriage. Do you withdraw the proposal? (They stand facing one another. Both take a step forward. He holds out his arms to her.) DR. RUSSELL—I love you better than anything else in life! Aline! ALINE—Except your prejudices! DR. RUSSELL—(Clock strikes. Starts and looks at his watch.) Please do not decide now! Please wait a little. I must keep my appointment. I will be back as soon as I can. Let me beg you to consider—ask your own heart. Consult your mother. ALINE—I will—and my aunt. DR. RUSSELL—And don't forget that we love each other! (Exit Dr. Russell.) (Aline, left alone, gradually loses her determined air, runs to window and looks after him. The curtains partly conceal her. Re-enter Mrs. Morrow. Takes her chair again, looks for thimble, wets her finger and slips it on. Seats herself and begins to rock and hum and darn again. Aline turns and comes to her. Kisses her daintily, affectionately.) ALINE—There's a dear little curl in the back of your neck, Motherkin. It's so pretty. (Mrs. Morrow kisses her warmly.) Now you go right on being a picture of contented domesticity—I want The Forerunner 119 to ask you something. (Brings low stool or cushion and sits at her mother's feet. Lays her arm on her mother's knees, chin on hands and looks at her Mother strokes her hair lovingly.) Can you darn stockings and give advice at the same time, Motherkin? MRS. MORROW—(Darning.) What do you want advice about? I thought you never took any. ALINE—I may not take this. Asking advice and taking it are two quite different things. (Plays with darning cotton.) It's about marrying—or not marrying. Or, rather, it's about giving up my profession—or not giving it up. MRS. MORROW—Dr. Russell? (Aline nods.) And he wants you to give up your work—insists upon it? ALINE—Yes. It amounts to that. I thought he knew how I felt about it. It is rather difficult, you see—to tell a man your views on post-matrimonial industry before he proposes! MRS. MORROW—(With sudden change of feeling.) Of course it's difficult! Whatever the girl does is difficult! She's supposed to be blankly innocent and unsuspecting, and to say, "This is so sudden!" else she's unwomanly. On the other hand, "a true woman" always knows if a man loves her! If she does not foresee it all and stave him off in what they call "a thousand delicate ways"—then she's accused of leading him on. So there you are! (Nods defiantly.) ALINE—(Gently.) Well—I've often said what I thought about a woman's working after she was married, but he seemed as surprised as if he'd never met the idea. MRS. MORROW—Did you put it to him at once? ALINE—Yes. That is (a little embarrassed) we discussed it. He's coming back for an answer. MRS. MORROW—Seems to me, in your case, there's no difficulty at all. Here's this blessed "Dunham" answers all the housekeeping problem. Delicious and cheap. Meals sent in hot. Service by the hour. He knows about that. ALINE—Yes, of course. And he's often eaten with us, and knows how nice it is; but he says he wants a home of his own. MRS. MORROW—That is—a cook of his own. And he doesn't even know what he would escape. (Lays down her work.) Look here, child. You could manage perfectly. He could rent our lower floor. Clara would be glad to get her a studio down town; she only stays here to help me out—bless her! The rooms would be better for him than where he is now, and on the same block. He wouldn't lose anything. ALINE—I wish he thought so. MRS. MORROW—why, what does the man want? I'd rent you the house and we'd all go into The Dunham. He couldn't live as cheaply any other way. ALINE—He doesn't like the idea. MRS. MORROW—Then when the children come you could substitute for a while—and go right on teaching. I could supervise, you know, till they are big enough for the kindergarten—and there you are. ALINE—I'd have to be out mornings— MRS. MORROW—Well? He'd have to be in mornings, wouldn't he? Office hours! And if those children were in mortal peril I guess a grandmother and a doctor-father—with a trained nurse— could keep 'em alive until you were telephoned for. Why, it's ideal! ALINE—But, Mother—he won't see it. He—he's a man. It's feeling. You can't reason against feeling. (She mediates, smiling softly. Her mother watches her anxiously.) MRS. MORROW—I know—I know, dear. It is delicious—at first. It is hard —very hard—to decide. (Pause.) You ask my advice, Aline. I know you won't take it. (She rises, stands upright with clenched hands.) DON'T GIVE UP YOUR PROFESSION FOR THE BEST MAN ON EARTH! ALINE—Why, Mother! Why, Mother! (Mrs. Morrow drops limply into a chair again and buries her face in the pile of stockings and sobs despairingly. Aline kneels by her, puts her arms around her, caresses, tries to soothe her.) Mother! Mother, dear! Don't cry so! Oh, Mother, I'd no idea that you felt this way! You have me—isn't that something? MRS. MORROW—Something? (Turns and embraces her with intense fervor.) 120 Three Women Something! You are everything. You are all—all there is. ALINE—(Holding her close.) Dearest Mother! I wouldn't leave you in any case. Whoever takes me has to to take you, too. MRS. MORROW—(Draws away sharply, almost angrily.) It's not that! I never even thought of that. Did I object to your going to college, or to Germany to study? I'm not a common pig-mother! It's your work I'm thinking of. My own life has gone—gone forever—except as it is in you. I can't lose yours, too. ALINE—(Puzzled, grieved, asks softly.) Weren't you happy with Father? MRS. MORROW—(Trying to speak composedly.) Yes. Yes, I was. I loved him dearly. I loved him enough to give up my work to please him. But, my child, do not believe Eros himself if he tells you that "love is enough." It isn't. We have other interests—other powers and desires. I had a Voice— once. ALINE—Why, Mother! I never heard you sing. MRS. MORROW—No. You never heard me sing. ALINE—And you gave it up—for him? MRS. MORROW—Yes—for love. And I had love—until he died. He didn't intend to die—but the Voice went first. You see, dear, he didn't care for music at all—especially vocal music. He didn't like the people who did care for it. He hated to have me go out without him. There was no money for lessons, no time for practice. It is all gone. ALINE—You had the home—the children. MRS. MORROW—Yes, thank God! I loved my home, and I loved my children dearly. But even while I had them— even while my heart and my hands were full—there was always this great empty place. You have grown up. It's ten years since I lost your father. I am fifty now. I may live ten—twenty—thirty years more, and, except for you, my life is empty. (She rises, puts all her work neatly into basket. Aline watches her, silent.) If you do care for my advice, if the loss of my life can be of any use to save yours, you will stick to your work as your aunt did. she was wiser than I. She refuses to give up. Now she is a happy woman—successful, popular, known, honored, well paid. She has lived. Yours is real mother-work, too. You can love and help more children than you ever could have of your own. Oh, you'll be hungry, of course! You'll be hungry for love—for your own babies. But I tell you, if you have them, and don't have your work, you'll starve! (Re-enter Miss Upton. Mrs. Morrow controls herself and gathers up her darning.) ALINE—(With an effort.) Carriage not come yet, Aunt Clara? MISS UPTON—(Looks at clock.) No, it's really not time yet. (To Mrs. Morrow.) Why will you waste time darning stockings, Molly? I can't afford it. I can earn a dozen pair—silk ones—in the time it would take me to darn six. MRS. MORROW—My time isn't as valuable as yours, Clara. I've left my cotton upstairs—(Rises.) ALINE—Let he get it, Mother. ( Her mother kisses her and whispers to her, Aline nods understandingly. Mrs. Morrow goes out. Aline goes and stands by the fire. Miss Upton looks at papers on table, walks about a bit, hangs her cloak ovre the back of a tall carved chair by table, sits on arm, swings one dainty foot, picks up silver cigarette case.) MISS UPTON—You don't mind if I have a cigarette, Aline? (Takes one.) ALINE—(Turning and coming to her.) I think you're entitled to whatever you want, Aunt Clara. You certainly are a successful woman. MISS UPTON—I'm doing very well. ALINE—Your free, happy life! And your beautiful work—your own real work! I congratulate you with all my heart. (Her aunt puts an arm around her, kisses her, goes on smoking, and looking about, swinging her foot a little, airy, successful, complacent.) ALINE—But, Auntie, can you talk to me a little? Can you give me some sagacious advice on a very solemn question? MISS UPTON—Of course I will. Giving advice is a pleasure to all of us— more especially to women—most especially to unmarried women. Is it whom you shall marry? Marry Dr. Russell, by all means. I'd like to marry him myself. The Forerunner 121 ALINE—Neither you nor Mother seems to have been in any doubt as to Dr. Russell's intentions. MISS UPTON—Why, no. Were you? He's all right, Aline. You've spoken to your mother, then. Has he asked you? ALINE—Yes. He's coming back for his answer. MISS UPTON—You say "yes." If that's the question, I wonder you want advice. ALINE—No; that's not the question. The question is, shall I drop my work, give up my profession, to be his wife? MISS UPTON—(Stops smiling and sits up straight.) does he make it a condition? ALINE—I'm afraid he does. MISS UPTON—(Fiercely, intensely, starting to her feet.) Then do it! Do it in a minute! Drop it once and for all. Forswear it; forget it—and thank God for a good man's love. ALINE—Why, Aunt Clara! I— thought—you—I thought you were— MISS UPTON—You thought I was happy in my work, no doubt. Everyone does. I mean they shall. I had my chance of happiness once—and lost it. But I made my choice and I stand by it. I'm a good loser. We Uptons are. I never let even your mother know. She had her happiness. She thought I had mine. (Aline listens. Miss Upton walks about much excited. Turns to Aline.) But you are young, Aline. You have your best years all before you. You have the crown and glory and blessing of your life in your hands. Take it, Aline! Take it. (Aline stares, amazed.) I've never spoken of this to a living soul, but I love you, Aline. You are a splendid girl, and I don't want you to spoil your life as I have spoiled mine. ALINE—Don't—Aunt Clara—don't speak of it if it hurts you. I understand— MISS UPTON—(Interrupting.) Understand? You don't understand. No woman could understand unless she had lived twenty years without love—and knew she had thrown it away. ALINE—(Earnestly.) Isn't the work a comfort, Aunt Clara? Your success, your wide, free life? MISS UPTON—(Fiercely.) Of course it is—and my clothes are a comfort—and my dinner! But they do not, unfortunately, meet the same want. You need not say a word, Aline. I know. I stood in your shoes, I had the same ideas, and I chose the work. Well—I can make money. I can do as I please, but—(She stretches out empty arms and snatches them back, empty, to her heart.) I've never held my baby in my arms. (She stands silent. Aline goes to her, tries to comfort her. She waves her away.) It's not only babies, though that's ache enough—just the physical ache for them, for their little blundering, crumpling fingers on your face; their foolish, delicious curly feet; the down on their heads; the sweetness of the backs of their necks; the hugableness of them! It's not only the babies, Aline. It's the husband! Women are not supposed to care— They do— ! ALINE—You have so many friends, Aunt Clara. MISS UPTON—Oh, you make me angry! You girl! You child! How can I make you see? Ten thousand friends are not the same as the man you love! Haven't you a heart, child, in your body? ALINE—Yes—I have. But I have a head, too, and I thought— MISS UPTON—Stop thinking. Feel. Just make sure that you love—plain love him—and then marry him. ALINE—But I'm not sure. I do love him, but after living him, after marrying him, there remain the years of a lifetime. MISS UPTON—They do, indeed. I was twenty when I refused my lover—for my work. Twenty years have gone by. I suppose there may be thirty more—I'm a strong woman. Fifty years—without any one of my own! (She throws up her arms in a wild gesture, sinks on a seat by the table, buries her face, and bursts into heavy sobs—strained agonizing sobs. Aline stands, trying to soothe her.) MISS UPTON—Go away. It's only a little hysteria. I'll be quieter when I'm alone. I'm used to being alone. Go away. But take my advice. (Alien goes out.) (Mrss. Morrow re-enters.) MRS. MORROW—Tired of waiting, Clara? MISS UPTON—(Raises her head.) Yes, I am. (Rises, walks about, looks at clock. Mrs. Morrow is gathering up her 122 Three Women work.) Well, Molly, I guess you and I are going to lose a daughter soon. MRS. MORROW—I hope not! Oh, I hope not! MISS UPTON—Hope not? I'd like to know why! She'll never get a finer man than Gordon Russell—nor one more devoted to her. You don't want her to live single, do you? MRS. MORROW—No, but she'd much better do that than give up her profession. MISS UPTON—Why, Molly Morrow! You talk that way! You have been happy with your husband and children. You certainly do not want her to miss all that? MRS. MORROW—That sounds well from you, Clara. After all your success! Actions speak louder than words. (Miss Upton looks at her, hesitates.) Just remember that Aline was fairly born a kindergartner as you were a painter. Think of all her years of study and training—and how she loves it—and how useful she is to all those little children, and their mothers! MISS UPTON—And what are all those little children and their mothers—and all those years of study and training—and all her love of it, to the love of one little child of her own, in her own arms? MRS. MORROW—Why, Clara! Clara! Do you mean—? MISS UPTON—Do I mean—what? And what do you mean? MRS. MORROW—Why, I always thought —that you—oh, Clara! You don't mean to tell me that you've been—sorry—all these years? MISS UPTON—I did not mean to tell you, but it seems I have. You were happy. Why should I distress you with my unhappiness? MRS. MORROW—Happy? I— MISS UPTON—(Whirling upon her.) You were NOT? Molly! MRS. MORROW—I have been wretched all my life, Clara, because I gave up my work for love. MISS UPTON—And I because I didn't. MRS. MORROW—Two lives ruined! But Aline shouldn't waste hers. I have told her. MISS UPTON—So have I. MRS. MORROW—You haven't advised her to give up? MRS. UPTON—I certainly have. (They stand opposed. Bell heard. They do not notice it. Dr. Russell appears at the door.) DR. RUSSELL—I beg pardon. (Both turn upon him.) MRS. MORROW—Come in, Dr. Russell. MISS UPTON—Yes. Come in. (He enters.) DR. RUSSELL—Is Miss Morrow—? MRS. MORROW—Yes, she's here. She'll be in presently. She—Dr. Russell— DR. RUSSELL—Yes, Mrs. Morrow. MRS. MORROW—Why can't you be willing for Aline to keep on with her work? She'll never be happy without it. MISS UPTON—She'll never be happy with it—and without love. MRS. MORROW—Clara, stop! She is my child, Dr. Russell. I am her mother. But not even motherhood makes up for losing one's own work. I know what it costs to give up all one's personal life for love! MISS UPTON—And I know what it costs not to. Dr. Russell, don't let her refuse you. If she loves you—and I'm pretty sure she does—you marry her. DR. RUSSELL—I wish for her happiness— MRS. MORROW—Then let her keep her work. MISS UPTON—Then marry her. DR. RUSSELL—After all, she must decide. Believe me, Mrs. Morrow, all my life shall be given to make her happy—if she will take it. But a woman must choose between her career and marriage. She must choose. MISS UPTON—Well, Molly, he's right. You chose—I chose—now she must choose. Come. We must leave it to her. (They go out much depressed.) (Dr. Russell proceeds to walk up and down the room, sits, tries to read, plays with flowers, gets very impatient. Rings Maid appears.) DR. RUSSELL—Does Miss Morrow know I'm here? MAID—I'll see, sir. (Exit maid. Reappears after a bit.) Miss Morrow will be down presently, sir. DR. RUSSELL—(Continuing to show great strain and impatience.) She never kept me waiting before—I wonder if it means— (Finally she enters. He is standing The Forerunner 123 with his back to the door; does not see her. She is exquisitely dressed in a white, misty, clinging, shimmering gown with an elusive sparkle in it. Her hair is beautifully done, much more softly and richly than her usual method. A red and white rose are tucked in her hair, and she carries one of each in her hand. She comes softly behind him, stands a moment, looks mischievously at him, reaches out a rose and touches his hand with it. He starts, turns, holds out his arms to her.) DR. RUSSELL—My darling! (She shakes her head, smiling, retreating, looking up at him archly.) ALINE—I don't know yet whether I'm your darling or not. That remains to be decided. This is a very serious matter, Dr. Russell. DR. RUSSELL—I don't know you tonight, Aline. You are another woman, somehow. ALINE—Well, do you like the other woman? DR. RUSSELL—(Starts toward her.) Like her? Oh, my dear! I knew you were lovely, but I never knew you so enchanting. ALINE—Thank you. I'm glad you're pleased with me. No—no—be patient a little yet. If we marry we have a lifetime before us to be happy in. If we don't— DR. RUSSELL—If we don't! Aline! Have you not decided—yet? ALINE—I? Oh, yes. I have decided, but you haven't. DR. RUSSELL—I am too desperately in earnest to guess riddles, Aline. Please answer me. Will you be my wife? ALINE—I cannot bear to give up my work, Gordon. DR. RUSSELL—You mean—? Aline! You will not let that keep us apart? ALINE—(Fervently.) Indeed I will not. It shall never come between us nor interfere with my love and duty to you. DR. RUSSELL—(Stands, his hands gripped together looking at her.) Then you will— ALINE—Listen, now. Let me say all I have to say, and then you may decide, if you please, whether to abide by your choice or not. You asked me to marry you—then made conditions. I am willing to marry you. I make no conditions. I do not say, "You must give up smoking," or "You must be a total abstainer," or "You must choose between me and something else you love." I love you, Gordon, unconditionally. (He tries to embrace her, but she checks him.) I love a man who is a doctor, a splendid doctor. I would marry the man and be proud of the doctor. You love a woman who is a teacher, a devoted one. You would marry the woman; she would be your wife. You wouldn't marry the teacher. She would go on teaching. DR. RUSSELL—This is all sophistry, Aline. You expect the impossible. Oh, why not trust your heart— ALINE—I expect nothing impossible, Gordon—only what I know to be practicable. You must leave the arrangements of the housework and the care of —the family—to me. That is plainly the woman's duty. I am no child, you know. (Looks up at him, rose at lips, smiling.) DR. RUSSELL—You look about sixteen to-night! You are deliciously beautiful! And puzzling beyond words! You say you love me. I feel that you love me. You do, don't you, dear? Yet you sit there talking like a judge. If I shut my eyes I seem to hear the New Woman laying down the law. If I open them— Lilith couldn't be lovlier. (She looks at him with such mischievous sweetness, such tremor of soft withdrawal, that he comes to her. She lets him sit on the sofa beside her, and then faces him so calmly that he feels more remote than before.) DR. RUSSELL—You are being very cruel, Aline. Don't you know it? You are holding my heart in your hands. Tell me, dear; give me your answer. Will you be my wife? ALINE—(Very coldly and without interest.) Yes. DR. RUSSELL—You will give up your work? ALINE—(Gently, warmly, tenderly, with her heart in her eyes.) No. DR. RUSSELL—What do you mean, Aline? You torture me. Tell me your decision. You have had time to consider. You have advised with your family. (Rises.) You must have made up your mind. ALINE—(Rising, also.) Yes, I have (Continued on page 134) 124 A SOCIALIST PRAYER THE majority of Christians, at least when young, recite once or twice a day and again on Sunday, that measured and beautiful appeal known as "The Lord's Prayer." For many years, for many centuries, in many lands, we have repeated these words, yet never have we observed the most salient feature of the petition— its collectivism. It is "Our Father," we address, it is to "us" that we ask "daily bread" to be given, for "us" and "our trespasses" that we crave forgiveness, and for "us" we seek deliverance from evil and safety from temptation. Age after age, a million tongues have murmured these words in Latin, in Greek, even in Hebrew; in every modern and many an ancient language; yet read them wrongly. In our hearts we say: "My Father who art in Heaven——" "Give me my daily bread——" "Forgive me my trespasses as I forgive those who trespass against me——" "Lead me not into temptation, but deliver me from evil——" This is what we think and feel while using those clear words. We pray first that the Kingdom of God may come on earth, His will be done here as in Heaven. This, if it means anything, means a desire on our part for such a world as our best conception of God imagines He would like. Even the lowest interpretation can hardly fail to see that to make this world more like Heaven means to lighten toil, to ensure provision, to establish peace and mutual service. This is precisely the aim of Socialism, and its proposed methods merely carry into economic expression the worded wish of the prayer. "The will of God" is a thing long guessed at, and explained according to the prevailing view of the time. The prevailing view of this time is from the base of scientific knowledge. We now assume that the "will of God" means health, intelligence, normal development, beauty, joyous fulfillment of all life's processes; and economic measures which promote such things must be in accordance with it. "Our daily bread" is a most natural and rational desire. "Give us each day our daily bread"—— We ask God for it. We do not expect to be fed by ravens surely, or on manna, or the persistent quail. This daily bread is produced by people, by the labor of mankind. Mankind, then, has it in its power to give us our daily bread; yet mankind, in the mass, is still hungry. The majority of human beings are still insufficiently and improperly fed, and uncertain even of that. Why do we not, once and for all, ensure to Us Our daily bread? Think of praying for two thousand years for a thing wholly in our own hands to provide. Socialism simply, honestly, efficiently and permanently secures to us our daily bread. As to our debts or trespasses— whichever we call them—there is no difficulty at all in forgiving them as soon as the pronoun "our" is fully accepted. Humanity's sins are common, not personal; collective, not individual. Every one of us is to blame for the sins of the age; no ruthless punishment of picked criminals affects that common responsibility. Anger and retaliation, directed by Us, against Ourselves, is plainly foolish. Withdraw the idea of a personal offender and our rage foams helplessly. "We, We, the great slow mass of us, are The Offender; "We" must forgive "Us"—not a difficult thing to do. When we stop trying to punish criminals and give our really capable minds to the matter of preventing crime, we shall soon have no more trespasses to forgive. Temptation? The world is full of temptation—of our own making. Here we pray to God not to lead us into temptation, and then spread temptation broadcast among ourselves. This is like praying, "lead us not into the mud," and then pushing one another into the mud the world over. Socialism by removing poverty removes the largest temptation on earth; and by ensuring the economic freedom of women, removes the next largest. Let us recognize the Socialism in this prayer; pray still, but Do as well as Pray. The Forerunner 125 A WORD FROM THE GREAT AUK IF THE extinct type of woman, the "Patient Grisela" type, be justly called "the Dodo," what may we call the type of man, rapidly passing, who still sees only the extinct female, and utterly refuses to credit the existence of the real woman of to-day? Shall we call him the Great Auk, a serious, large bird, always slow-minded and now wholly negligible? In a New York daily there has been going on recently, a serio-comic discussion of the influence of woman suffrage on girls in colleges; serious to the writers, no doubt, but comic to the reader. Agitated academic dignitaries ran forth with strong denials, and the lay mind produced many more or less frantic comments and opinions. Here is the revelation of one of them—one of the Great Auks: "Speaking about college education for women and women suffrage, my daughter is just now home from one of the prominent colleges, and I inquired from her about this movement in the colleges. She tells me that without doubt most girls come out of college suffragettes. This is certainly a surprise to me, and I wonder how many parents know what they are putting up their money for when they send their daughters to college. I have three other daughters and I am quite sure that no other girl of mine shall go to college to have this stuff ground into her head. It seems to me too bad that our girls should have their poor little heads filled up with this nonsense, thereby already constantly increasing the large number of spinster ladies in the United States of America; for what young man, except one of those long-haired poltroons, would marry a girl who is both a college graduate and a suffragette? E. K. R." What strange impulse of mercy prompted the Auk to withold the name of the terrible college which can so overcome the shallow gaiety of the youthful mind, the absorbtion of the students, the deep conservatism of youth, and all the force of habit, training, social convention and self-interest? Perhaps he wished to spare that institution the ruinous withdrawal of all future pupils— whose parents were Auks and Dodos. Perhaps, on the contrary, some glimmer crossed his mind of the number of open-minded and progressive parents who would prefer to send their daughters to a college of such wide practical wisdom and pedagogical power, and he therefore witheld his information. The most amusing thing in the world of this particular Auk, is his transparent earnestness about getting his daughters married. It calls to mind a current jest, "I hear Miss Jenny Doe is married." "Yes." "Who is the happy man?" "Her father." Our Auk forgets that matrimony is no longer the only profession open to women. If he could bring his mind up to the time he lives in and observe facts, he would discover that there are large numbers of unmarried women now doing business with a degree of health and happiness which compares favorably with that of the married ones. Time was when "old maid" was a common term of reproach, and when old maids in general were more or less dependent on more or less reluctant male relatives, doing unpaid work—as all women did—with even less credit or reward than were given to the married laborers. In the historic period of masculine supremacy, now passing so swiftly that it fairly rattles by us, the only place of any sort of honor or security for woman was in legal marriage. The best gift man had for his dependent female was a legally guaranteed "support" in return for her whole lifetime's loyal service, for ownership complete and beyond appeal. But this period, though familiar to these belated and practically extinct types of mind, is past. It is already gone. There are now in America upwards of seven million wage-earning women, and these are by no means all spinsters, deserted wives and unhappy widows. The percentage of women who must earn their living is increasing; but the percentage of women who want to earn their living is increasing even faster. "Marriage as a trade" is by no means as attractive as it once was. 126 THIS "SUPERIORITY" In recent lectures I have been endeavoring to make clear the fact of the superiority of the female sex to the male throughout nature generally, not excepting the human rice: i. e. women are superior to men; and also the fact that in economic development men are superior to women. What impression does the average mind carry away? That men are superior to women— which most people believed before! Is it not possible for thoughtful women to recognize the difference between an innate and permanent superiority like that of the female sex, as against an acquired and movable superiority like that of men to-day? In the matriarchal period when women had in their hands all the industries then known, they were superior both in sex and in economic development; they were ahead of men as human beings and more highly developed in those arts peculiar to our species, efficiency in which contributes to our race superiority. It is no reflection on women's natural powers to show that her industrial economic level is at present below that of man's. On the contrary, it is proof of her intelligence to admit it. Her present backward condition is not due to any deficiency in race-quality, either of mind or body; neither is it in any way connected with what used to be called "the disabilities of sex," but which we are beginning to recognized as abilities, not dis-abilities. Her disabilities lie not in her womanhood, but in her lack of knowledge and experience in business, in mechanics, in government, in art and science, in those essential human processes which make and measure our advance in civilization. ————— THE ARTIST Here one of us is born, made as a lens, Or else to lens-shape cruelly smooth-ground, To gather light, the light that shines on all, In concentrated flame it glows, pure fire, With light a hundredfold, more light for all. Come and receive, take with the eye or ear, Take and be filled, illumined, overflowed; Then go and shine again, your whole work lit, Your whole heart warm and luminous and glad; Go shine again—and spread the gladness wide; Happy the lens! To gather skies of light And focus it, making the splendor there! Happy all we who are enriched therewith, And redistribute ever, swift and far. The artist is the intermediate lens of God, and so best gives Him to the world, Intensified, interpreted, to us. The Forerunner 127 THE CRUX CHAPTER V. CONTRASTS Old England thinks our country Is a wilderness at best— And small New England thinks the same Of the large free-minded West. Some people know the good old way Is the only way to do, And find there must be something wrong In anything that's new. TO Vivian the new life offered a stimulus, a sense of stir and promise even beyond her expectations. She wrote dutiful letters to her mother, trying to describe the differences between this mountain town and Bainville, but found the New England viewpoint an insurmountable obstacle. To Bainville "Out West" was a large blank space on the map, and the blank space in the mind which matched it was but sparsely dotted with a few disconnected ideas such as "cowboy," "blizzard," "prairie fire," "tornado," "border ruffian," and the like. The girl's painstaking description of the spreading, vigorous young town, with its fine, modern buildings, its banks and stores and theaters, its country club and park, its pleasant social life, made small impression on the Bainville mind. But the fact that Miss Elder's venture was successful from the first did impress old acquaintances, and Mrs. Lane read aloud to selected visitors her daughter's accounts of their new and agreeable friends. Nothing was said of "chaps," "sombreros," or "shooting up the town," however, and therein a distinct sense of loss was felt. Much of what was passing in Vivian's mind she could not make clear to her mother had she wished to. The daily presence and very friendly advances of so many men, mostly young and all polite (with the exception of Dr. Hale, whose indifference was almost rude by contrast) gave a new life and color to the days. She could not help giving some thought to this varied assortment, and the carefully preserved image of Morton, already nine years dim, waxed dimmer. But she had a vague consciousness of being untrue to her ideals—or to Mrs. St. Cloud's ideals, now somewhat discredited—and did not readily give herself up to the cheerful attractiveness of the position. Susie found no such difficulty. Her ideals were simple, and while quite within the bound of decorum, left her plenty of room for amusement. So popular did she become, so constantly in demand for rides and walks and oft-recurring dances, that Vivian felt called upon to give elder sisterly advice. But Miss Susan scouted her admonitions. "Why shouldn't I have a good time?" she said. "Think how we grew up! Half a dozen boys to twenty girls, and when there was anything to go to—the lordly way they'd pick and choose! And after all our efforts and machinations most of us had to dance with each other. And the quarrels we had! Here they stand around three deep asking for dances—and they have to dance with each other and they do the quarreling. I've heard 'em." And Sue giggled delightedly. "There's no reason we shouldn't enjoy ourselves, Susie, of course, but aren't you—rather hard on them?" "Oh, nonsense!" Sue protested. "Dr. Bellair said I should get married out here! She says the same old thing— that it's 'a woman's duty,' and I propose to do it! That is—they'll propose, and I won't do it! Not till I make up my mind. Now see how you like this!" She had taken a fine large block of "legal cap" and set down their fifteen men thereon, with casual comment. 1. Mr. Unwin—Too old, big, quiet. 2. Mr. Elwood Skee—Big, too old, funny. 3. Jimmy Saunders—Middle-sized, amusing, nice. 4. P. R. Gibbs—Too little, too thin, too cocky. 5. George Waterson—Middling, pretty nice. 6. J. J. Cuthbert—Big, horrid. 7. Fordham Greer—Big, pleasant. 8. W. S. Horton—Nothing much. 128 The Crux 9. A. L. Dykeman—Interesting, too old. 10. Professor Toomey—Little, horrid. 11. Arthur Fitzwilliam—Ridiculous, too young. 12. Howard Winchester—Too nice, distrust him. 13. Lawson W. Briggs—Nothing much. 14. Edward S. Jenks—Fair to middling. 15. Mr. A. Smith—Minus. She held it up in triumph. "I got 'em all out of the book—quite correct. Now, which'll you have?" "Susie Elder! You little goose! Do you imagine that all these fifteen men are going to propose to you?" "I'm sure I hope so!" said the cheerful damsel. "We've only been settled a fortnight and one of 'em has already!" Vivian was impressed at once. "Which?—You don't mean it!" Sue pointed to the one marked "minus." "It was only 'A. Smith.' I never should be willing to belong to 'A. Smith,' its too indefinite—unless it was a last resort. Several more are—well, extremely friendly! Now don't look so severe. You needn't worry about me. I'm not quite so foolish as I talk, you know." She was not. Her words were light and saucy, but she was as demure and decorous a little New Englander as need be desired; and she could not help it if the hearts of the unattached young men of whom the town was full, warmed towards her. Dr. Bellair astonished them at lunch one day. "Dick Hale wants us all to come over to tea this afternoon," she said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Tea? Where?" asked Mrs. Pettigrew sharply. "At his house. He has 'a home of his own,' you know. And he particularly wants you, Mrs. Pettigrew—and Miss Elder—the girls, of course." "I'm sure I don't care to go," Vivian remarked with serene indifference, but Susie did. "Oh, come on, Vivian! It'll be so funny! A man's home!—and we may never get another chance. He's such a bear!" Dr. Hale's big house was only across the road from theirs, standing in a large lot with bushes and trees about it. "He's been here ten years," Dr. Bellair told them. "That's an old inhabitant for us. He boarded in that house for a while; then it was for sale and he bought it. He built that little office of his at the corner—says he doesn't like to live where he works, or work where he lives. He took his meals over here for a while— and then set up for himself. "I should think he'd be lonely," Miss Elder suggested. "Oh, he has his boys, you know—always three or four young fellows about him. It's a mighty good thing for them, too." Dr. Hale's home proved a genuine surprise. They had regarded it as a big, neglected looking place, and found on entering the gate that the inside view of that rampant shrubbery was extremely pleasant. Though not close cut and swept of leaves and twigs, it still was beautiful; and the tennis court and tetherball ring showed the ground well used. Grandma looked about her with a keen interrogative eye, and was much impressed, as, indeed, were they all. She voiced their feelings justly when, the true inwardness of this pleasant home bursting fully upon them, she exclaimed: "Well, of all things! A man keeping house!" "Why not?" asked Dr. Hale with his dry smile. "Is there any deficiency, mental or physical, about a man, to prevent his attempting this abstruse art?" She looked at him sharply. "I don't know about deficiency, but there seems to be somethin' about 'em that keeps 'em out of the business. I guess it's because women are so cheap." "No doubt you are right, Mrs. Pettigrew. And here women are scarce and high. Hence my poor efforts." His poor efforts had bought or built a roomy pleasant house, and furnished it with a solid comfort and calm attractiveness that was most satisfying. Two Chinamen did the work; cooking, cleaning, washing, waiting on table, with silent efficiency. "They are as steady as eight-day clocks," said Dr. Hale. "I pay them good wages and they are worth it." The Forerunner 129 "Sun here had to go home once—to be married, also, to see his honored parents, I believe, and leave a grand-'Sun' to attend to the ancestors; but he brought in another Chink first and trained him so well that I hardly noticed the difference. Came back in a year or so, and resumed his place without a jar." Miss Elder watched with fascinated eyes these soft-footed servants with clean white garments and long shiny coils of braided hair. "I may have to come to it," she admitted, "but—dear me, it doesn't seem natural to have a man doing housework!" Dr. Hale smiled again. "You don't want men to escape from dependence, I see. Perhaps if more men knew how comfortably they could live without women, the world would be happier." There was a faint wire-edge to his tone, in spite of the courteous expression, but Miss Elder did not notice it and if Mrs. Pettigrew did, she made no comment. They noted the varied excellences of his housekeeping with high approval. "You certainly know how, Dr. Hale," said Miss Orella; "I particularly admire these beds—with the sheets buttoned down, German fashion, isn't it? What made you do that?" "I've slept in so many hotels," he answered; "and found the sheets always inadequate to cover the blankets—and the marks of other men's whiskers! I don't like blankets in my neck. Besides it saves washing." Mrs. Pettigrew nodded vehemently. "You have sense," she said. The labor-saving devices were a real surprise to them. A "chute" for soiled clothing shot from the bathroom on each floor to the laundry in the basement; a dumbwaiter of construction large and strong enough to carry trunks, went from cellar to roof; the fireplaces dropped their ashes down mysterious inner holes; and for the big one in the living room a special "lift" raised a box of wood up to the floor level, hidden by one of the "settles." "Saves work—saves dirt—saves expense," said Dr. Hale. Miss Elder and her niece secretly thought the rooms rather bare, but Dr. Bellair was highly in favor of that very feature. "You see Dick don't believe in jimcracks and dirt-catchers, and he likes sunlight. Books all under glass—no curtains to wash and darn and fuss with— none of those fancy pincushions and embroidered thingummies—I quite envy him." "Why don't you have one yourself, Johnnie?" he asked her. "Because I don't like housekeeping," she said, "and you do. Masculine instinct I suppose!" "Huh!" said Miss Pettigrew with her sudden one-syllable chuckle. Vivian followed from room to room, scarce noticing their comments, or the eager politeness of the four pleasant-faced young fellows who formed the doctor's present family. She could not but note the intelligent efficiency of the place, but felt more deeply the underlying spirit, the big-brotherly kindness which prompted his hospitable care of these nice boys. It was delightful to hear them praise him. "O, he's simply great," whispered Archie Burns, a ruddy-cheeked young Scotchman. "He pretends there's nothing to it—that he wants company—that we pay for all we get—and that sort of thing you know; but this is no boarding house, I can tell you!" And then he flushed till his very hair grew redder— remembering that the guests came from one. "Of course not!" Vivian cordially agreed with him. "You must have lovely times here. I don't wonder you appreciate it!" and she smiled so sweetly that he felt at ease again. Beneath all this cheery good will and the gay chatter of the group her quick sense caught an impression of something hidden and repressed. She felt the large and quiet beauty of the rooms; the smooth comfort, the rational, pleasant life; but still more she felt a deep keynote of loneliness. The pictures told her the most. She noted one after another with inward comment. "There's 'Persepolis,'" she said to herself —"loneliness incarnate; and that other lion-and-ruin thing,—loneliness and decay. Gerome's 'Lion in the Desert,' too, the same thing. Then Daniel— more lions, more loneliness, but power. 130 The Crux "Circe and the Companions of Ulysses'-cruel, but loneliness and power again--of a sort. There's that 'Island of Death' too-a beautiful thing-but O dear!-And young Burne-Jones' 'Vampire' was in one of the bedrooms-that one he shut the door of!" While they ate and drank in the long, low-ceiled wide-windowed room below, she sought the bookcases and looked them over curiously. Yes-there was Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus, Plato, Emerson and Carlisle-the great German philosophers, the French, the English-all showing signs of use. Dr. Hale observed her inspection. It seemed to vaguely annoy him, as if someone were asking too presuming questions. "Interested in philosophy, Miss Lane?" he asked drily, coming toward her. "Yes-so far as I understand it," she answered. "And how far does that go?" She felt the interference, and raised her soft eyes to his rather reproachfully. "Not far, I am afraid. But I do know that these books teach one how to bear trouble." He met her gaze steadily, but something seemed to shut, deep in his eyes. They looked as unassailable as a steel safe. He straightened his big shoulders with a defiant shrug, and returned to sit by Mrs. Pettigrew, to whom he made himself most agreeable. The four young men did the honors of the tea table, with devotion to all; and some especially intended for the younger ladies. Miss Elder cried out in delight at the tea. "Where did you get it, Dr. Hale? Can it be had here?" "I'm afraid not. That is particular brand. Sun brought me a chest of it when he came back from his visit." When they went home each lady was given a present, Chinese fashion-lychee nuts for Sue, lily-bulbs for Vivian, a large fan for Mrs. Pettigrew, and a package of the wonderful tea for Miss Orella. "That's a splendid thing for him to do," she said, as they walked back. "Such a safe place for those boys!" "It's lovely of him," Sue agreed. "I don't care if he is a woman-hater." Vivian said nothing, but admitted, on being questioned, that "he was very interesting." Mrs. Pettigrew was delighted with their visit. "I like this country," she declared. "Things are different. A man couldn't do that in Bainville-he'd be talked out of town." That night she sought Dr. Bellair and questioned her. "Tell me about that man," she demanded. "How old is he?" "Not as old as he looks, by ten years," said the doctor. "No, I can't tell you why his hair's gray." "What woman upset him?" asked the old lady. Dr. Bellair regarded her thoughtfully. "He has made me no confidences, Mrs. Pettigrew, but I think you are right. It must have been a severe shock-for he is very bitter against women. It is a shame, too, for he is one of the best of men. He prefers men patients-and gets them. The women he will treat if he must, but he is kindest to the 'fallen' ones-and inclined to sneer at the rest. And yet he's the straightest man I ever knew. I'm thankful to have him come here so much. He needs it." Mrs. Pettigrew marched off, nodding sagely. She felt a large and growing interest in her new surroundings, more especially in the numerous boys, but was somewhat amazed at her popularity among them. These young men were mainly exiles from home; the older ones, though more settled perhaps, had been even longer away from their early surroundings; and a real live Grandma, as Jimmy Saunders said, was "an attraction." "If you were mine," he told her laughingly, "I'd get a pianist and some sort of little side show, and exhibit you all up and down the mountains!-for food money. Why some of the boys never had a Grandma, and those that did haven't seen one since they were kids!" "Very complimentary, I'm sure-but impracticable," said the old lady. The young men came to her with confidences, they asked her advice, they kept her amused with tales of their adventures; some true, some greatly diversified; and she listened with a shrewd The Forerunner 131 little smile and a wag of the head-so they never were quite sure whether they were "fooling Grandma" or not. To her, as general confidant, came Miss Peeder with a tale of woe. The little hall that she rented for her dancing classes had burned down on a windy Sunday, and there was no other suitable and within her means. "There's Sloan's; but it's over a bar-room-it's really not possible. And Baker's is too expensive. The church rooms they won't let for dancing-I don't know what I am to do, Mrs. Pettigrew!" "Why don't you ask Orella Elder to rent you her dining room-it's big enough. They could move the tables---" Miss Peeder's eyes opened in hopeful surprise. "Oh if she would! Do you think she would? It would be ideal." Miss Elder being called upon, was quote fluttered by the proposition, and consulted Dr. Bellair. "Why not?" said that lady. "Dancing is first rate exercise-good for us all. Might as well have the girls dance here under your eye as going out all the time-and it's some addition to the income. They'll pay extra for refreshments, too. I'd do it." With considerable trepidation Miss Orella consented, and their first "class night" was awaited by her in a state of suppressed excitement. To have music and dancing-"with refreshments"-twice a week-in her own house-this seemed to her like a career of furious dissipation. Vivian though with a subtle sense of withdrawal from a too general intimacy, was inwardly rather pleased; and Susie bubbled over with delight. "Oh what fun!" she cried. "I never had enough dancing! I don't believe anybody has!" "We don't belong to the Class, you know," Vivian reminded her. "Oh yes! Miss Peeder says we must all come-that she should feel very badly if we didn't; and the boarders have all joined-to a man!" Everyone seemed pleased except Mrs. Jeaune. Dancing she considered immoral; music, almost as much so-and Miss Elder trembled lest she lose her. But the offer of extra payment for herself and son on these two nights each week proved sufficient to quell her scruples. Theophile doubled up the tables, set chairs around the walls, waxed the floor, and was then sent to bed and locked in by his anxious mother. She labored, during the earlier hours of the evening, in the preparation of sandwiches and coffee, cake and lemonade-which viands were later shoved through the slide by the austere cook, and distributed as from a counter by Miss Peeder's assistant. Mrs. Jeaune would come no nearer, but peered darkly upon them through the peep-hole in the swinging door. It was a very large room, due to the time when many "mealers" had been accommodated. There were windows on each side, windows possessing the unusual merit of opening from the top; wide double doors made the big front hall a sort of anteroom, and the stairs and piazza furnished opportunities for occasional couples who felt the wish for retirement. In the right-angled passage, long hat-racks on either side were hung with "Derbies," "Kossuths," and "Stetsons," and the ladies took off their wraps, and added finishing touches to their toilettes in Miss Elder's room. The house was full of stir and bustle, of pretty dresses, of giggles and whispers, and the subdued exchange of comments among the gentlemen. These pre-dominated, so that there was no lack of partners for any of the ladies. Miss Orella accepted her new position with a half-terrified enjoyment. Not in many years had she found herself so in demand. Her always neat and appropriate costume had blossomed suddenly for the occasion; her hair, arranged by the affectionate and admiring Susie, seemed softer and more voluminous. Her eyes grew brilliant, and the delicate color in her face warmed and deepened. Miss Peeder had installed a pianola to cover emergencies, but on this opening evening she had both piano and violin-good, lively, sole-stirring music. Everyone was on the floor, save a few gentlemen who evidently wished they were. 132 The Crux Sue danced with the gaiety and lightness of a kitten among wind-blown leaves; Vivian with gliding grace, smooth and harmonious; Miss Orella with skill and evident enjoyment, though still conscientious in every accurate step. Presently Mrs. Pettigrew appeared, sedately glorious in black silk, jet-beaded, and with much fine old lace. She bore in front of her a small wicker rocking chair, and headed for a corner near the door. Her burden was promptly taken from her by one of the latest comers, a tall person with a most devoted manner. "Allow me, ma'am," he said, and placed the little chair at the point she indicated. "No lady ought to rustle for rockin' chairs with so many gentlemen present." He was a man of somewhat advanced age, but his hair was still more black than white and had a curly, wiggish effect save as its indigenous character was proven by three small bare patches of a conspicuous nature. He bowed so low before her that she could not help observing these distinctions, and then answered her startled look before she had time to question him. "Yes'm," he explained, passing his hand over head; "Scalped three several times and left for dead. But I'm here yet. Mr. Elmer Skee, at your service. "I thought when an Indian scalped you there wasn't enough hair left to make Greeley whiskers," said Grandma, rising to the occasion. "Oh, no ma'am, they ain't so efficacious as all that—not in these parts. I don't know what the ancient Mohawks may have done, but the Apaches only want a patch—smaller to carry and just as good to show off. They're collectors, you know—like a phil-e-a-to-lol-o-gist!" "Skee, did you say?" pursued the old lady, regarding him with interest and convinced that there was something wrong with the name of that species of collector. "Yes'm. Skee—Elmer Skee. No'm, not pronounced 'she.' Do I look like it?" Mr. Skee was an interesting relic of that stormy past of the once Wild West which has left so few surviving. He had crossed the plains as a child, he told her, in the days of the prairie schooner, had then and there lost his parents and his first bit of scalp, was picked up alive by a party of "movers," and had grown up in a playground of sixteen states and territories. Grandma gazed upon him fascinated. "I judge you might be interesting to talk with, she said after he had given her this brief sketch of his youth. "Thank you, ma'am," said Mr. Skee. "May I have the pleasure of this dance?" "I haven't danced in thirty years," said she dubitating. "The more reason for doing it now," he calmly insisted. "Why not?" said Mrs. Pettigrew, and they forthwith executed a species of march, the gentleman pacing with the elaborate grace of a circus horse, and Grandma stepping at his side with great decorum. Later on, warming to the occasion, Mr. Skee frisked and high-stepped with the youngest and gayest, and found the supper so wholly to his liking that he promptly applied for a room, and as soon as one was vacant it was given him. Vivian danced to her heart's content and enjoyed the friendly merriment about her; but when Fordham Greer took her out on the long piazza to rest and breathe a little, she saw the dark bulk of the house across the street with its one half-lit window, and could not avoid thinking of the lonely man there. He had not come to the dance—no one expected that, of course; but all his boys had come and were having the best of times. "It's his own fault, of course—but it's a shame," she thought. The music sounded gaily from within, and young Greer urged another dance. She stood there for a moment, hesitating, her hand on his arm, when a tall figure came briskly up the street from the station, turned in at their gate, came up the steps—— The girl gave a little cry, and shrank back for an instant, then eagerly came forward and gave her hand to him. It was Morton. (To be continued.) The Forerunner 133 LOVELY PIE They were passionately fond of Pie. They were unable to resist a Pie of any sort; and for a specially attractive Pie they would fight like mad. Indeed, it was the custom at one time, always to fight for Pies, the proud victor seizing the Prize of Conquest and gorging himself thereon. Occasionally there appeared a Pie of such Transcendent Charms that Kings were mad for it, and Nations driven to war—that the King might have his Pie. So universal were the private struggles for possession of the Pie, and so frequent the larger battles, that grave historians discoursed on Pie as the Cause of War. In later years, when physical combat gave way to business competition; when folk, instead of fighting for their Pies, were made to pay for them; arose a dreadful lust for gold, not as a thing of merit in itself, but as the Price of Pie. Alike in the days of gory combat, and in the later frantic efforts to obtain the Price of Pie, nefarious arts were used. Folk stole their Pies—so mad were they to get them. The brawny barbarian wrested the desired Pie from the arms of the previous possessor, or abducted it at night; and the less brawny civilian stole and cheated pettily, or wrecked whole railroads if need be, to secure his Pie. They made great laws and many of them to secure to each man his own Pie; and also, even in spite of growing wisdom and religion, there remained a deeply imbedded "unwritten law" whereby any man was justified in killing the other man who stole his Pie. As may well be imagined, with such a fondness as this, each successful Captor or Purchaser of Pie fled to his lair or home and satiated himself therewith. Over-indulgence in Pie was the universal rule; so universal was this and so universal the indigestion which followed, with a lengthening train of associate ills besides, that philosophers and preachers began to recognize the Pie as the Source of Evil. They wrote and preached continuously on the Perils of Pie; and some of the most noble-minded abstained from Pie for life and were esteemed saints. Nevertheless the majority still partook, excessively, of Pie; and their preliminary machinations and subsequent indigestions produced so much distress that there arose a common proverb to this effect: in case of any crime or sorrow, "Look for the Pie!" The extreme desirability of Pies, coupled with these conspicuous evils so universally attributed to them, aroused much wonderment, and resulted in another popular saying, "Pie is an enigma." Solution to this Enigma was sought for with general enthusiasm, but only by two methods—one, that of the Saints, who let it alone, the other that of the more common people, who ate it. No amount of ensuing evils seemed able to check over-indulgence in Pie. So impressed were most people by the amount of ingenuity and activity manifested in the Pursuit of Pie, that they gave to this special desire great honor, and said it made the world go 'round. As a matter of fact, however, the world revolved in spite of the excesses of these Pie-devourers rather than because of them. And still the Pie remained the most prominent subject in their minds; they talked and wrote about it continually, and all their stories hinged upon the valiant efforts or subtle schemes by which a Pie was won. For their everlasting warfare to get it, they blamed the Pie; for their destructive plots and plans to secure it, they blamed the Pie; for their overmastering desire for it, they blamed the Pie; for all the diseases that sprang from over-eating it, they blamed the Pie; for the famished loneliness of those who religiously abstained from it, they blamed the Pie. And still they prized it above all possessions and sang songs in its honor—— "Pie, Lovely Pie!" 134 THE "ARTICLE OF FACT" There is at present in editorial offices rather a sneer for what they call an "essay" as compared with the readable, impressive, highly paid "article of fact." "The public wants to know the facts," says the successful caterer to the popular mind, and proceeds to furnish facts without end. The universe is full of facts, and human beings have been observing them for some time. So have the other animals. None of these facts were of any use to us until that human mind began to think, not merely to observe, or even to remember, but to co-relate, "to put two and two together.' Perhaps the editor, defending his patrons, will answer: "The public can think for itself; give it the facts." The editor is wrong. The public has never yet been able to think for itself. If it could we should have had an end of poverty long ago. The "facts" on that subject were plain enough—one hundred men doing the work and one man getting the results—good plain, cogent facts, visible to the whole public—facts of poor food and not enough of it, poor clothing, poor housing, poor everything; and yet this great patient public making the food and clothing and houses with their own hands. "Facts" do not illuminate the popular mind—not in a thousand years. What it needs is to learn to think—to be shown the relation between one fact and another, the causation and sequence of events. The world is led and governed by ideas, not facts. As long as we believed in "the divine right of kings," we submitted to a one man dominance resting on the accident of birth, and that again on the androcentric theory of "descent in the male line." As long as we believe that all women are cooks, we submit to an average woman's cooking, and the facts of our general indigestion, household waste and doctor's bills never move us in the least. Of course knowledge of facts must precede accurate thought upon them, but our knowledge is always ahead of our thinking power. "But the public does not like to think," says the editor. Then why furnish the facts? What good does it do to know all these things if no one ever studies their relation and effect. "The public must think for itself," says the editor. Then why should not the public gather the facts for itself. If the public needs to gather the services of the best brains to gather facts, why not use them a little to help think? ——— THREE WOMEN (Concluded from page 123) considered. I have advised with my family. I have seen the effects of this choice you require—the choice between living and loving. I have seen what it means to a woman to have love—and lose life. And what it means to have life—and lose love. DR. RUSSELL—It is the woman's problem, and must be faced. You have your Life. I offer you—Love. Which will you choose? ALINE—Both, if you please. (He stands checked, astonished, angry, and hurt. She sinks down on the cushions, hides her face, sobs—or laughs. He sees a tear shine between her fingers is beside her, his arms around her. She pushes him away. Then she turns her face and smiles up at him entrancingly, her head back on the velvet cushions, her two great roses lifted to her chin.) If I were a man—and a lover—and the woman I loved was willing to marry me, I don't think I'd let a thing like this stand between us. (He drops beside her draws her to him, his voice quite shaken.) DR. RUSSELL—I thought I knew best about this, Aline. But you may be right. ALINE—My dear—you must take me as a teacher or not take me at all! DR. RUSSELL—We will try it together, Aline. Only love me! (She comes to him.) CURTAIN. The Forerunner 135 MOVING THE MOUNTAIN Synopsis: John Robertson, falling over a precipice in Tibet, loses all recollection for thirty years. He is found by his sister, recovers his memory, and returns home. On the way he learns of great changes in his native land, and is not pleased. Arriving, he cannot deny some improvements, but is still dissatisfied. New food and new housekeeping arrangements impress him; better buildings and great saving in money. CHAPTER V. WHILE below, they took me into the patio, that quiet inner garden which was so attractive from above. It was a lovely place. The moon was riding high and shone down into it; a slender fountain spray rose shimmering from its carved basin; on the southern-facing wall, a great wisteria vine drooped in budding purple, and beds of violets made the air rich with soft fragrance. Here and there were people walking; and in the shadowy corners sat young couples, apparently quite happy. "I suppose you don't know the names of one of them," I suggested. "On the contrary, I know nearly all," answered Hallie. "These apartments are taken very largely by friends and acquaintances. You see, the gardens and the roofs are in common; and then there are the reading rooms, ballrooms, and so on. It is pleasanter to be friends to begin with, and most of us get to be afterward if we are not at first. "But surely there are some disagreeable people left on earth!" "Yes—but where there is so much more social life, people get together in congenial sets," put in Nellie, "just as we used to in Summer resorts." "There aren't so many bores and fools as there used to be, John," Owen remarked. "We really do raise better people. Even the old ones have improved; you see, life is so much pleasanter and more interesting." "We're all healthier, Uncle John, because we're better fed; that makes us more agreeable." "There's more art in the world to make us happier," said Jerrold. "Hallie thinks it's all due to her everlasting bread and butter. Listen to that now!" From a balcony up there in the moonlight came a delicious burst of melody; a guitar and two voices; and the refrain was taken up from another window, from one corner of the garden, from the roof; all in smooth accord. "Your group here must be an operatic one," I suggested; but my nephew answered that it was not, but that music, good music, was so common now, and so well taught, that the average was high in both taste and execution. We sat late that night, my new family bubbling over with things to say, and filling my mind with a confused sense of new advantages, unexplained and only half believed. I could not bring myself to accept as commonplace facts the unusual excellences so glibly described, and I suppose my silences showed this as well as what I said, for my sister presently intervened with decision: "We must all stop this for to-night," she said. "John feels as if he was being forcibly fed—he's got to rest. Then I suggest that to-morrow Owen take him in hand—go off for a tramp, why don't you?—and really straighten out things. You see there are two distinct movements to consider, the unconscious progress that would have taken place anyway in thirty years, and then the deliberate measures adopted by the 'New Lifers,' and it's rather confusing. I've labored with him all the way home; now I think the man's point of view will help." ——— Owen was a big man with a strong, wholesome face, and a quizzical little smile of his own. He and I went up the river next morning in a swift motor boat which did not batter the still air with muffled banging as they used to do, and strolled off in the bright Spring sunshine into Palisade Park. "We've saved all the loveliest of it— for keeps," he said. "Out here, where the grass and trees are just as they used to be, you won't be so bothered—and one Expositor will be easier to handle than four at once. Now shall I talk—or will you ask questions?" "I'd like to ask a few questions first; then you can expound by the hour. Do 136 Moving the Mountain give me the long and short of this 'women-waked-up' proposition. What does it mean—to a man?" Owen stroked his chin. "No loss," he said at length. "At least, no loss that's not covered by a greater gain. Do yo uremember the new biological theory in regard to the relative position of the sexes that was beginning to make headway when we were young?" I nodded. "Ward's theory? Oh, yes. I heard something of it—pretty far-fetched, it seemed to me." "Far-fetched and dear-bought, but true for all that. You'll have to swallow it. The female is the race type; the male is her assistant. It's established beyond a peradventure." I meditated, painfully. I looked at Owen. He had just as happy and proud a look as if he was a real man—not merely an Assistant. I thought of Jerrold —nothing cowed about him: of the officers and men on the ship; of such men as I had seen in the street— "I suppose this applies in the main to remote origins?" I suggested at last. "It holds good all through life—is just as true as it ever was." "Then—do you mean that women run everything and men are only helpers?" "Oh, no; I wasn't talking about human life at all—only about sex. 'Running things' has nothing to do with that. Women run some businesses and are in practically all; but men still do the bulk of the world's work. There is a natural division of labor, after all." This was pleasant to hear, but he dashed my hopes. "Men do almost all the violent plain work—digging and hewing and hammering; women, as a class, prefer the administrative and constructive kinds. But all that is open yet, and settling itself gradually, men and women are working everywhere. The big change which Nellie is always referring to means simply that women 'waked up' to a realization of the fact that they were human beings." "What were they before, pray?" "Only female beings." "Female human beings, of course," said I. "Yes, a little human, but mostly female. Now they are mostly human. It is a great change." "I dont' follow you. Aren't they still wives and mothers?" "They are still mothers—far more so than they were before, as a matter of fact; but as to being wives—there's a difference." I was displeased, and showed it. "Well, it is Polygamy, or Polyandry, or Trial Marriages, or what?" Owen gazed at me with an expression very like Nellie's. "There it is," he said. "You can only think about women in some sort of relation to men, of a change in marriage relation as merely a change in kind; whereas what has happened is a change in degree. We still have monogamous marriage, on a much purer and more lasting plane than a generation ago; but the word 'wife' does not mean what it used to." "Go on—I can't follow you at all." "A 'wife' used to be a possession; 'wilt thou be mine?' said the lover, and the wife was 'his.'" "Well—whose else is she now?" I asked with some sharpness. "She does not 'belong' to anyone in that old sense. She is the wife of her husband in that she is his true lover, and that their marriage is legally recorded; but her life and work does not belong to him. He has no right to her 'services' any more. A woman who is in a business —like Hallie, for instance—does not give it up when she marries." I stopped him. "What! Isn't Hallie married?" "No—not yet." "But—that is her flat?" "Yes, why not?" He laughed at me. "You see, you can't imagine a woman having a home of her own. Hallie is twenty-three. She won't marry for some years probably; but she has her position and is doing excellent work; it's only a minor inspectorship, but she likes it. Why shouldn't she have a home?" "Why doesn't she have it with you?" "Because I like to live with my wife. Her business, and mine, are in Michigan, Hallie's in New York." "And when she marries she keeps on being an inspector?" I queried. "Precisely. The man who marries that young woman will have much happiness, but he will not 'own' her, and she will not be his wife in the sense of a servant. She The Forerunner 137 will not darn his socks or cook his meals. Why should she?" "Will she not nurse his babies?" "No, she will nurse her babies—their babies, not 'his' merely." "And keep on being an inspector?" "And keep on being an inspector—for four hours a day—in two shifts. Not a bit more difficult than cooking, my dear boy." "But—she will not be with her children—" "She will be with her children twenty hours out of the twenty-four—if she wants to. But Hallie's not specially good with children. . . You see, John, the women have specialized—even in motherhood." Then he went on at considerable length to show how there had arisen a recognition of far more efficient motherhood than was being given; that those women best fitted for the work had given eager, devoted lives to it and built up a new science of Humaniculture; that no woman was allowed to care for her children without proof of capacity. "Allowed by whom?" I put in. "By the other women—the Department of Child Culture, the Government." "And the fathers—do they submit to this, tamely?" "No, they cheerfully agree and approve. Absolutely the biggest thing that has happened, some of us think, is this new recognition of the importance of childhood. We are raising better people now." I was silent for a while, pulling up bits of grass and snapping small sticks into inch pieces. "There was a good deal of talk about Eugenics, I remember," I said at last, "and—what was that thing? Endowment of Motherhood?" "Yes—man's talk," Owen explained. "You see, John, we couldn't look at women but in one way—in the old days; it was all a question of sex with us—inevitably, we being males. Our whole idea of improvement was in better breeding; our whole idea of motherhood was in each woman's devoting her whole life to her own children. That turbid freshet of an Englishman, Wells, who did so much to stir his generation, said, 'I am wholly feminist'—and he was! He saw women only as females and wanted them endowed as such. He never was able to see them as human beings and amply competent to take care of themselves. "Now, our women, getting hold of this idea that they really are human creatures, simply blossomed forth in new efficiency. They specialized the food business—Hallie's right about the importance of that— and then they specialized the baby business. All women who wish to, have babies; but if they wish to take care of them they must show a diploma." I looked at him. I didn't like it—but what difference did that make? I had died thirty years ago, it appeared. "A diploma for motherhood!" I repeated; but he corrected me. "Not at all! Any woman can be a mother—if she's normal. I said she had to have a diploma as a child-culturist— quite a different matter." "I don't see the difference." "No, I suppose not. I didn't, once," he said. "Any and every mother was supposed to be competent to 'raise' children —and look at the kind of people we raised! You see, we are beginning to learn—just beginning. You needn't imagine that we are in a state of perfection —there are more new projects up for discussion than ever before. We've only made a start. The consequences, so far, are so good that we are boiling over with propositions for future steps." "Go on about the women," I said. "I want to know the worst and become resigned." "There's nothing very bad to tell," he continued cheerfully. "When a girl is born she is treated in all ways as if she was a boy; there is no hint made of any distinction between them except in the perfectly open physiological instruction as to their future duties. Children, young humans, grow up under precisely the same conditions. I speak, of course, of the most advanced peoples—there are still backward places—there's plenty to do yet. "Then the growing girls are taught of their place and power as mothers—and they have tremendously high ideals. That's what has done so much to raise the standard in men—it came hard, but it worked." I raised my head with keen interest, remarking, 138 Moving the Mountain "I've glimpsed a sort of 'iron hand in a velvet glove' back of all this. What did they do?" Owen looked rather grim for a moment. "The worst of it was twenty or twenty-five years back. Most of those men are dead. That new religious movement stirred the socio-ethical sense to sudden power; it coincided with the women's political movement, urging measures for social improvement; its enormous spread, both by preaching and literature, lit up the whole community with new facts, ideas and feelings. Health—physical purity—was made a practical ideal. the young women learned the proportion of men with syphilis and gonorrhea and decided that it was enough to marry them. That was enough. They passed laws in every State requiring a clean bill of health with every marriage license. Diseased men had to die bachelors—that's all." "And did men submit to legislation like that?" I protested. "Why not? It was so patently for the protection of the race—of the family—of the women and children. Women were solid for it, of course—and all the best men with them. To oppose it was almost a confession of guilt and injured a man's chances of marriage." "It used to be said that any man could find a woman to marry him," I murmured meditatively. "Maybe he could—once. He certainly cannot now. A man who has one of those diseases is so reported—just like small-pox, you see. Moreover, it is registered against him by the Department of Eugenics—physicians are required to send in lists; any girl can find out." "It must have left a large proportion of unmarried women." "It did, at first. And that very thing was of great value to the world. They were wise, conscientious, strong women, you see, and they poured all their tremendous force into social service. Lots of them went into child culture—used their mother-power that way. It wasn't easy for them; it wasn't easy for the left-over men, either!" "It must have increased prostitution to an awful extent," I said. Owen shook his head and regarded me quizzically. "That is the worst of it," he said. "There isn't any." I sat up. I stood up. I walked up and down. "No prostitution! I—I can't believe it. Why, prostitution is a social necessity, as old as Nineveh!" Owen laughed outright. "Too late, old man, too late! I know we used to think so. We did use to call it a 'social necessity,' didn't we? Come, now, tell me what necessity it was to the women." I stopped my march and looked at him. "To the women," he repeated. "What did they want of prostitution? What good did it do them?" "Why—why—they made a living at it," I replied, rather lamely. "Yes, a nice, honorable, pleasant, healthy living, didn't they? With all women perfectly well able to earn an excellent living decently; with all women fully educated about these matters and knowing what a horrible death was before them in this business; with all women brought up like human beings and not like over-sexed female animals; and with all women quite free to marry if they wished to—how many do you think would choose that kind of business? "We never waited for them to choose it, remember! We fooled them and lied to them and dragged them in—and drove them in—forced them in—and kept them as slaves and prisoners. They didn't really enjoy the life; you know that. Why should they go into it if they do not have to; to accommodate us?" "Do you mean to tell me there are no—wantons—among women?" I demanded. "No, I don't mean any such thing. There are various kinds of over-developed and morbidly developed women as there are men, and we haven't weeded them out entirely. But the whole thing is now recognized as pathological— cases for medical treatment, or perhaps surgical. Besides, wantonness is not prostitution. Prostitution is a social crime of the worst order. No one thing did more harm. The women stamped it out." "Legislated us all into morality, did they?" I inquired sarcastically. The Forerunner 139 "Legislation did a good deal; education did more; the new religion did most; social opinion helped. You remember we men never really tried to legislate against prostitution—we wanted it to go on." "Why, surely we did legislate against it—and it was of no use!" I protested. "No, we legislated against the women, but not against the men, or the thing itself. We examined the women, and fined them, and licensed them—and never did anything against the men. Women legislators used very different measures, I assure you." "I suppose it is for the good of the world," I presently admitted; "but—" "But you don't quite like to think of men in this new and peculiar position of having to be good!" "Frankly—I don't. I'm willing to be good, but—I don't like to be given no choice." "Well, now, look at it. As it was, we had our way, according to what we thought was good for us. Rather than lead clean, continent lives at some expense to ourselves in the way of moral and physical control, we deliberately sacrificed an army of women to a horrible life and a more horrible death, and corrupted the blood of the nation. It was on the line of health they made their stand, not on 'morality' alone. Under our new laws it is held a crime to poison another human being with syphilis, just as much as to use prussic acid." "Nellie said you had no crime now." "Oh, well, Nellie is an optimist. I suppose she meant the old kinds and definitions; we don't call things 'crimes' any more. And then, really, there is not a hundredth part of the evil done that there used to be. We know more, you see, and we have less temptation." We were silent for a while. I watched a gull float and wheel over the blue water. Big airships flew steadily along certain lines; little ones sailed about on all sides. One darted over our heads and lit with a soft swoop on an open promontory. "Didn't they use to buzz?" I asked Owen. "Of course, just as the first motor boats thumped and banged abominably. We won't stand for unnecessary noise, as we used to." "How do you stop it? More interference with the individual rights?" "More recognition of public rights. A bad noise is a nuisance, like a bad smell. We didn't used to mind it much—but the women did. You see what women like has to be considered now." "It always was considered!" I broke in with some heat. "The women of America were the most spoiled, pampered lot on earth; men gave up to them in all ways." "At home, perhaps, but not in public. The city and State weren't run to suit them at all." "Why should they be? Women belong at home—if they push into a man's world they ought to take the consequences." Owen stretched his long legs and looked up at the soft, brilliant blue above us. "Why do you call the world 'man's'?" he asked. "It was man's; it ought to be. Woman's place is in the home. I suppose I sound like ancient history to you?" and I laughed a little shamefacedly. "We have rather lost that point of view," Owen guardedly admitted. "You see—" and then he laughed. "It's no use, John; no matter how we put it to you, it's a jar. The world's thought has changed—and you've got to catch up!" "Suppose I refuse? Suppose I really am unable?" "We won't suppose it for a moment," he said cheerfully. "Ideas are not nailed down. Just take out what you had, and insert some new ones. Women are people —just as much as we are; that's a fact, my dear fellow. You'll have to accept it." "And are men allowed to be people, too?" I asked gloomily. "Why, of course! Nothing has interfered with our position as human beings; it is only our sex supremacy that we have lost." "And do you like it?" I demanded. "Some men made a good deal of fuss at first—the old-fashioned kind and all the worst varieties. But modern men aren't worried in the least over their position. . . See here, John, you 140 Moving the Mountain don't grasp this—women are vastly more agreeable than they used to be." I looked at him in amazement. "Fact!" he said. "Of course we loved our own mothers and daughters and sisters, more or less, no matter how they looked or what they did; and when we were 'in love' there was no limit to the glory of 'the beloved object.' But you and I know that women were pretty unsatisfactory in the old days." I refused to admit it, but he went on calmly: "The 'wife and mother' was generally a tired, nervous, overworked creature. She soon lost her beauty and vigor, her charm and inspiration. We were forever chasing fine, handsome, highly desirable young girls, and forever reducing them to weary, worn-out women—in the name of love! The gay outsiders were always a fresh attraction—as long as we couldn't have them. . . See here, John—can't you understand? Our old way of using women wasn't good for them—nor for us, either, by the way— but it simply spoiled the women. They were hopelessly out of the running with us in all human lines; their business was housework, and ours was world work. There was very little real companionship. "Now, women are intelligent, experienced, well-trained citizens, fully our equals in any line of work they take up, and with us everywhere. It's made the world over!" "Made it 'feminist' through and through, I suppose!" I groaned. "Not a bit! It used to be 'masculist' through and through; now it's just human. And, see here—women are more attractive, as women, than they used to be." I stared at this, unbelieving. "That's true! You see, they are healthy; there's a new standard of physical beauty—very Greek—you must have noticed already the big, vigorous, fresh-colored, free-stepping girls." I had—even in my brief hours of observation. "They are far more perfect physically, better developed mentally, with a higher moral sense—yes, you needn't look like that! We used to call them our 'moral superiors' just because they had the one virtue we insisted on—and we never noticed the lack in other lines. Women to-day are truthful, brave, honest, generous, self-controlled; they are— jollier, more reasonable, more companionable." "Well, I'm glad to hear that," I rather grudgingly admitted. "I was afraid they would have lost all—charm." "Yes, we used to feel that way, I remember. Funny! We were convinced on the one hand that there was nothing to a woman but her eternal womanliness, and on the other we were desperately afraid that her womanliness would disappear the moment she turned her mind to anything else. I assure you that men love women, in general and in particular, much more than they used to." I pondered. "But—what sort of home life do you have?" "Think for a moment of what we used to have—even in a 'happy home.' The man had the whole responsibility of keeping it up—his business life and interests, all foreign to her. She had the whole labor of running it—the direct manual labor in the great majority of cases—the management in any case. They were strangers in an industrial sense. "When he came home he had to drop all his line of thought—and she hers, except that she generally unloaded on him the burden of inadequacy in housekeeping. Sometimes he unloaded, too. They could sympathize and condole—but neither could help the other. "The whole thing cost like sin, too. It was a living nightmare to lots of men— and women! The only things they had in common were their children and 'social interests.' "Well—nowadays, in the first place, everybody is easy about money. (I'll go into that later.) No woman marries except for love—and good judgment, too; all women are more desirable—more men want to marry them—and that improves the men! You see, a man naturally cares more for women than for anything else in life—and they know it! It's the handle they lift by. That's what has eliminated tobacco." "Do you mean to say that these women have arbitrarily prevented smoking?" The Forerunner 141 I do not smoke myself, but I was angry nevertheless. "Not a bit of it, John—not a bit of it. Anybody can smoke who wants to." "Then why don't they?" "Because women do not like it." "What has that to do with it? Can't a man do what he wants to—even if they don't like it?" "Yes, he can; but it costs too much. Men like tobacco, but they like love better, old man." "Is it one of your legal requirements for marriage?" "No, not legal; but women disapprove of tobacco-y lovers, husbands, fathers; they know that the excessive use of it is injurious, and won't marry a heavy smoker; but the main point is that they simply don't like the smell of the stuff, or of the man who uses it—most women, that is." "But what difference does it make? I dare say that most women did not like it before, but surely a man has a right—" "To make himself a disgusting object to his wife?" Owen interrupted. "Yes, he has a 'right' to. He would have a right to bang on a tin pan, I suppose— or to burn rubber, but he wouldn't be popular!" "It's tyranny!" I protested. "Not at all," he said imperturbably. "We had no idea what a nuisance we used to be, that's all; or how much women put up with that they did not like at all. I asked a woman once—when I was a bachelor—why she objected to tobacco, and she frankly replied that a man who did not smoke was much pleasanter to kiss! She was a very fascinating little widow—I confess it made me think." "It's the same with liquor, I suppose? Let's get it all told." "Yes, only more so. Alcoholism was a race evil of the worst sort. I cannot imagine how we put up with it so long." "Is this spotless world of yours one solid temperance union?" "Practically. We use some light wines and a little spirits yet, but infrequently —in this country at least, and Europe is vastly improved. "But that was a much more serious thing than the other. It wasn't a mere matter of not marrying! They used all kinds of means— But come on—we'll be late to dinner; and dinner, at least, is still a joy, Brother John." (To be continued.) ——— COMMENT AND REVIEW Here's another quotation from that betraying record of the popular mind, the short story. This is such a gem that it should carry the author's name, Henry C. Rowland. It is taken from a short story called, "Her Masterpiece," published in Ainslee's within a few years. Mr. Rowland speaks thus of his hero: "A single glance at the mayor was enough to label him as the natural protector of all weak things—women, the poor, children, sick kittens and the like." Men are so used to treating women as a pitifully helpless lot, women are so used to being treated as such, that pieces of insolence like this pass unnoticed. Reverse the sex and say, "Men, the poor, children, sick kittens, and the like." That is absurd, of course. Men are in no way like sick kittens. Neither are women. Women do not bear the relation to society as a whole, or to men as a whole, which is here so contemptuously indicated. The natural pride of the male in his own physique entirely misleads him, and his fatuous belief in that poor fiction of his own making about "the weaker vessel" misleads him further. Any male animal will "protect" his female from other male animals, as he would anything else he valued. A man will fight to keep his money from robbers, but that does not constitute him a "protector" of money. Men "protect" their own women from other men, but they have never protected women in general from men in general—nor even their own women from themselves. A recent article in Hampton's Magazine describes the successful efforts of Harry 142 Comment and Review P. Cassidy, Food Inspector in Philadelphia, in finding various kinds and grades of poison in the food supplies of that city. Following his researches, it appeared that enormous quantities of glucose used in the manufacture of candy were poisoned with sulphites, to make the stuff look white and resemble sugar syrup. This glucose, to some half million dollars' worth, the manufacturers were compelled to remove from the State of Pennsylvania. Where to? The incident serves to bring out a deficiency in our Sovereign State legislation one never dreamed of in the days when trade was local, each State a little commonwealth, and The Nation but a vague thing of hope and promise. It would seem as if a kind of sin which reaches over all the country should be met by legislation covering all the country, as indeed our Federal Food laws do try to meet such public offenses as this. But should not the discovery of evil in one state be met by instant appeal to the Federal Government? This was an offense against the people of America, not simply the people of Pennsylvania. We need a new kind of law for such new villainies. To manufacture or sell a food product, containing a deleterious substance should be made a criminal offense and treated as such. If complaint is made of ill effects of such food products, if deleterious qualities are proved, and if the manufacturers continue to make it after such evidence, they should be indicted for public poisoning—a wholesale homicide. One item of large importance stands out clearly above the confused welter of state politics. A bill is before the legislature of Minnesota asking a small appropriation to provide ten "ready made" farms of forty acres each, twenty of which are to be cleared, planted and tilled, and sold to settlers just before harvest time at 15 per cent. of the purchase price; the rest of which at 4 per cent. interest, he has forty years to pay. "This," says a solemn editor, "would be a splendid undertaking if the state could afford to make the forty-year investment." As a state it is a reasonably permanent institution, and as land is a reasonably permanent kind of property, one would think that a state could. By right of eminent domain, the land belongs to the state in any case; it has only to invest enough in seed and labor to start the crop and then draw its four per cent. continuously, a good rate of interest. To be sure, it is a Socialist measure; but progressive legislation naturally is. "These two fathers were men who had met the world and had fought it, and, what is more important, they had won." This is only a bit of some common-place expression from some story in a popular magazine, but its very common-placeness shows how universal it is the Androcentric standard of thought. What does this fighting the world really mean? If these old gentlemen had acquired their money honestly, they had earned it by serving the world. If they had acquired it dishonestly, it was done by trickery and extortion. Money is not earned by fighting—unless in the prize ring. After a number of men have worked, earned their pay and received it, then they may if they like, fight among themselves and rob one another. Is that what these worthy gentlemen had done? Shall we not keep the Home of "Little Women?" The Concord Woman's Club is trying to save the home of Louisa M. Alcott, in which Little Women was written and where little paintings and sketches by "Amy" may still be seen on the woodwork. If everyone who ever read and enjoyed that marvellous book, should give even ten cents, far more than the necessary amount would be raised. $8,000 is wanted to buy house and land, and make it a permanent memorial. Send contributions to Henry F. Smith, Jr., Concord, Mass. The Forerunner THE HOME ITS WORK AND INFLUENCE By Charlotte Perkins Gilman A new edition in response to a continued demand for this book, first published in 1903. With sound logic and sparkling wit, Mrs. Gilman discusses Domestic Mythology, Art, Ethics and Entertainment, Home Cooking, and the Influence of the Home on the Man, the Woman, the Girl and the Child, concluding with a study of the tendencies to change and improvement already visible, and a forecast of the future. Mailed postpaid by In Cloth, $1.00 THE CHARLTON COMPANY 67 Wall Street New York City ——————— "HUMAN WORK" By Charlotte Perkins Gilman Charlotte Perkins Gilman has added a third to her great trilogy of books on economic subjects as they affect our daily life, particularly in the home. Mrs. Gilman is by far the most brilliant woman writer of our day, and this new volume, which she calls "Human Work," is a glorification of labor.—New Orleans Picayune. In her latest volume, "Human Work," Charlotte Perkins Gilman places herself among the foremost students and elucidators of the problem of social economics.—San Francisco Star. It is impossible to overestimate the value of the insistence on the social aspect of human affairs as Mrs. Gilman has outlined it.—Public Opinion. Mailed postpaid by In Cloth, $1.00 THE CHARLTON COMPANY 67 Wall Street New York City The Forerunner Subscribe for The Woman's Journal 585 Boylston St., Boston, Mass. Official Organ of the National American Woman Suffrage Association A weekly newspaper devoted to winning the ballot for women Contains all the best news about women and their progress FOUNDED 1870 BY LUCY STONE AND HENRY B. BLACKWELL Edited by Alice Stone Blackwell The Woman's Journal is published in Boston and controlled by the National American Woman Suffrage Association whose headquarters are at 505 Fifth Avenue, New York City. It gives suffrage news from every state in the Union, and especially from the states where campaigns are under way ; it gives important suffrage news from all the countries where the women have the full right of suffrage, and from the countries where the battle is waging ; it gives official announcements and rousing news. Thousands of women read it every week from beginning to end. Nobody who has read it one month can ever do without it. It is the only paper of its kind in this country. Send for sample copies for yourself and ask us to send them to your friends. Try our four months trial subscription for 25 cents. REGULAR SUBSCRIPTION RATES DOMESTIC CANADIAN 1 year . . . . . . . . . . . . . $1.00 1 year . . . . . . $1.50 6 months . . . . . . . . . . .50 4 months on trial . . . .25 FOREIGN Single copies . . . . . . .05 1 year . . . . . . $1.50 A full year's subscription costs only - - - - - $1.00 CAN YOU AFFORD TO WITHOUT IT? 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Lectures Club and Parlor Talks Dramatic Readings By Charlotte Perkins Gilman During the Spring and Summer Mrs. Gilman will be able to accept engagements to speak before large and small audiences and to give dramatic readings from her own plays. Write for terms, lecture list, and full particulars. The Charlton Company 67 Wall Street New York The Forerunner To Prospective Subscribers THE FORERUNNER FROM THE BEGINNING In order that new subscribers may, if they wish, have THE FORERUNNER complete and in the most convenient form for the same price they would have paid for it if they had been charter subscribers, we shall give ONE BOUND VOLUME AND ONE NEW SUBSCRIPTION FOR $2.00 To those new subscribers who are more interested in Mrs. Gilman's fascinating housekeeping novel, "What Diantha Did," or in her startling new book about men, "The Man-made World;" or to old subscribers who wish to make presents to friends, we offer "WHAT DIANTHA DID" or " THE MAN-MADE WORLD" AND ONE NEW SUBSCRIPTION FOR $1.75 Our Special Club Offer One of Mrs. Gilman's Books, A New Subscription or our Bound Volume FREE for every five subscription at $1.00 each, THE FORERUNNER will give as a premium choice of One new annual subscription, A copy of our bound volume I, A copy of "What Diantha Did", A copy of "The Man-made World," A copy of "The Home", A copy of "Human Work." Are there not five persons in your town, or in your circle who would like THE FORERUNNER, and whom you should like to have it? If you believe that THE FORERUNNER has a mission, here is a chance to extend its influence to your friends, and, at the same time, get for yourself more of Mrs. Gilman's best work. Volume 2. No. 6. June 1911 THE FORERUNNER BY Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Contents Something to Vote For. A Diet Undesired. Happiness and Religion. The Crux. Chapter VI. Stones. The Wild Oats of the Soul. That Obvious Purpose. Moving Mountain, Chapter VI. "N. G." Comment and Review 1.00 A YEAR 67 WALL ST. NEW YORK .10 A COPY THE FORERUNNER A Monthly Magazine WRITTEN, EDITED, OWNED AND PUBLISHED By Charlotte Perkins Gilman "THE CRUX" Mrs. Gilman's new novel, appears in THE FORERUNNER, of 1911 This touches upon one of the most vivid and vital of our marriage problems; and has more than one kind of love story in it. Also, published serially, her next book, "Moving the Mountain" Those who believe this world is a good place easily made better, and who wish to know how to help it, will enjoy reading this book. Those who do not so believe and wish may not enjoy it so much, but it will do them good. The Forerunner carries Mrs. Gilman's best and newest work ; her social philosophy, her verse, satire, fiction, ethical teaching, humor, and comment. It stands for Humanness in Women, and in Men ; for better methods in Child-culture ; for the Home that is no Workshop ; for the New Ethics, the New Economics, the New World we are to make - are making. THE FORERUNNER for 1910, bound, $1.25 THE FORERUNNER CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN'S MAGAZINE CHARLTON CO.., 67 WALL ST., NEW YORK Domestic . . . . . $1.00 a year Canadian . . . . . 1.12 " Foreign . . . . . . . 1.25 " Please find inclosed $______________ as subscription to "The Forerunner" from _______________19___ to ______________19___. ____________________________________________ ____________________________________________ ____________________________________________ The Forerunner What Diantha Did A NOVEL BY CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN FROM OUR REVIEWS "What Diantha Did" is a sensible book; it gives a new and deserved comprehension of the importance and complexity of housekeeping. . . . We would not undervalue Mrs. Gilman's attempt to let some light in upon the distracting situation of woman in domestic work. It is needed there if in any business in the world. - The Independent. Mrs. Gilman is as full of ideas as ever, and her Diantha is a model for all young women. . . . Dianth'a plans may well furnish a solution to the problems of domestic life that have long been pressing intolerably upon the American woman, and are by no means negligible in European countries. - The Englishwoman. The story is full of action and humorous situations. . . . Diantha is a clever and most engaging young woman, and her experience is related in such a manner, with facts and figures, as to be of practical value to other aspiring housekeepers. - Chicago Socialist. What she did was to solve the domestic service problem for both mistress and maid in a southern California town; and she illustrated in her own life Mrs. Gilman's theory that a wife, mother and housekeeper can easily be also a business man. - The Survey. The interest in all this lies partly in the reader's continual questioning of the possibility of such results and the shrewdness with which Mrs. Gilman meets these inevitable questions with trenchant facts and incontestable figures. At the end one may not be convinced, but one has been impressed. The kitchen, whose sordid demands have thwarted the aspirations of so many women and prevented any measure of real life, has a real interest in the hands of such a serious and clever writer. - The Chicago Evening Post. Mailed post-paid by Handsomely bound, $1.00 THE CHARLTON COMPANY 67 WALL STREET, NEW YORK CITY The Forerunner The Man-made World or. Our Androcentric Culture BY CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN "Since the beginning of recorded history the most civilized part of our world has held that woman was at the bottom of all the evil from which we are suffering. Now comes a woman who tells us that it is all the other way. In so far as the world is bad, she says, it is because man has made it to suite himself, without regard for woman's ways and woman's needs. "Furthermore, this woman says that for six thousand years, at least, man has been writing books about woman, as woman making her out to be everything but what she really is. This one woman is tired of the process, she wants to get even with man, and so she has written a book about man - as man. She knows that he will not like it, but she does not care. For she feels that the world can never become what it ought to be until woman gets a hand at its remaking, and for this reason the truth must be told first of all. "Of the future Mrs. Gilman says this in conclusion: "The scope and purpose of human life is entirely above and beyond the field of sex relationship. Women are human beings, as much as men, by nature ; and as women, they are even more sympathetic with human processes. To develop human life in its true powers we need full citizenship for woman." - N. Y. Times, Sunday, January 15, 1911. Mailed post-paid Price, $1.00 THE CHARLTON COMPANY 67 WALL STREET, NEW YORK CITY Volume II, No. 6. JUNE, 1911 THE FORERUNNER A MONTHLY MAGAZINE BY CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN AUTHOR, OWNER & PUBLISHER 67 Wall Street, New York 1.00 A YEAR .10 A COPY COPYWRITE 1911 C. P. GILMAN ENTERED IN NEW YORK POST OFFICE, N. Y., OCTOBER 29, 1909, AS SECOND-CLASS MATTER Parental duty is a law of Nature. Filial duty is a virtue invented by the Patriarchs. SOMETHING TO VOTE FOR A One Act Play Copyright, 1911 By Charlotte Perkins Gilman TIME, 50 MINUTES PEOPLE IN THE PLAY. Mrs. May Carroll: A young, beautiful, rich widow; an "Anti" ; President of Woman's Club ; social leader. Dr. Strong; A woman doctor from Colorado, interested in Woman Suffrage and pure milk. Miss Carrie Turner: Recording secretary of Club; a social aspirant; agrees with everybody; "Anti." Mrs. Reedway : Corresponding Secretary of Club; amiable, elderly nonentity; "Anti." Mrs. Wolverhampton: Rich, impressive, middle-aged matron; "Anti." Mrs. O'Shane: A little woman in black; thin, poor. Louise: A maid. Club Women: Mrs. Black, White, etc. Mr. Henry Arnold: A Milk Inspector. Mr. James Billings: Head of the Milk Trust. Place - A parlor, porch or garden, belonging to Mrs. Carroll. Properties Required - Chairs enough, a small table, a small platform covered with a rug, a table bell, two pitchers, a glass, a vase; two milk bottles filled with water, starch and a little black dirt; a yellow-backed bill, some red ink, a small bunch of flowers, two large clean handkerchiefs, a small bottle of iodine, a teacup. Miss Turner has a bag for her papers, and Dr. Strong an instrument bag or something similar, also a large pocketbook. SOMETHING TO VOTE FOR. (Chairs arranged at right, platform, with table and three chairs at left front. Doors at left, right and center.) (Enter Miss Turner and Mrs. Reedway, l.) Mrs. Reedway - Dear Me! I was so afraid we'd be late ! Miss Turner - ( Looking at watch. ) Oh, no! The meeting begins at three you know, and it's only quarter past ! Mrs. Reedway - ( Drawing scarf about her. ) I wish it would get warmer! I do like warm weather ! Miss Turner - So do I ! Mrs. Reedway - What a lovely place Mrs, Carroll has ! I think we are extremely fortunate to have her for our president. Miss Turner - So do I ! She's so sweet ! Mrs. Reedway - I hear she has asked Mr. Billings to this milk discussion. Miss Turner - Yes - you're not surprised are you? Mrs. Reedway - Oh, no ! Every one is talking about them. He's been conspicuously devoted to her for some time now. I think it's her money he's after. Miss Turner - So do I ! But she's crazy about him ! Mrs. Reedway - I suppose she thinks he's disinterested - being so rich himself. But I've heard tat he'd lose a lot if this milk bill goes through. Miss Turner - So have I. (enter Dr. Strong. l.) Dr. Strong - Sorry to be late. I was detained by a patient. Miss Turner - Oh, you're not late, Dr. Strong. The ladies are usually a little slow in gathering. 144 Something To Vote For DR. STRONG—I see! And about what time do your meetings really begin? MISS TURNER—About half past three, usually. DR. STRONG—Next time I'll come then. I could have seen two more patients —I hate to see women so unpunctual. MISS TURNER—So do I! This is Mrs. Reedway, our corresponding secretary, Dr. Strong. (They shake hands.) MISS REEDWAY—You must remember, Dr. Strong, that our members are not —as a whole—professional women. DR. STRONG—More's the pity! (Ener Mrs. Wolverhampton, l.) MRS. WOLVERHAMPTON—Well, well! Not started yet? But you're always on hand, Miss Turner. (Fans herself.) Bless me, how hot it is! I do hate hot weather. MISS TURNER—So do I. MRS. REEDWAY—Have you met our new member, Mrs. Wolverhampton? Dr. Strong, of Colorado. (Mrs. W. bows. Dr. S. comes forward and shakes hands.) MRS. WOLVERHAMPTON—Dear me! From Colorado! And I suppose you have voted! DR. STRONG—I certainly have. You seem to think I look like it. MRS. WOLVERHAMPTON—Why, yes; if you'll pardon me, you do. DR. STRONG—Pardon you? It seems to me a compliment. We're very proud of being voters—in my country. (Mrs. R. and Mrs. W. draw aside and converse in low tones. Miss T. fussily arranges papers; she has a large flat bag, and is continually diving into it and fumbling about.) (Enter Mrs. Carroll, c.) MRS. CARROLL—Pardon me, ladies! I'd no idea it was so late. (Greets them all.) MISS TURNER—Dear Mrs. Carroll! Would you accept these flowers? MRS. CARROLL—How charming of you, Miss Turner! They are lovely. (Sweeps toward Dr. S., both hands out, c.) My dear Doctor! I feel so glad and proud to have you with us! (Turns to others.) You know, Mrs. Wolverhampton, Dr. Strong saved my mother's life! If she had come here sooner I'm sure she would have saved my baby! And she's going to be such a help to our club, aren't you, Doctor? DR. STRONG—I'm not so sure of that, Mrs. Carroll. I'm afraid this isn't the sort of club I'm used to. MRS. CARROLL—It's the sort of a club that needs you, Doctor! (Takes Dr.'s arm and sits down with her.) Make yourselves quite at home, ladies, the others will be here presently. (Miss T., Mrs. R. and Mrs. W. go out, c.) We've got everything arranged, Doctor. I'm going to have a bottle of the Billings Co. milk tested, and Mr. Billings himself is to be here. DR. STRONG—That may be awkward. MRS. CARROLL—Oh, no! The milk is all right—I've taken it for years. And I think he's a very fine man. DR. STRONG—(Drily.) So I hear. MRS. CARROLL—You mustn't believe all you hear, Doctor. DR. STRONG—I don't. But I hope it isn't true. MRS. CARROLL—Hope what isn't true? DR. STRONG—About you and Mr. Billings. MRS. CARROLL—Never mind about me and Mr. Billings! The question is have you got the new Inspector to come? DR. STRONG—Yes, he'll be ready on time—but the club won't, I'm afraid. MRS. CARROLL—Oh, a few moments won't matter, I'm sure. It's a Mr. Arnold you said—do you know his initials? DR. STRONG—His name's Henry T. Arnold. I believe he's honest and efficient. MRS. CARROLL—(Meditatively.) I used to go to school with a boy named Harry Arnold—he was the very nicest boy in the room. I think he liked me pretty well—— DR. STRONG—And I think you liked him pretty well—eh? MRS. CARROLL—Oh, well! That was years ago! DR. STRONG—(Suddenly.) By the way, Mrs. Carroll, have you any red ink? MRS. CARROLL—Red ink? DR. STRONG—Yes, red ink—can you get me some? MRS. CARROLL—Why, I'm sure I don't know. Let me see—I did have some—it's right here—if there is any. (Goes out r. and returns with red ink.) DR. STRONG—Thank you. (Takes out The Forerunner 145 a yellow-backed bill, and deliberately marks it.) MRS. CARROLL—How exciting! What do you do that for, Doctor? DR. STRONG—Just a habit of mine. Some day I may see that again and then I'd know it. MRS. CARROLL—Do you mark all your money? DR. STRONG—Oh, no. Only some of it. And now will you do me a real favor? MRS. CARROLL—Indeed I will! DR. STRONG—Please do not make any remark about this bill if you see me change it!! MRS. CARROLL—How mysterious! I won't say a word. DR. STRONG—(Putting away bill.) You said I might bring along one of my patients, for evidence, and I have. I've got little Mrs. O'Shane here to tell them how it affects the poor people. MRS. CARROLL—That will be interesting, I'm sure—where is she? DR. STRONG—Waiting outside—I couldn't induce her to come in. MRS. CARROLL—I'll bring her in. (Exit Mrs. C., l., returns with a small shabby women in black, who shrinks into the chair farthest back and sits silent. MRS. CARROLL—It's very good of you to come, Mrs. O'Shane; we're so much obliged! (Enter Louise, l.) LOUISE—Mr. Arnold, Ma'am. MRS. CARROLL—Show him in, Louise. (Exit Louise. Enter Mr. Arnold, l.) DR. STRONG—Mrs. Carroll—Mr. Arnold. MRS. CARROLL—It is Harry Arnold, I do believe! But you don't remember me! MR. ARNOLD—Don't remember little May Terry! The prettiest girl in school! I've never forgotten her. But I did not expect to find you here. MRS. CARROLL—I'm glad to welcome you to my home, Mr. Arnold, as well as to our club. And how are you—getting on? MR. ARNOLD—Nothing to boast of Mrs. Carroll, if you mean in dollars and cents. I like public work you see, and the salaries are not high. MRS. CARROLL—But some of our officials get very rich, don't they? MR. ARNOLD—Yes, some of them do, —but not on their salaries. DR. STRONG—If you knew more about politics, Mrs. Carroll, you would think better of Mr. Arnold for not making much. And he an Inspector, too! MRS. CARROLL—You don't mean that our public men are bribed, surely! DR. STRONG—It's been known to occur. MRS. CARROLL—Oh, I can't believe that such things go on—here! Did any one ever bribe you, Mr. Arnold? MR. ARNOLD—Some have tried. MRS. CARROLL—Not in this town, surely. MR. ARNOLD—Not yet. DR. STRONG—He's only just appointed, Mrs. Carroll. MR. ARNOLD—Thanks to you, Dr. Strong. DR. STRONG—Yes, I guess I did help. (Enter Louise, l.) LOUISE—Mr. Billings. MRS. CARROLL—Ask him to come in. (Exit Louise, l. Enter Mr. Billings, l.) Good afternoon, Mr. Billings. Let me present you to my dear friend, Dr. Strong—our new member. And Mr. Arnold you probably know—the Milk Inspector. (Mr. Billings approaches Dr. Strong, who bows stiffly. He shakes hands amiably with Mr. Arnold.) MR. BILLINGS—Well, Mr. Arnold, I think we're going to make an impression on these ladies. I trust you'll deal gently with me. MR. ARNOLD—I'll do the best I can, Mr. Billings. I didn't expect to have the head of the Milk Trust in my audience. MRS. CARROLL—That is all my fault, Mr. Arnold. I have taken milk of Mr. Billings' company for years, and it's always good. And I want the ladies to know it. Mr. Billings can stand the test. MR. ARNOLD—I'm glad to hear it, Mrs. Carroll. MR. BILLINGS—(Genially.) You'll show up all of us rascally milk-men I don't doubt. MR. ARNOLD—I hope not. (Mr. Billings goes to Mrs. Carroll. They talk apart. Dr. Strong confers with Mr. Arnold.) DR. STRONG—(To Mr. Arnold.) Now 146 Something to Vote For Mr. Arnold watch me, and be sure you play up. Say you can't make change for this bill! (Goes to Mr. Billings.) Mr. Billings—can you—and will you— change this bill for me? Mr. Arnold here can't make it. MR. ARNOLD—I'm sorry, Doctor. But I haven't seen a hundred dollar bill in some time. MRS. CARROLL—Perhaps I can— MR. BILLINGS—No indeed, Mrs. Carroll! I shall be delighted, Dr. Strong— if I have that much about me. (Brings out bills from pockets and makes up the amount.) DR. STRONG—Thank you, Mr. Billing. (Gives him her marked bill. The club members are seen arriving in background, c. Returning to Mr. A.) What figures have you brought, Mr. Arnold? I don't want to cross your trail. (They confer apart.) MR. BILLINGS—(To Mrs. Carroll.) Isn't it rather a new thing for you to interest yourself in public matters, Mrs. Carroll? MRS. CARROLL—Oh, but milk is really a domestic matter—don't you think so? So many of our ladies are getting interested in it. MR. BILLINGS—I suspect that is because you are! I do not think you realize your influence in this town. MRS. CARROLL—I'm sure you overestimate it. MR. BILLINGS—Not in the least! Look at the way you swing this club! And these are the society lights—all the other women follow. And the men are yours to command anyhow! I tell you such an influence as yours has Woman Suffrage beaten to a standstill! MRS. CARROLL—Oh!—Woman Suffrage! (With great scorn. Enter Mrs. Wolverhampton, c.) MRS. WOLVERHAMPTON—Pardon me Mrs. Carroll, but it is half past three. MRS. CARROLL—Dear me! yes, we must come to order. (Ladies all come in and take seats. Some polite confusion. Mrs. Carroll in the chair. Mrs. O'Shane and Mr. Billings at extreme right, behind others but near front of stage.) Platform, table. etc., l. front.) MRS. CARROLL—(Rising.) Ladies, and —gentlemen,—I—er—as you all know, I can't make a speech,—and I'm not in the least fit to be the president of a club— but you would have it you know! (Murmur of approval; faint applause.) I am very glad to welcome you to my home, and I'm sure I hope we shall all enjoy meeting here. (More faint applause.) I don't suppose it's very business like— but the first thing I want to do is to introduce our new member, Dr. Strong of Col. (Mrs. C. sits, Dr. S. rises and bows.) O do come forward to the platform, Doctor, where we can all see you. DR. STRONG—(Coming to platform.) Madam President—Ladies—and gentlemen! I did not expect to be sprung on you until after the reading of the minutes at least. But I am very glad to meet you and to feel that you have honored me with your membership in what I understand is the most influential woman's club in this community. I have heard that this is a very conservative club, but I find that you are interesting yourselves in one of the most vital movements of our time—a question of practical politics—Pure Milk. (The ladies cool and stiffen at the word "politics.") It is a great question—a most important question —one that appeals to the mother-heart and housekeeping sense of every woman. It is a matter of saving money and saving life—the lives of little children! I do not know of any single issue now before us which is so sure to make every woman want to vote. The ballot is our best protection. (Cries of "no!" "no" Much confusion and talking among members. One hiss. Mrs. Wolverhampton rises ponderously.) MRS. WOLVERHAMPTON—Madam President! I rise to a point of order! I move you that our new member be informed that all discussion of woman suffrage is forbidden by the by-laws of this club! There is no subject so calculated to disrupt an organization. MRS BLACK—Madam President! MRS. CARROLL—Mrs. Black. MRS. BLACK—I wish to second the motion! We decided long ago to allow no discussion of woman suffrage! I consider it to be one of the most dangerous movements of our time! MRS. WHITE—Madam President! MRS. CARROLL—Mrs. White. Won't you come forward, Mrs. White? MRS. WHITE—O no, excuse me—no. The Forerunner 147 I'll speak from here. I merely wish to agree with the previous speaker. Woman suffrage breaks up the home. MRS. GREY—Madam President! MRS. GREEN—Madam President. MRS. CARROLL—Mrs. Grey I think spoke first. In a moment, Mrs. Green. Mrs. Gray. I just wanted to say that I for one should feel obliged to resign if woman suffrage is to be even mentioned in the club! MRS. GREEN—Madam President! MRS. BROWN—Madam President! MRS. &C—Madam President! (There has been a constant buzz of disapproval.) MRS. CARROLL—Ladies! One at a time, please! (Several ladies are on their feet. All speak together.) MRS. GREEN—A woman's place is in the home, Madam President! If she takes good care of the home and brings up her children right— MRS. BROWN—Women are not fitted for politics, they haven't the mind for it —and my husband says politics is not fit for women, either! MRS. JONES—This club decided long ago that it was against woman suffrage —et al. Who'd take care of the baby? Our power is through our feminine influence— Yes—a woman's influence.—(Great confusion.) MRS. CARROLL—(Rapping feebly on the table.) Ladies, ladies, we will adjourn for some refreshments. Won't you please all come and have some tea? (All go out, c. and r. still talking. Mrs. C. and Mr. B. last. Dr. S. and Mr. A remain.) MR. ARNOLD—(To Dr. S.) Well, Dr. Strong, you did put your foot in it! DR. STRONG—(Ruefully.) Yes—that was unfortunate, wasn't it? I'd no idea they'd fly up like that. MR. ARNOLD—Never mind. I'll only talk milk to 'em—pure milk! DR. STRONG—(Walks up and down, hands behind her, much perturbed.) I'm right sorry to have annoyed those women. This is an awfully important occasion. Even if they can't vote, they could do something. MR. ARNOLD—Don't you fret, Doctor, we'll get them interested. DR. STRONG—You don't know how important this is. The death rate among the babies here is something shameful— it's mostly owing to bad milk—and the bad milk is mostly owing to this man Billings. If this ball passes he's got the whole thing in his hands! And he's crooked! MR. ARNOLD—I'd about come to that conclusion, myself. DR. STRONG—He's got her confidence you see—and she swings this town, socially. What's more, he means to marry her—and he's not a fit man to marry any decent woman. We've got to put a spoke in his wheel, Mr. Arnold! MR. ARNOLD—I'm willing. DR. STRONG—You'll never get a better opportunity than right now! He'll try to fix you before you speak—I'll promise you that! and do you stick out for that hundred dollar bill—and take it! MR. ARNOLD—I guess not! What do you think I am? DR. STRONG—I think you're man enough to see this game through. It's a marked bill, I tell you! You take that hundred and look at it—if there's a speck of red in the middle on the top— on on both sides—you take it, and bring it out in evidence after you've shown up the milk— MR. ARNOLD—But the milk he sends here'll be all right. DR. STRONG—Of course! But I've brought in another bottle in my bag— and I'm going to substitute it! It's his milk, all right—the common grocery store kind—you'll be safe with the iodine test. Sh! You take that bill! (Re-enter Mrs. C. c. bringing tea to Mrs. O'Shane.) MRS. CARROLL—(To Mrs. O.) We are really much indebted to you for coming, Mrs. O'Shane—I hope you are quite comfortable? MRS. O'SHANE—Thank you Ma'am, thank you kindly! MRS. CARROLL—(Crossing to Dr. S.) Now Dr. Strong, you mustn't be angry because our ladies are not suffragettes. DR. STRONG—Not a bit—I'm only sorry I mentioned it—I'm here to talk milk—not suffrage. MRS. CARROLL—That's so nice of you! Now do go out and get some tea, doctor. (Exit Dr. S. r.) MRS. CARROLL—I suppose you're 148 Something To Vote For going to be very impressive Mr. Arnold! You were as a boy, you know! MR. ARNOLD—Was I? I don't remember that. MRS. CARROLL—Yes, indeed. You used to brush your hair,—when you did brush it—in a way I thought extremely fine. MR. ARNOLD—And yours was always brushed! Beautiful long soft curls! I used to wish I dared touch them. MRS. CARROLL—My hair's grown so much darker since then, and I'm getting grey. MR. ARNOLD—(Drawing nearer.) Grey! It's a libel! Not a single one. MRS. CARROLL—There were—two or three—but, to speak confidentially, I pulled them out. MR. ARNOLD—It wasn't necessary. You will be still more beautiful with grey hair! MRS. CARROLL—You didn't make compliments at thirteen. MR. ARNOLD—No—I didn't dare. MRS. CARROLL—And how do you dare now. MR. ARNOLD—The courage of desperation, I suppose. Here you are, still young, more beautiful than ever—the richest woman in the town; the social leader; able to lift and stir all these women—and here I am, a lot older than you are—and nothing but a milk inspector! MRS. CARROLL—You haven't had much personal ambition, have you? MR. ARNOLD—No, I haven't. But I might—if I were encouraged. MRS. CARROLL—Mr. Arnold! I am so glad to find you are my old friend. And to think that you do—perhaps—value my opinion. MR. ARNOLD—You're right as to that. That's what discouraged me when you married Carroll' and when I heard that you had become a mere society woman— You've got a good mind, always had, but you don't use it. MRS. CARROLL—You do think I have a mind then? MR. ARNOLD—Indeed I do! A first-class one! MRS. CARROLL—Then let me persuade you to speak for this milk bill, Mr. Arnold! And I do hope in your speech— you'll mention the excellent influence— on the milk, you know—of Mr. Billings' company. MR. ARNOLD—Why—I shall have to tell what I know, Mrs. Carroll; you want the facts. MRS. CARROLL—Of course we want the facts! But—having Mr. Billings' milk to be tested—and Mr. Billings here—and he being a good friend of mine—I'm particularly anxious to have his reputation thoroughly established. MR. ARNOLD—I see. And if I said anything against Mr. Billings, we should meet as strangers? MRS. CARROLL—Not at all, Mr. Arnold! It's the milk we're talking about —not Mr. Billings. MR. ARNOLD—I beg pardon—I understand! (Re-enter Mr. B. c. Exit Mr. A. r.) MR. BILLINGS—(Coming to Mrs. C.) I began to think I shouldn't have a chance to see you at all! MRS. CARROLL—Why I'm quite conspicuous, I'm sure,—in the chair! MR. BILLINGS—Ah! But I like best to see you alone! MRS. CARROLL—No one sees me when I'm alone! MR. BILLINGS—You can joke about it, Mrs. Carroll; it is a very serious matter to me. You must know how much I care for you—how long I have been devoted to you. You know I'm an ambitious man, Mrs. Carroll. I must be to dare hope for you! There are things I can't speak of yet—big chances in politics —if I had you with me—with your beauty and fascinating ways—By Heavens! There's no place I wouldn't try for. (Walks up and down excitedly.) I never wanted anything so much in my life—as I want you. When will you give me an answer? MRS. CARROLL—Certainly not now, Mr. Billings. MR. BILLINGS—When the meeting is over? MRS. CARROLL—Perhaps—when the meeting is over. (Enter Miss Turner c. with bag and papers.) MRS. CARROLL (rises and goes to her. Mr. B turns away)—Well, Miss Turner, are you going to set us to work again? The Forerunner 149 MISS TURNER—I hope I don't interrupt—— MRS. CARROLL—Interrupt! Why this is a club meeting, Miss Turner! Are we ready now? MISS TURNER—Perhaps, if you'd have the maid bring in the sample. MRS. CARROLL—Oh, yes. (Rings. Enter maid r.) MRS. CARROLL—Bring in the bottle of milk, Louise. (Exit maid r. Re-enter Dr. S. and Mr. A. c.) MRS. BILLINGS (jocularly)—I'm to be the scapegoat for the sins of the whole community, I see! MRS. CARROLL—You are going to clear the good name of our milk supply, Mr. Billings. (Re-enter maid r. with bottle of milk, sets it on table l. f.) MRS. CARROLL—Here it is! The best milk in town. (They all approach table.) MR. BILLINGS (takes it up)—That's mine, all right. Name blown in the bottle, sealed with paraffine, air-tight from cow to customer, Mr. Arnold! MR. ARNOLD (examining bottle)— Looks like good milk, Mr. Billings. MR. BILLINGS—It is good milk, Mr. Arnold; there's none better in the market! We're not afraid of your examination. MR. ARNOLD—Do you send out a uniform quality? MR. BILLINGS—Well, hardly that, of course. We have some with less butter fat, comes a cent or two lower—but it's all pure milk. DR. STRONG (to A. aside)—Get 'em to look at your papers—call 'em off! MR. ARNOLD—Have you seen our official cards, Mrs. Carroll? (Takes out papers. They turn to him. The doctor whips out bottle of milk from her bag and changes it for the one on the table. Billings hears her and turns around. Comes over to the table and takes bottle up. Starts. Others turn also.) DR. STRONG—What's the matter? MR. BILLINGS—Matter? Why—nothing. DR. STRONG—Name blown in the bottle all right? Paraffine seal all right? (All come to look.) MR. BILLINGS—Yes, yes, it's all right. (Moves off evidently perturbed.) MRS. CARROLL—What is it? Anything wrong with the milk? MR. BILLINGS—No, no, certainly not. MRS. CARROLL—Well, Miss Turner, I think we must collect our audience. (They go out, c.) DR. STRONG—Can I be of assistance? (Follows with a meaning glance at Mr. A. who is by the table.) (Mr. B with sudden determination walks swiftly to the table to take milk bottle. Mr. A. seizes it.) MR. BILLINGS—Excuse me, Mr. Arnold —but there's a mistake here! This is not the milk I sent Mrs. Carroll—by some error it's a bottle of our second quality. I'd hate to have her find it out. I've got my car here and I'm just going to run off and change this—it won't take but a minute! MR. ARNOLD (holding the bottle)—I don't think you'd better, Mr. Billings. It would look badly. There's really no time. MR. BILLINGS (agitated)—I guess you're right. See here—this is a very important matter to me—more important than you know. . . This bottle is not my best milk—but—but I'd be much obliged to you if it tested well—— MR. ARNOLD (drily)—I hope it will. MR. BILLINGS—Look here, Arnold, confound it! They'll all be back in a minute! Here! Quick! (Passes him a bill.) MR. ARNOLD (takes it. Looks at it, both sides)—I'm not in the habit of taking bribes, Mr. Billings. MR. BILLINGS—Sh! I can see that— you are so stiff about it! For goddness sake, man, see me through this foolish hen-party and I'll make it well worth your while! Come, put that in your pocket for this one occasion, you understand! MR. ARNOLD—Well—just for this one occasion! (Puts bill in pocket.) (Ladies all re-enter r. l. c. and take seats. Meeting called to order. Mrs. C. in chair as before; l. f., bustle, talk.) MRS. CARROLL (rapping on table)— Will the meeting please come to order. I think, since it is already so late—and since we have such important—er—such an important—question to discuss, it will be as well to postpone the regular order of business until our next meeting. I'm 150 Something To Vote For sure you will be glad to have our discussion opened with a few words from Mr. Billings. Mr. Billings is the head of the milk business here, and knows more about it than any man in town. It is his milk which we are to have tested this afternoon—and he is proud to have it so —aren't you, Mr. Billings? (Smiles at him.) MR. BILLINGS (rather constrainedly) —Yes; yes. MRS. CARROLL—Now, do talk to us a little, Mr. Billings. Won't you please come forward. MR. BILLINGS (rising in his place)— Madam President, and ladies, also Mr. Inspector: I feel it to be an honor to be here to-day to meet so many of the leading ladies of our community; to see so many fair faces—hear so many sweet voices—take the hand of so many I am proud to number among my friends. I wish to congratulate this club on its new president (bows to Mrs. Carroll.)—a lady whose presence carries a benefaction wherever she goes. (Applause.) In these days, when so many misguided and unwomanly women are meeting together for all manner of unnecessary and sometimes utterly mistaken purposes, it is a genuine pleasure to find here so many true women of that innate refinement which always avoids notoriety. (Takes our large white handkerchief and wipes face.) The subject upon which I have been asked to address you is one which appeals to the heart of every woman—milk for babes! The favorite food of our children, the mainstay of the invalid, the foundation of all delicate cookery! It has been my pleasure, ladies, and my pride to have helped in serving this community with pure and healthful milk for many years past. Our new organization, of which there is now so much discussion in the public press, is by no means the evil some would have you believe. I speak as one who knows. This is not the place for dry financial statistics, but I assure you that through this combination of milk dealers which has been recently effected you will have cheaper milk than has ever been given here before, and a far more regular and reliable service. For the quality we must trust to the opinion of these experts (waves his hand to Dr. strong and Mr. Arnold); but for the wish to serve your best interests, and for a capacity in service developed through years of experience, you may always count upon yours truly. (Bows and sits. Stir and murmurs of approval. Applause.) MRS. A.—Isn't he interesting. MRS. B.—Just what I think. MRS. CARROLL—I'm sure we are all very grateful to Mr. Billings for giving us so much of his valuable time. It is so interesting, in this study of large general questions, to get information from the fountain head. And now we shall learn the medical side of it from a most competent authority. Ladies, I take pleasure in introducing my dear friend, Dr. Strong, who will speak to us on—what do you call it, Doctor? DR. STRONG (coming forward)—Let us call it The Danger of Impure Milk. (Stands a moment, looking earnestly at them.) We all love babies. We love our own babies best of all, naturally. We all want to feed our babies well, and some of us can't do it ourselves. Next to the Mother, the most important food supplier for our children is the Cow. Milk is the most valuable article of food for little children. I suppose you all know that bottle-fed babies die faster than breast-fed— by far; they die mostly in summer, and from enteric and diarrheal diseases. (Reads from notes.) 17,437 babies under a year old died in New York in 1907; 1,315 died in Boston between June 1st and November 30th of that same year— in six months. In Fall River, at that time, more than 300 out of 1,000 died— nearly one-third. In New York, in five years, over 23,000 children of all ages died of measles, scarlet fever and diphtheria combined, and in the same time over 26,000 babies under two years died of diarrheal diseases. Out of 1,943 cases of these infantile diseases, in New York, only three percent were breast-fed. Now, ladies, this class of diseases comes from bacteria, and the bacteria come, in the vast majority of cases, from the milk. You see, the bottle-fed baby does not get its supply directly from the source, as when fed by its The Forerunner 151 mother; between the Cow and the Baby stands the Milkman. The Milkman is not a mother. I really believe that if mothers ran the milk business they would not be willing to poison other women's babies even to make money for their own! The producer and distributor of milk has small thought for the consumers' interests. To protect the consumer, the law now provides the Milk Inspector. But the Milk Inspector has on one side a few alert business men, often ready to pay well to protect their interests, and on the other the great mass of apathetic citizens, who do no take the trouble to protect their own. The discussion to-day is in the hope of rousing this club to see the vital importance of pure milk for our children, and to urge its members to use their influence to secure it. By the kind permission of your president I have brought with me a resident of a less fortunate part of the town, that she may give you a personal experience. Mrs. O'Shane, will you please come to the platform? (The little woman in black rises, hesitates, sits down again.) MRS. CARROLL—Won't you please make room, ladies? (She comes down and escorts Mrs. O'Shane to the platform, Mrs. O'Shane much agitated.) DR. STRONG—Brace up, Mrs. O'Shane. It's for little Patsy's sake, you know. He's gone, but there are many more. MRS. O'SHANE—Indade there are, thank Hiven! It's not too late for the others! The street's full ov thim! If ye please, ladies, di dany of you ever lose a child? MRS. CARROLL (coming to her and taking her hand)—I have, Mrs. O'Shane. (Sits again.) MRS. O'SHANE—There's many, I don't doubt. But ye have the consolation of knowin' that your children had all done that could be done for thim. An' ours dies on us every summer—such a many of them dies—an' we can't help it. They used to tell us 'twas the Hand 'o God, and then they said 'twas the hot weather, and now they're preachin' it to us everywhere that 'tis the milk does it! The hot weather is bad, because thim things that's in the milk shwarms thicker and faster—thim little bugs that kills our babies. . . If ye could have seen my little Patsy! He was the han'-somest child, an' the strongest! Walkin' he was—and him hardly a year old! An' he was all I had—an' me a widder! An', of course, I took the best milk I could get; but all the milk in our parts comes from the Trust—an' sisteen cents a quart for thim fancy brands I could not pay. An', just think of it—even if I could, there's not enough of that sort to go around! There's so many of us! We have no choice, and we have no money to pay for the extras, an' we must give our babies the milk that is sold to us—an' they die! . . . I know I should care most for the hundreds an' thousands of thim—an' for Mrs. Casey's twins that died in a week last summer, an' three of Mrs. Flaharty's, an' even thim little blackies on Bay street; but I care the most for my Little Patsy—havin' but the wan! Ladies, if you could have seen him! The hair on his head was that soft!—an' all in little rings o' curls! An' his cheeks like roses—before he took sick; an' his little feet was that pretty—an' he'd kick out so strong and bold with them! An' he could stand up, and he was beginning to hold on the chairs like—an' he'd catch me by the skirts an' look up at me with such a smile—an' pull on me he would, an' say Mah! Mah! An' what had I to give him but the milk? And the milk killed him. . . I beg your pardon, ladies, but it breaks my heart! (She cries. Mrs. Carroll comforts her, crying too. Many handkerchiefs out. Mrs. Carroll rises up, repressing emotion.) MRS. CARROLL—Ladies, we will now hear from our new Inspector, Mr. Arnold. (Mr. Arnold comes forward and bows.) MR. ARNOLD—I fear cold facts will make but little impression after this moving appeal. Mrs. O'Shane has given you the main points in the case. Most people are poor. Most milk is poor. And the poorest milk goes to the poorest people. The community must protect itself. The Inspector has no power except to point out defects in the supply. Action must be taken to enforce the law, and unless the public does its duty there is often no action taken. (Reads from 152 Something To Vote For paper.) Dr. Strong has given you some figures as to the mortality among babies. There is also a heavy death rate for adults from contaminated milk, as in the case of the typhoid fever outbreak in Stamford, Conn., in 1895, when 160 cases were reported in nine days, 147 of which had all used milk from one dairyman. In about six weeks 386 cases were reported; of these 352 took milk from that one dealer, and four more got it from him indirectly. His dairy was closed, and in two weeks the outbreak had practically subsided. Typhoid fever, scarlet fever and diptheria, as well as many less common diseases, are spread by infected milk. The inspection service watches both the producer and distributor; examining the dairy farm as to the health of the cattle, the nature of their surroundings, the care given them, the methods of milking, bottling, and so on; and looking to the milkmen in each step of handling, carriage and delivery. In judging milk there are three main questions to be considered: Its comparative quality as good milk ( the percentage of butter-fats, etc.); its cleanliness (dirty milk is always likely to carry disease); and its freedom from adulteration —from the primative pump-water and starch down to the subtler and more dangerous commercial methods of today. I have been asked to show you a simple test or two—such as might be used at home. These do not require chemical or bacteriological analysis, a microscope or a lactometer; merely a fine cloth (produces it) and a little iodine (produces that). (The ladies lean forward eagerly. Mr. Billings looks indifferent.) MR. ARNOLD—Please understand, ladies, that neither of these tests proves anything absolutely harmful. I feel extremely awkward in testing a bottle of the Billings Company milk in the presence of Mr. Billings. Please remember that the Billings Company has many supply dairies. If this one bottle should not prove first-class it is no direct reproach to your guest. MR. BILLINGS—Ladies, I do not ask any excuses. The Billings Company is reliable. MRS. CARROLL—We have every confidence in this milk, Mr. Billings; that is why I asked for the test. MR. ARNOLD—May I ask for another vessel—a pitcher or milk bottle? (Mrs. Carroll rings. Enter Louise, r.) MRS. CARROLL—Bring another pitcher, Louise, and an empty milk bottle— clean. (Exit Louise, r., and returns with them, r., while Mr. Arnold continues.) MR. ARNOLD—Only two things are to be decided by this little test—whether the milk is clean, and whether it has starch in it. If it is clean milk, according to our standard, there will be but a slight smear on the cloth when it is strained. (He puts cloth over top of pitcher, pushing it down inside, and fastens it with string or rubber band; then solemnly pours in most of the milk. Buzz among ladies.) MR. ARNOLD—While this is straining, I will apply the iodine test to what remains in the bottle. If there is starch in it, it will turn blue. (Pours water from a glass into the bottle, adds a few drops of iodine, shakes it, holds it up before them. It is blue.) MRS. W., MRS. B., MRS. G. (together) —Oh! Look at that! Just think of it! (Mr. Billings much confused, but unable to escape.) MR. ARNOLD—I'm afraid one of the supplying dairymen thins his milk and whitens it. Starch is not dangerous. Dirt is. We will now examine our strainer. (Holds up cloth. A heavy, dark deposit is shown. There is a tense silence.) MRS. O'SHANE (suddenly rising up) That's what killed my Patsy! (Points at Mr. Billings. An' 'twas him that did it! (Commotion.) MR. BILLINGS (rising)—Ladies, I demand to be heard! You have all known me for years. Most of you take my milk. You know it is good. There is some mistake; that is not the milk that should have been delivered here. MRS. CARROLL—Evidently not. MRS. O'SHANE—No! 'Tis not the milk for the rich—'tis the milk for the poor! MR. BILLINGS—Ladies, I protest! My standing in this community—my years The Forerunner 153 of service—ought to give me your confidence long enough to look into this matter. I must find out from which of my suppliers this inferior milk has come. We will have a thorough overhauling, I assure you. I had no idea any such milk was being handled by us. MR. ARNOLD—Then why did you give me this bill? (Shows marked bill.) This was handed to me a few moments ago by Mr. Billings to ensure my giving him a favorable test. It is the first time I ever held a bribe—even for evidence. DR. STRONG (coming forward)— Ladies, I wish to clear Mr. Arnold of even a moment's suspicion. I knew the Milk Trust would not bear inspection, so I urged Mr. Arnold to take the money, if it was offered, and bring it out in evidence. There it is. MR. BILLINGS—I suspected as much! This is admitted to be a conspiracy between our new doctor and our new inspector. But I trust, ladies, that more than the word of two strangers will be required to condemn an old friend and fellow-citizen. DR. STRONG—I gave you that bill, Mr. Billings; it's the one you changed for me just now. That much of a conspiracy I admit. MR. BILLINGS—So you and your accomplice had it all framed up to knife me! And is your word and his—a man whose very admission proves him a venal scoundrel—to stand against mine? Do you think I had but one hundred-dollar bill about me? DR. STRONG—I doubt if you had more than one with a red mark in the middle of the top—on both sides! (Mrs. Carroll suddenly takes up bill and examines it. Rises.) MRS. CARROLL—It was a painful surprise to find the quality of milk which has been served to me, but it is more painful to see that it was evidently known to be bad. Ladies, I saw Dr. Strong mark that bill. I saw her give it to him in change for smaller ones. MRS. O'SHANE—Sure, an' I saw him pass it to the man! MRS. CARROLL—Ladies, if you will kindly move a little I think Mr. Billings would be glad to pass out. (They make way for him and he goes out, turns at door and shakes fist at Mr. Arnold.) MR. BILLINGS—You'll lose your job, young man! I have some power in this town! MRS. CARROLL—And so have I, Mr. Billings. I'll see that Mr. Arnold keeps his place. We need him. You said this club could carry the town; that we women could do whatever we wanted to here—with our "influence"! Now we see what our "influence" amounts to! Rich or poor, we are all helpless together unless we wake up to the danger and protect ourselves. That's what the ballot is for, ladies—to protect our homes! To protect our children! To protect the children of the poor! I'm willing to vote now! I'm glad to vote now! I've got something to vote for! Friends, sisters, all who are in favor of woman suffrage and pure milk say Aye! (Clubwomen all rise and wave their handkerchiefs, with cries of "Aye!" "Aye!") CURTAIN. ——— A DIET UNDESIRED He was set to keep a flock of sheep, And they seemed to him too slow; So he took great pains to improve their brains With food to make them grow. But they would not eat the high-spiced meat For all that he could say; His scorn was wasted and the food untasted— For the sheep weren't made that way! He would make them take his good beefsteak! So he raged day after day; But his anger deep was lost on the sheep— For they were not made that way! 154 HAPPINESS AND RELIGION THE consolations of religion" have been offered to us with age long reiteration. Persons who were healthy and happy, and so felt no need of consolation, were apt to be similarly indifferent to religion ; and those who labored to convert them were obliged to fall back on gloomy prognostications, saying, "One of these days trouble will come to you ; then you will feel the need of religion." This was an unfortunate association of ideas, for no person likes to anticipate misery. There is an attitude among some Socialists closely akin to the above, they holding that poverty must increase until, by some social alchemy, extreme unhappiness drives men into Socialism. Increase of poverty is considered to lead to Socialism as increase of misery to religion, and in both cases the effect on an average mind is one of preferred postponement. If one can avoid the misery, why bother with religion? If one can avoid the poverty, why bother with Socialism? Perhaps the average mind is not wise in its feelings, but it is here to be dealt with none the less. It is true that a satisfying religion is "a very present help in time of trouble." If we know that the general management of things is good, we can stand a temporary personal mishap with equanimity. But this is by no means the main use of one's basic faith. If it were, if the chief power of religion was as a solace, a comforter, a hope and promise for the future to those whose present is miserable, then it would lose its hold as the happiness of the world increased. If the advance of Socialism were best promoted by the advance of poverty, then it would be hindered by the general gain in wealth. The appeal of Socialism is to each of us, rich and poor, offering greater happiness to all; and the appeal of religion should be the same. Let us have, not only the consolations of religion, but its congratulations! What has religion to say of happiness? A successful God surely requires the rich fulfillment of the known laws of life, and that fulfillment means happiness. We have in our range of consciousness the whole scale of joy now known, and unmeasured possibilities beyond that. Mere physical existance, rightly carried out, means happiness. As healthy animals we should experience, from glad uprising to peaceful lying down, the steady well being of quiet nerves, normal digestion, and the orderly performance of functions, each bringing its own satisfaction. Just being healthy makes life one long contentment, and is itself a primal duty. What has religion to say to a healthy person? And what has a healthy person to say to religion? It should be to us not a sort of accident insurance, but as assurance of well being. Seeing life to be a good and pleasant thing, the world a garden in the making (not a garden lost!) and mankind engaged in a majestic upward progress; finding ourselves personally comfortable and clearly on the road to great joy, what place has religion in such a scheme of things? It has the most vital and important position ; it is the great equalizer, director, promoter of all this blessedness. It is not a mere system of therapeutics for sick souls, but a science of practical psychology for well ones. Religion should give to the mind a clear, satisfying explanation of life, not based on a hotly defended revelation, but on common knowledge ; a glad sense of assured respect for the Central Power, of absolute confidence in and enjoyment of it as a Working Force, well proven ; and lines of conduct laid out so clearly that any normal child could see why this is right and that is wrong. No vague mystery in this religion of our children, but well-established facts ; requiring no stultification of the intellect, but full use of our best intelligence ; no abnegation and surrender of the will, but the fullest exercise of that vital power. Such a religion recognizes happiness as the norm of life, the health of the soul ; and shows the way to it. Then we shall not say, "Ah, wait till you are in trouble ; then you will need religion!" but, "Ah, let us make you happy ; then you will appreciate religion!" The Forerunner 155 THE CRUX CHAPTER VI. NEW FRIENDS AND OLD. There is hope till life is through, my dear! And wonders never cease; 'Twould be too bad to be true, my dear, If all one's swans were geese! VIVIAN's startled cry of welcome was heard by Susie, perched on the stairs with several eager youths gathered as close as might be about her, and several pairs of hands helped her swift descent to greet her brother. Miss Orella, dropping Mr. Dykeman's arm, came flying from the ballroom. "Oh Morton! Morton! When did you come? Why didn't you let us know? Oh, my dear boy!" She haled him into their special parlor—took his hat away from him—pulled out the most comfortable chair— "Have you had supper? And to think that we haven't a room for you! But there's to be one vacant—next week. I'll see that there is. You shall have my room, dear boy. Oh I am so glad to see you!" Susie gave him a sisterly hug, while he kissed her, somewhat gingerly, on the cheek ; and then perched herself on the arm of a chair and gazed upon him with affectionate interest. Vivian, her arm around Susie, gazed also, busily engaged in fitting present facts to past memories. Surely he had not looked just like that! The Morton of her girlhood's dream had a clear complexion, a bright eye, a brave and gallant look—only the voice was not different. But here was Morton in present fact, something taller, it seemed, and a good deal heavier, well dressed in a rather vivid way, and making merry over his aunt's devotion. "Well, if it doesn't seem like old times to have Aunt 'Rella running 'round like a hen with her head cut off, to wait on me." The simile was not unjust, though certainly ungracious, but his aunt was far too happy to resent it. "You sit right still!" she said. "I'll go and bring you some supper. You must be hungry." "Now do sit down and hear to reason, Auntie!" he said, reaching out a detaining hand and pulling her into a seat beside him. "I'm not hungry a little bit; had a good feed on the diner. Never mind about the room—I don't know how long I can stay—and I left my grip at the Allen House anyway. How well you're looking, Auntie! I declare I'd hardly have known you! And here's little Susie—a regular belle! And Vivian—don't suppose I dare call you Vivian now, Miss Lane?" Vivian gave a little embarrassed laugh. If he had used her first name she would never have noticed it. Now that he asked her, she hardly knew what answer to make, but presently said: "Why, of course, I always call you Morton." "Well, I'll come when you call me," he cheerfully replied, leaning forward, elbows on knees, and looking around the pretty room. "How well you're fixed here. Guess it was a wise move, Aunt 'Rella. But I'd never have dreamed you'd do it. Your Dr. Bellair must have been a powerful promoter to get you all out here. I wouldn't have thought anybody in Bainville could move—but me. Why, there's Grandma, as I live!" and he made a low bow. Mrs. Pettigew, hearing of his arrival from the various would-be partners of the two girls, had come to the door and stood there regarding him with a non-committal expression. At this address she frowned perceptibly. "My name is Mrs. Pettigrew, young man. I've known you since you were a scallaway in short pants, but I'm no Grandma of yours." "A thousand pardons! Please excuse me, Mrs. Pettigrew," he said with exaggerated politeness. "Won't you be seated?" And he set a chair for her with a flourish. "Thanks, no," she said. "I'll go back"—and went back forthwith, attended by Mr. Skee. 156 The Crux "One of these happy family reunions, ma'am?" he asked with approving interest. "If there's one thing I do admire, it's a happy surprise." " 'Tis some sort of a surprise," Mrs. Pettigrew admitted, and became rather glum, in spite of Mr. Skee's undeniably entertaining conversation. "Some sort of a fandango going on?" Morton asked after a few rather stiff moments. "Don't let me interrupt? On with the dance! Let joy be unconfined! And if she must"—he looked at Vivian, and went on somewhat lamely—"dance, why not dance with me? May I have the pleasure, Miss Lane?" "Oh, no," cried Miss Orella, "We'd much rather be with you!" "But I'd rather dance than talk, any time," said he, and crooked his elbow to Vivian with an impressive bow. Somewhat uncertain in her own mind, and unwilling to again disappoint Fordham Greer, who had already lost one dance and was visibly waiting for her in the hall, the girl hesitated; but Susie said, "Go on, give him part of one. I'll tell Mr. Greer." So Vivian took Morton's proffered arm and returned to the floor. She had never danced with him in the old days; no special memory was here to contrast with the present; yet something seemed vaguely wrong. He danced well, but more actively than she admired; and during the rest of the evening devoted himself to the various ladies with an air of long usage. She was glad when the dancing was over and he had finally departed for his hotel; glad when Susie had at last ceased chattering and dropped reluctantly to sleep. For a long time she lay awake trying to straighten out things in her mind and account to herself for the sense of vague confusion which oppressed her. Morton had come back! That was the prominent thing, of which she repeatedly assured herself. How often she had looked forward to that moment, and felt in anticipation a vivid joy. She had thought of it in a hundred ways, always with pleasure, but never in this particular way—among so many strangers. It must be that which confused her, she thought, for she was extremely sensitive to the attitude of those about her. She felt an unspoken criticism of Morton on the part of her new friends in the house, and resented it, yet in her own mind a faint comparison would obtrude itself between his manners and those of Jimmie Saunders or Mr. Greer, for instance. The young Scotchman she had seen regarding Morton with an undisguised dislike; and this she inwardly resented, even while herself disliking his bearing to his aunt—and to her grandmother. It was all contradictory and unsatsifying, and she fell asleep saying over to herself, "He has come back! He has come back!" and trying to feel happy. Aunt Orella was happy at any rate. She would not rest until her beloved nephew was installed in the house, practically turning out Mr. Gibbs in order to accommodate him. Morton protested, talked of business and of having to go away at any time; and Mr. Gibbs, who still "mealed" with them, secretly wished he would. But Morton did not go away. It was a long time since he had been petted and waited on, and he enjoyed it hugely, treating his aunt with a serio-comic affection that was sometimes funny, sometimes disagreeable. At least Susie found it so. Her first surprise over, she fell back on a fund of sound common sense, strengthened by present experience, and found a good deal to criticise in her returned brother. She was so young when he left, and he had teased her so unmercifully in those days, that her early memories of him were rather mixed in sentiment, and now he appeared, not as the unquestioned idol of a manless family in a well-nigh manless town, but as one among many; and of those many several were easily his superiors. He was her brother, and she loved him, of course; but there were so many wanting to be "brothers" if not more, and they were so much more polite! Morton petted, patronized and teased The Forerunner 157 her, and she took it all in good part, as after the manner of brothers, but his demeanor with other people was not to her mind. His adoring aunt, finding no fault whatever with this well-loved nephew, lavished upon him the affection of her unused motherhood, and he seemed to find it a patent joke, open to everyone, that she should be so fond. To this Mrs. Pettigrew took great exception, and, indeed, to his general walk and conversation. "Fine boy—Rella's nephew!" she said to Dr. Bellair late one night when, seeing a light over her neighbor's transom, she dropped in for a little chat. Conversation seemed easier for her here than in the atmosphere of Bainville. "Fine boy—eh? Nice complexion!" Dr. Bellair was reading a heavyweight book, by a heavier weight specialist. She laid it down, took off her eyeglasses, and rubbed them. "Better not kiss him," she said. "I thought as much!" said Grandma. I thought as much! Huh!" "Nice world, isn't it?" the doctor suggested genially. "Nothing the matter with the world, that I know of," her visitor answered. "Nice people, then—how's that?" "Nothing the matter with the people but foolishness—plain foolishness. Good land! Shall we never learn anything!" "Not till it's too late apparently," the doctor gloomily agreed, turning slowly in her swivel chair. "That boy never was taught anything to protect him. What did Rella know? Or for that matter, what do any boys' fathers and mothers know? Nothing, you'd think. If they do, they won't teach it to their children." "Time they did!" said the old lady decidedly. "High time they did! It's never too late to learn. I've learned a lot out of you and your books, Jane Bellair. Intersting reading! I don't suppose you could give an absolute opinion now, could you?' "No," said Dr. Bellair gravely, "no, I couldn't; not yet, anyway." "Well, we've got to keep our eyes open," Mrs. Pettigrew concluded. "When I think of that girl of mine—" "Yes—or any girl," the doctor added. "You look out for any girl—that's your business; I'll look out for mine— if I can." Mrs. Pettigrew's eyes were not the only eyes to scrutinize Morton Elder. Through the peep hole in the swing door to the kitchen, Jeanne Jeaune watched him darkly with one hand on her lean chest. She kept her watch on whatever went on in that dining room, and on the two elderly waitresses whom she had helped Miss Elder to secure when the house filled up. They were rather painfully unattractive, but seemed likely to stay where no young and pretty damsel could be counted on for a year. Morton joked with perseverance about their looks, and those who were most devoted to Susie seemed to admire his wit, while Vivian's special admirers found it pointless in the extreme. "Your waitresses are the limit, Auntie," he said, "but the book is all to the good. Is she a plain cook or a handsome one?" "Handsome is as handsome does, young man," Mrs. Pettigrew pointedly replied. "Mrs. Jones is a first class cook and her looks are neither here nor there." "You fill me with curiosity," he replied. "I must go out and make her acquaintance. I always get solid with the cook; it's worth while." The face at the peep hole darkened and turned away with a biter and determined look, and Master Theophile was hastened at his work till his dim intelligence wondered, and then blessed with an unexpected cookie. Vivian, Morton watched and followed assiduously. She was much changed from what he remembered— the young, frightened, slender girl he had kissed under the lilac bushes, a kiss long since forgotten among many. Perhaps the very number of his subsequent acquaintances during a varied and not markedly successful career in the newer states made this type of New England womanhood more marked. Girls he had known of various sorts; 158 The Crux women old and young had been kind to him, for Morton had the rough good looks and fluent manner which easily find their way to the good will of many female hearts; but this gentle refinement of manner and delicate beauty had a novel charm for him. Sitting by his aunt at the table he studied Vivian opposite; he watched her in their few quiet evenings together, under the soft lamplight on Miss Elder's beloved "center table;" and studied her continually in the stimulating presence of many equally devoted men. All that was best in him was stirred by her quiet grace, her reserved friendliness; and the spur of rivalry was by no means wanting. Both the girls had their full share of masculine attention in that busy houseful, each having her own more particular devotees, and the position of comforter to the others. Morton became openly devoted to Vivian, and followed her about, seeking every occasion to be alone with her— a thing difficult to accomplish. "I don't ever get a chance to see anything of you," he said. "Come on, take a walk with me—won't you?" "You can see me all day—practically," she answered. "It seems to me that I never saw a man with so little to do." "Now that's too bad, Vivian! Just because a fellow's out of a job for a while! It isn't the first time, either; in my business you work like—like anything, part of the time, and then get laid off. I work hard enough when I'm at it." "Do you like it—that kind of work?" the girl asked. They were sitting in the family parlor, but the big hall was as usual well occupied, and some one or more of the boarders always eager to come in. Miss Elder at this moment had departed for special conference with her cook, and Susie was at the theatre with Jimmie Saunders. Fordham Greer had asked Vivian, as had Morton also, but she declined both on the ground that she didn't like that kind of play. Mrs. Pettigrew, being joked too persistently about her fondness for "long whist," had retired to her room—but then, her room was divided from the parlor only by a thin partition and a door with a most inefficacious latch. "Come over here by the fire," said Morton, "and I'll tell you all about it." He seated himself on a sofa, comfortably adjacent to the fireplace, but Vivian preferred a low rocker. "I suppose you mean travelling— and selling goods?" he pursued. "Yes, I like it. There's lots of change—and you meet people. I'd hate to be shut up in an office." "But do you—get anywhere with it? Is there any outlook for you? Anything worth doing?" "There's a good bit of money to be made, if you mean that; that is, if a fellow's a good salesman. I'm no slouch myself, when I feel in the mood. But it's easy come, easy go, you see. And it's uncertain. There are times like this, with nothing doing." "I didn't mean money, altogether," said the girl meditatively, "but the work itself; I don't see any future for you." Morton was pleased with her interest. Reaching between his knees he seized the edge of the small sofa and dragged it a little towards her, quite unconscious that the act was distasteful to her. Though twenty-five years old, Vivian was extremely young in many ways, and her introspection had spent itself in tending the inner shrine of his early image. That ikon was now jarringly displaced by his insistent presence, and she could not satisfy herself yet as to whether the change pleased or displeased her. Again and again his manner antagonized her, but his visible devotion carried an undeniable appeal, and his voice stirred the deep well of emotion in her heart. "Look here, Vivian," he said, "you've no idea how it goes through me to have you speak like that! You see I've been knocking around here for all this time, and I have'nt had a soul to take an interest. A fellow needs the society of good women—like you." It is an old appeal, and always reaches the mark. To any woman it is a compliment, and to a young girl, doubly alluring. As she looked at him, The Forerunner 159 the very things she most disliked, his too free anner, his coarsened complexion, a certain look about the eyes, suddenly assumed a new interest as proofs of his loneliness and lack of right companionship. What Mrs. St. Cloud had told her of the enobling influence of a true woman flushed upon her mind. "You see, I had no mother," he said simply—"and Aunt Rella spoiled me—" He looked now like the boy she used to know. "Of course I ought to have behaved better," he admitted. "I was ungrateful —I can see it now. But it did seem to me I couldn't stand that town a day longer!" She could sympathize with this feeling, and showed it. "Then when a fellow knocks around as I have so long, he gets to where he doesn't care a hang for anything. Seeing you again makes a lot of difference, Vivian. I think, perhaps—I could take a new start." "Oh do! Do!" she said eagerly. "You're young enough, Morton. You can do anything if you'll make up your mind to it." "And you'll help me?" "Of course I'll help you—if I can," said she. A feeling of sincere remorse for wasted opportunities rose in the young man's mind; also, in the presence of this pure-eyed girl, a sense of shame for his previous habits. He walked to the window, his hands in his pockets, and looked out blankly for a moment. "A fellow does a lot of things he shouldn't," he began, clearing his throat; but she met him more than half way with the overflowing generosity of youth and ignorance: "Never mind what you've done, Morton —you're going to do differently now! Susie'll be so proud of you—and Aunt Orella!" "And you?" He turned upon her suddenly. "Oh—I? Of course! I shall be very proud of my old friend." She met his eyes bravely, with a lovely look of hope and courage, and again his heart smote him. "I hope you will," he said and straightened his broad shoulders manfully. "Morton Elder!" cried his aunt, bustling in with deep concern in her voice, "What's this I hear about you're having a sore throat?" "Nothing, I hope," said he cheerfully. "Now, Morton"—Vivian showed new solicitude—"you know you have got a sore throat; Susie told me." "Well, I wish she'd held her tongue," he protested. "It's nothing at all—be all right in a jiffy. No, I won't take any of your fixings, Auntie." "I want Dr. Bellair to look at it, anyhow," said his aunt, anxiously. "She'll know if it's diptheretic or anything. She's coming in." "She can just go out again," he said with real annoyance. "If there's anything I've no use for it's a woman doctor!" "Oh hush, hush!" cried Vivian—too late. "Don't apoligize," said Dr. Belliar from her doorway. "Who's got a sore least offended. Indeed, I had rather surmised that that was your attitude; I didn't come in to prescribe, but to find Mrs. Pettigrew." "Want me?" inquired the old lady from her doorway. "Who'se got a sore throat?" "Morton has," Vivian explained, "and he won't let Aunt Rella—why where is she?" Miss Elder had gone out as suddenly as she had entered. "Camphor's good for sore throat," Mrs. Pettigrew volunteered. "Three or four drops on a piece of sugar. Is it the swelled kind, or the kind that smarts?" "Oh—Halifax!" exclaimed Morton, disgustedly. "It isn't any kind. I haven't a sore throat." "Camphor's good for cold sores; you have one of them anyhow," the old lady persisted, producing a little bottle and urging it upon Morton. "Just keep it wet with camphor as often as you think of it, and it'll go away." Vivian looked on, interested and sympathetic, but Morton put his hand to his lip and backed away. "If you ladies don't stop trying to 160 The Crux doctor me, I'll clear out tomorrow, so there!" This appalling threat was fortunately unheard by his aunt, who popped in again at this moment, dragging Dr. Hale with her. Dr. Bellair smiled quietly to herself. "I wouldn't tell him what I wanted him for, or he wouldn't have come, I'm sure—doctors are so funny," said Miss Elder, breathlessly, "but here he is. Now, Dr. Hale, here's a foolish boy who won't listen to reason, and I'm real worried about him. I want you to look at his throat." Dr. Hale glanced briefly at Morton's angry face. "The patient seems to be of age, Miss Elder; and, if you'll excuse me, does not seem to have authorized this call." "My affectionate family are bound to have me an invalid," Morton explained. "I'm in imminent danger of hot baths, cold presses, mustard plasters, aconite, belladonna and quinine—and if I can once reach my hat—" He sidled to the door and fled in mock terror. "Thank you for your good intentions, Miss Elder," Dr. Hale remarked dryly. "You can bring water to the horse, but you can't make him drink it, you see." "Now that that young man has gone, we might have a game of whist," Mrs. Pettigrew suggested, looking not ill-pleased. "For which you do not need me in the least," and Dr. Hale was about to leave, but Dr. Bellair stopped him. "Don't be an everlasting Winter woodchuck, Dick! Sit down and play; do be good. I've got to see old Mrs. Graham yet; she refuses to go to sleep without it—knowing I'm so near. By by." Mrs. Pettigrew insisted on playing with Miss Elder, so Vivian had the questionable pleasure of Dr. Hale as a partner. He was an expert, used to frequent and scientific play, and by no means patient with the girl's mistakes. He made no protest at a lost trick, but explained briefly between hands, what she should have remembered and how the cards lay, till she grew quite discouraged. Her game was but mediocre, played only to oblige; and she never could see why people cared so much about a mere pastime. Pride came to her rescue at last; the more he criticised, the more determined she grew to profit by all this advice; but her mind would wander now and then to Morton, to his young life so largely wasted, it appeared, and to what hope might lie before him. Could she be the help and stimulus he seemed to think? How much did he mean by asking her to help him? "Why waste a thirteenth trump on your partner's thirteenth card?" Dr. Hale was asking. She flushed a deep rose color and lifted appealing eyes to him. "Do forgive me; my mind was elsewhere." "Will you not invite it to return?" he suggested drily. He excused himself after a few games, and the girl at least was glad to have him go. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts. Mrs. Pettigrew, sitting unaccountably late at her front window, watched the light burn steadily in the small office at the opposite corner. Presently she saw a familiar figure slip in there, and, after a considerable stay, come out quietly, cross the street, and let himself in at their door. "Huh!" said Mrs. Pettigrew. (To be continued) ——— STONES Let those cold stones that mark old bones Be ground to dust and spread; So grass shall grow more green below, Trees more green overhead, And youth and love laugh on above Those well-forgotten dead. The Forerunner 161 THE WILD OATS OF THE SOUL WHEN Humanity was young, very young, its new-born Consciousness loomed large within; and each Individual naturally supposed this mighty feeling to be his own. He called it His Soul. He felt it to be different from the Body, which he called Himself; from the group of inherited reflexes he called His Heart; different even from those Percepts and Processes he called His Mind. It was now a big uneasy pushing thing, now up, now down; patently at variance with the personal activities he called Life, always irritating him with a desire for something farther. To feed, to quiet, to satisfy this young Soul, the mind of man began to spin whole worlds of Theory, religious and emotional—it did not want to think, it wanted to feel, to feel strongly. No matter how gross and cruel were the Religions he first invented, the ardent boisterous Young Soul plunged gaily in, and lived them to the full. In passionate ecstasy of self-torture, in life-long immolation of anguished self-surrender, and in merciless oppression of all who dared to differ, this huge force poured itself out resistlessly. There were no limits to the excesses of the wild Young Soul. Our poor instincts were as nothing in its path; all common duties, all common pleasures, all common relations it ate in a consuming fire; and those who had not so much Soul, bowed down to those who had. But the Soul, growing from the careless cruelty of infancy to the period of Ambition and Romance, outgrew its taste for mutilation and torture, and found new channels for its growing powers. Into the swelling hearts of Kings and Conquerors it poured itself, first in a mad rage for Conquest, then in the growing glory of Statesmanship. In art it found a fascinating medium of expression; and to this day streams fitfully along in form and color, sound and motion; though not so nobly as of yore. But its favorite outlet now was along lines of love, not through the still-locked doors of wide human affection, but in the unbroken sweep of love for an idea. Urged by the growing demands of our Great Prisoner, we built for it new ideas of God; God as a Person, loving us and pining for our love. Then rose the Soul and flowed forth into space, triumphant. Its gathering power, reflected from our lives, poured in wide waves of spiritual passion; while we, relieved of its compelling presence, were free to plod along old easy paths of primitive self-interest. In those minds which could not erect the God-idea to a sufficiently attractive height and intensity (and they were many), the one next to it was the idea of sublimating the love of men and women. Allied and interwoven are these two lines, and the still childish Soul, hasty and undiscerning, rushed into both with equal ardor; spending hot personal devotion upon God; and making an exacting worship out of human love; with failure in either branded apostasy. Soul-driven man, in mad excesses of emotion, worshipping now God and now Woman (seldom both at once), has filled wide fields of history with the fruitless sheaves of the Wild Oats of the Soul. His passionate adoration of God resulted in magnificent churches and as magnificent sentiments, but did little to promote the work of social development. His passionate adoration of Woman (that is of his woman), has resulted in forming a creature not magnificent but pitiful, and all his crimson glory of wild worship has not prevented him from degrading and exploiting her. The hot-headed ill-directed young Soul, pushing violently and irregularly along, has mostly spent its force upon wrong impulses. 162 That Obvious Purpose Now new ideas of God have come to us, and new ideas of Man, and we begin to see the normal use of our Great Common Power in lines of natural living. This is Our Soul, not mine and yours; its force is The Force of the Universe. It is not meant to "rest," it does not need to be "saved," its one legitimate demand is to be Used. God pushes—we must act. No one love can satisfy the Soul; only to feel and fill them all; and then to Serve; no frenzied emotion is this Soul's life, but strong and steady action; its vast power of Feeling used in vast fields of Doing. The Soul must settle into happy orderly relations with the world. A reformed Soul makes the best Social Servant. ——— THAT OBVIOUS PURPOSE DR. SARGENT, of the Department of Physical culture at Harvard, is again quoted on the subject of the strength of women. He says—or is said to have said, in this report—that in the sense of being more enduring, women are superior to men; and then falls back on that common and ancient androcentric idea: "It is obvious that women are built primarily with a single fixed and definite purpose in view. This is the bearing of children. Other characteristics which can be ascribed to women in general, radiate from this one primordial characteristic." Quite possibly Dr. Sargent is misrepresented by the reporter, but the idea is thrust forth again, a it has been so many times before. Is it not time that persons with some knowledge of biology began to acknowledge that this old idea is wrong? Is is true, of course, that females, as such, are modified to the reproduction of their species; but so are males. It is obvious that men are built primarily with a single fixed and definite purpose, and that other special male characteristics radiate from this primordial one—often painfully obvious. It is equally obvious that men and women have a preponderating array of common human characteristics which have no relation whatever to the primordial one. The erect posture, for instance; the degree of intellect common to human beings; the instinct of workmanship; the interest in scientific truth and the pursuit of knowledge; the love of nature, of art, of amusement—in short, all human characteristics; these belong to use as a race, as human creatures, not as sexes. If women had no other relation to life than that of a queen bee, this ceaseless insistance on their feminine functions might be justified, but, being what they are, it is only explicable as a piece of androcentric prejudice pure and simple. If some great overturn in public thought and feeling should come to pass so that the eyes of the world became fixed with staring intensity on the maleness of men; if all education, literature and art rang the changes upon it continually, and even science came solemnly along with platitudes about the obviousness of masculine characteristics, there would be a prompt and just rebellion on the part of men. Women are more patient. We have been discussed and studied, honored and despised, rewarded and punished for thousands of years as females, always females; and many of us have grown to accept the male idea of us— that we are nothing else. Several millions of unmarried women now filling useful and honored places in the world, leading virtuous and contented lives, could give valuable testimony as to whether their existence is a verifiable fact or whether they really did expire and vanish on failure to fulfill that "single primordial purpose." Men, living similarly, would perhaps feel as much lack in the "primordial purpose" as do women. The Forerunner 163 MOVING THE MOUNTAIN Synopsis: John Robertson, falling over a precipice in Tibet, loses all recollection for thirty years. He is found by his sister, recovers his memory, and returns home. On the way he learns of great changes in his native land, and is not pleased. Arriving, he cannot deny some improvements, but is still dissatisfied. New food and new housekeeping arrangements impress him; better buildings and great saving in money. As man to man his new brother-in-law tells him of the change in women and its effect on men. CHAPTER VI. OUT OF the mass of information offered by my new family and the pleasant friends we met, together with the books and publications profusely piling around me, I felt it necessary to make a species of digest for my own consideration. This I submitted to Nellie, Owen, and one or two others, adding suggestions and corrections; and thus established in my own mind a coherent view of what had happened. In the first place, as Owen repeatedly assured me, nothing was done— finished—brought to static perfection. "Thirty years isn't much, you see," he said cheerfully. "I dare say if you'd been here all along you wouldn't think it was such a great advance. We have removed some obvious and utterly unnecessary evils, and cleared the ground for new beginnings; but what we are going to do is the exciting thing! "Now you think it is so wonderful that we have no poverty. We think it is still more wonderful that a world of even partially sane people could have borne poverty so long." We naturally discussed this point a good deal, and they brought up a little party of the new economists to enlighten me—Dr. Harkness, sociologist; Mr. Alfred Brown, Department of Production; Mrs. Allerton of the Local Transportation Bureau; and a young fellow named pike, who had written a little book on "Distinctive Changes of Three Decades," which I found very useful. "It was such a simple matter, after all, you see," the Sociologist explained to me, in an amiable class-room manner. "Suppose now you were considering the poverty of one family, an isolated family, sir. Now, if this family was poor, it would be due to the limitations of the individual or of the environment. Limitations of the individual would cover inefficiency, false theory of industry, ill-judged division of labor, poor system of production, or misuse of product. Limitation of environment would, of course, apply to climate, soil, natural products, etc. No amount of health, intelligence or virtue could make Iceland rich—if it was completely isolated; nor England, for that matter, owing to the inexorable limitations of that environment. "Here in this country we have no complaint to make of our natural resources. The soil is capable of sustaining an enormous population. So we have merely to consider the limitations of individuals, transferring our problem from the isolated family to the general public. "What do we find? All the limitations I enumerated! Inefficiency— nearly every one below par in working power in the generation before last, as well as miserably educated; false theories of industry everywhere —idiotic notions as to what work was 'respectable' and what wasn't, more idotic idea that work was a curse . . . Might as well call digestion a curse! Dear! Dear! How benighted we were! "Then there was ill-judged division of labor—almost universal; that evil. For instance, look at this one point; half the workers of the world, nearly, were restricted to one class of labor, and that in the lowest industrial grade." "He means women, in housework, John," Nellie interpolated. "We never used to think of that as part of our economic problem." "It was a very serious part," the professor continued, hastily forestalling the evident intention of Mr. Brown to strike in, "but there were many others. The obvious utility of natural specialization in labor seemed scarcely to occur 164 Moving the Mountain to us. Our system of production was archaic in the extreme; practically no system was followed." "You must give credit to the work of the Department of Agriculture, Dr. Harkness," urged Mr. Brown, "the introduction of new fruits, the improvement of stocks——" "Yes, yes," agreed Dr. Harkness, "the rudiments were there, of course; but no real grasp of organized productivity. And as to misuse of product— why, my dear Mr. Robertson, it is a wonder anybody had enough to live on in those days, in view of our criminal waste. "The real turning point, Mr. Robertson, if we can put our finger on one, is where the majority of the people recognized the folly and evil of poverty —and saw it to be a thing of our own making. We saw that our worst poverty was poverty in the stock—that we raised a terrible percentage of poor people. Then we established a temporary Commission on Human efficiency, away back in 1913 or 14—" "Thirteen," put in Mr. Pike, who sat back listening to Dr. Harkness with an air of repressed superiority. "Thank you," said the eminent Sociologist courteously. "These young fellows have it all at their fingers' ends Mr. Robertson. Better methods in education nowadays, far better! As I was saying, we established a Commission on Human Efficiency." "You will remember the dawning notions of 'scientific management' we began to have in the first decade of the new century," Mrs. Allerton quietly suggested. "It occurred to us later to apply it to ourselves—and we did." "The Commission found that the majority of human beings were not properly reared," Dr. Harkness resumed," with a resultant low standard of efficiency—shockingly low; and that the loss was not merely to the individual but to the community. Then Soceity stretched out a long arm and took charge of the work of humaniculture —began to lift the human standard. "I won't burden you with details on that line at present; it touched but one cause of poverty after all. The false theory of industry was next to be changed. A few far-seeing persons were already writing and talking about work as an organic social function, but the sudden spread of it came through the new religion." "And the new voters, Dr. Harkness," my sister added. He smiled at her benevolently. A large, comfortable, full-bearded, rosy old gentleman was Dr. Harkness, and evidently in full enjoyment of his present task. "Let us never forget the new voters, of course. They have ceased to be thought of as new, Mr. Robertson— so easily does the human mind accept established conditions. The new religion urged work—normal, well-adapted work—as the duty of life—as life itself; and the new voters accepted this idea as one woman. "They were, as a class, used to doing their duty in patient industry, generally distasteful to them; and the opportunity of doing work they liked— with a sense of higher duty added— was universally welcomed." "I certainly remember a large class of women who practiced no industry at all—no duty either, unless what they called 'social duties,'" I rather sourly remarked. Mrs. Allerton took me up with sudden heat: "Yes, there were such, in large numbers, in our great cities particularly; but public opinion was rising against them even as far back as 1910. The more progressive women turned the light on them first, and then men took it up and began to see that this domestic pet was not only expensive and useless but injurious and absurd. I don't suppose we can realize," she continued meditatively, "how complete the change in public opinion is—and how supremely important. In visible material progress we have only followed simple lines, quite natural and obvious, and accomplished what was perfectly possible at any time—if we had only thought so." "That's the point!" Mr. Pike was unable to preserve his air of restraint any longer, and burst forth volubly. "That was the greatest, the most sudden, the most vital of our changes, The Forerunner 165 sir—the change in the world's thought! Ideas are the real things, sir! Brick and mortar? Bah! We can put brick and mortar in any shape we choose— but we have to choose first! What held the old world back was not facts —not conditions—not any material limitations, or psychic limitations either. We had every constituent of human happiness, sir—except the sense to use them. The channel of progress was obstructed with a deposit of prehistoric ideas. We choked up our children's minds with this mental refuse as we choked our rivers and harbors with material refuse, sir." Dr. Harkness still smiled. "Mr. Pike was in my class ten years ago," he observed amiably. "I always said he was the brightest young man I had. We are all very proud of Mr. Pike." Mr. Pike seemed not over pleased with this communication, and the old gentleman went on: "He is entirely right. Our idiotic ideas and theories were the main causes of poverty after all. The new views on economics—true social economics, not the 'dismal science'; with the blaze of the new religion to show what was right and wrong, and the sudden uprising of half the adult world —the new voters—to carry out the new ideas; these were what changed things! There you have it, Mr. Robertson, in a nutshell—rather a large nutshell, a pericarp, as it were—but I think that covers it." "We students used always to admire Dr. Harkness' power of easy generalization," said Mr. Pike, in a mild, sub-acid tone, "but if any ground of inquiry is left to you, Mr. Robertson, I could, perhaps, illuminate some special points." Dr. Harkness laughed in high good humor, and clapped his whilom pupil on the back. "You have the floor, Mr. Pike—I shall listen to you with edification." The young man looked a little ashamed of his small irony, and continued more genially: "Our first step—or one of our first steps, for we advanced like a strenuous centipede—was to check the birth of defectives and degenerates. Certain classes of criminals and perverts were rendered incapable of reproducing their kind. In the matter of those diseases most injurious to the young, very stringent measures were taken. It was made a felony to infect wife or child knowingly, and a misdemeanor if it were done unknowingly. Physicians were obliged to report all cases of infectious disease, and young girls were clearly taught the consequence of marriage with infected persons. The immediate result was, of course, a great decrease in marriage; but the increase in population was scarce checked at all because of the lowered death rate among children. It was checked a little; but for twenty years now, it has been recovering itself. We increase a little too fast now, but see every hope of a balanced population long before the resources of the world are exhausted." Mr. Brown seized upon a second moment's pause to suggest that the world's resources were vastly increased also—and still increasing. "Let Pike rest a moment and get his breath," he said, warming to the subject, "I want to tell Mr. Robertson that the productivity of the earth is gaining every year. Here's this old earth feeding us all—laying golden eggs as it were; and we used to get those eggs by the Caesarian operation! We uniformly exhausted the soil—uniformly! Now a man would no more think of injuring the soil, the soil that feeds him, than he would of hurting his mother. We steadily improve the soil; we improve the seed; we improve methods of culture; we improve everything." Mrs. Allerton struck in here, "Not forgetting the methods of transportation, Mr. Robertson. There was one kind of old world folly which made great waste of labor and time; that was our constant desire to eat things out of season. There is now a truer sense of what is really good eating; no one wants to eat asparagus that is not of the best, and asparagus cut five or ten days cannot be really good. We do not carry things about unnecessarily; and the carrying we do is swift, easy and economical. For slow freight 166 Moving the Mountain we use waterways wherever possible— you will be pleased to see the 'all-water routes' that thread the country now. And our roads—you haven't seen our roads yet! We lead the world." "We used to be at the foot of the class as to roads, did we not?" I asked; and Mr. Pike swiftly answered: "We did, indeed, sir. But that very need of good roads made easy to us the second step in abolishing great poverty. Here was a great social need calling for labor; here were thousands upon thousands of men calling for employment; and here were we keeping the supply from the demand by main strength—merely from those archaic ideas of ours. "We had a mass of valuable data already collected, and now with that the whole country teemed with new ideals of citizenship and statesmanship, it did not take very long to get the two together." "We furnished employment for all the women, too," my sister added. "A Social Service Union was formed the country over; it was part of the new religion. Every town has one—men and women. The same spirit that used to give us crusaders and missionaries now gave plenty of enthusiastic workers." "I don't see yet how you got up any enthusiasm about work," said I. "It was not work for oneself," Nellie explained. That is what used to make it so sordid; we used really to believe that we were working each for himself. This new ideas was overwhelming in its simplicity—and truth; work is social service—social service is religion—that's about it. "Not only so," Dr. Harkness added, "it made a three-fold appeal; to the old deep-seated religious sense; to the new, vivid intellectual acceptance; and to the very widespread, wholesome appreciation of a clear advantage. "When a thing was offered to the world that agreed with every social instinct, that appealed to common sense, that was established by the highest scientific authority, and that had the overwhelming sanction of religion— why the world took to it." "But it is surely not natural to people to work—much less to like to work!" I protested. "That's where the change comes in," Mr. Pike eagerly explained. "We used to think that people hated work —nothing of the sort! What people hated was too much work, which is death; work they were personally unfit for and therefore disliked, which is torture; work under improper conditions, which is disease; work held contemptible, looked down upon by other people, which is a grievous social distress; and work so ill-paid that no human beings could really live by it." "Why Mr. Robertson, if you can throw any light on the now inconceivable folly of that time so utterly behind us, we shall be genuinely indebted to you. It was quite understood in your day that the whole world's life, comfort, prosperity and progress depended upon the work done, was it not?" "Why, of course; that was an economic platitude," I answered. "Then why were the workers punished for doing it?" "Punished? What do you mean?" "I mean just what I say. They were punished, just as we punish criminals —with confinement at hard labor. The great mass of the people were forced to labor for cruelly long hours at dull, distasteful occupations; is not that punishment?" "Not at all," I said hotly. "They were free at any time to leave an occupation they did not like." "Leave it for what alternative?" "To take up another," said I, perceiving that this, after all, was not much of an escape. "Yes, to take up another under the same heavy conditions, if there was any opening; or to starve—that was their freedom." "Well, what would you have?" I asked. "A man must work for his living surely." "Remember your economic platitude, Mr. Robertson," Dr. Harkness suggested. "The whole world's life, comfort, prosperity and progress depends upon the work done, you know. It was not their living they were working for; it was the world's." The Forerunner 167 "That is very pretty as a sentiment," I was beginning; but his twinkling eye reminded me that an economic platitude is not precisely sentimental. "That's where the change came," Mr. Pike eagerly repeated. "The idea that each man had to do it for himself kept us blinded to the fact that it was all social service; that they worked for the world, and the world treated them shamefully—so shamefully that their product was deteriorated, markedly deteriorated." "You will be continually surprised, Mr. Robertson, at the improvement of our output," remarked Mr. Brown. "We have standards in every form of manufacture, required standards; and to label an article incorrectly is a misdemeanor." "That was just starting in the pure food agitation, you remember," my sister put in—('with apple juice containing one-tenth of one per. cent of benzoate of soda).'" "And now," Mr. Brown continued, "'all wool' is all wool; if it isn't, you can have the dealer arrested. Silk is silk, nowadays, and cream is cream." "And 'caveat emptor' is a dead letter?" "Yes, it is 'caveat vendor' now You see, selling goods is public service." "You apply that term quite differently from what it stood for in my memory," said I. "It used to mean some sort of beneficent statesmanship, at first," Nellie agreed. "Then it spread to various philanthropic efforts and wider grades of government activities. Now it means any kind of world work." She saw that this description did not carry much weight with me, and added, "Any kind of human work, John; that is, work a man gives his whole time to and does not himself consume, is world work—is social service." "If a man raises, by his own labor, just enough corn to feed himself—that is working for himself," Mr. Brown explained, "but if he raises more corn than he consumes, he is serving humanity." "But he does not give it away," I urged; "he is paid for it." "Well, you paid the doctor who saved your child's life, but the doctor's work was social service none the less— and the teacher's—anybody's." "But that kind of work benefits humanity—" "Yes, and does it not benefit humanity to eat—to have shoes and clothes and houses? John, John, wake up!" Nellie for the first time showed impatience with me. But my brother-in-law extended a protecting arm. "Now, Nellie, don't hurry him. This thing will burst upon him all at once. Of course it's glaringly plain, but there was a time when you and I did not see it either." I was a little sulky. "Well, as far as I gather," and I took out my note book, "people all of a sudden changed all their ideas about everything—and your demi-millenium followed.' "I wish we could say that," said Mrs. Allerton. "We are not telling you of our present day problems and difficulties, you see. No, Mr. Robertson, we have merely removed our most obvious and patently unnecessary difficulties, of which poverty was at least the largest. "What we did, as we have rather confusedly suggested, I'm afraid, was to establish such measures as to insure better births, and vastly better environment and education for every child. That raised the standard of the people, you see, and increased their efficiency. Then we provided employment for everyone, under good conditions, and improved the world in two ways at once." "And who paid for this universal employment?" I asked. "Who paid for it before?" she returned promptly. "The employer, of course." "Did he? Out of his own private pocket? At a loss to himself," "Why, of course not," I replied, a little nettled. "Out of the profits of the business." "And 'the business' was the work done by the employees?" "Not at all! He did it himself; they only furnished the labor." "Could he do it alone—without 'labor?' Did he furnish employment as a piece of beneficence, outside of his 168 "N. G." business—Ah, Mr. Robertson, surely it is clear that unless a man's labor furnished a profit to his employer, he would not be employed. It was on that profit that 'labor' was paid—they paid themselves. They do now, but at a higher rate." I was annoyed by this clever juggling with the hard facts of business. "That is very convincing, Mrs. Allerton," I said with some warmth, "but it unfortunately omits certain factors. A lot of laborers could make a given article, of course; but they could not sell it—and that is where the profit comes in. What good would it do the laborer to pile up goods if he could not sell them?" "And what good would be the ability to sell goods if there were none, Mr. Robertson. Of course I recognize the importance of transportation; that is my own line of work, but there must be something to transport. As long ago as St. Paul's days it was known that the hand could not say to the foot, I have no need of thee.'" "To cover that ground more easily, Mr. Robertson," Dr. Harkness explained, "just put down in your digest there that Bureaus of Employment were formed all over the country; some at first were of individual initiative, but in a few years' time all were in government management. There was a swift and general improvement in the whole country. The roads became models to the world, the harbors were cleared, canals dug, cities rebuilt, bare hills reforested, the value of our national property doubled and trebeled —all owing to the employment of hitherto neglected labor. Out of the general increase of wealth they got their share, of course. And where there is work for everyone, at good wages, there is no poverty; that's clearly seen." (To be continued) ——— "N. G." THE non-voting companionship of women with "idiots, lunatics, and criminals" has been sustained for a long while, only a comparatively few openly resenting it; but are women to accept with patience this new census classification? The initials "N. G." are used to indicate the status of all women who are not wage-earners. This does not mean "no good," as is irresistably suggested, but merely "non-gainful;" and in itself furnishes food for thought. While we are thinking of it, let us include in our meditations a new group sharing the shelter of these initials. We are told that the new census bureau has issued verbal orders to its tabulating clerks to classify prostitutes as "N. G." Statistics on the "social evil" are of the most vital importance to the nation. Why should they be suppressed? Are these women so frightfully numerous that the authorities fear to have their numbers known? A most mistaken policy; the worse the case is the more fully we ought to know it. Are they so few as to be negligible? We ought to know that also. We have figures for the waitresses, mill-workers, milliners, dressmakers, and so on; but these unfortunates, whose names and addresses have been secured with all the others, are now to be obliterated professionally. Since they must be concealed, and could not, apparently, be sheltered under the mantle of any industrial workers, they have been added to the ranks of daughters, wives and mothers living at home. May it be suggested, from the point of view of an equal suffragist, that if women were responsible for these statistics they would have done quite otherwise. The Forerunner 169 COMMENT AND REVIEW "The New Machiaveli," by. H. G. Wells, Duffield & Co., New York. $1.35 net. In times past, when an unusual woman showed marked capacity in some line of human service, all were quick to see and point out with scorn or pity, the "feminine limitations" of her work. It was done "like a woman," they said; it was "womanish;" it was to be grudgingly measured as "good—for a woman," if good at all. Now we are beginning to use something of the opposite point of view in regard to men's achievements; and we need it, constantly, in considering the work of Mr. H. G. Wells The masculine limitations of this author are marked and persistent. He sees life wholly from the side of sex— his sex; and when, as in this last book, he frankly announces himself "feminist," it is only sex in woman which he sees, and for which he demands social recognition. Of course it is difficult for a man to overcome this bias, more so than for a woman; yet many great men have been able to do it. Mr. Wells. has not. Note this record of masculine emotion and conduct, its morbid excesses blasting an otherwise valuable life— indeed several of them—yet discussed with naive solemnity as if it was all in the necessary order of nature. The book tells of a boy somewhat unfortunate in birth and breeding, as most of us are; growing up to keen-minded speculation on human life, its pressing needs and problems; yet in all this wide sociological interest totally oblivious to such a predominating social question as the woman's movement. The girl he passes in the street who stirs his boyish sensations; the women of his frankly told experiences; the woman he marries—"I suppose it was because I had so great a need of such help as her whiteness proffered," he says; "I wanted a woman to save me;" —and the next one with whom he overwhelmingly falls in love; these are real to him; and one other, mercilessly caricatured. These impress him; but the change in social relation of thousands does not impress him. The work is powerful and clear; the view of the present confusion of methods, especially in the rearing of young people, is vividly appealing; but the criticisms of political life show a strange lack of adjustment in eyes that see so far. To be in the immediate workings of the political department of the social body must must necessarily be confusing. The social philosopher can see an ordered procession of changes for centuries ahead, but the politician must introduce those changes step by step— with some heat. The worst thing about this book is the spirit of personal enmity it reveals; the Dantesque consigning of enemies to the hell of a wickedly clever caricaturization. Little London, where everybody who is anybody knows everybody else, buzzed madly over the book. This is pitiful work. If there was no personal animus in this bitter ridicule, it shows sheer malice. If there was a personal ground, it implicates the author with his creation most painfully. Mr. Wells is easily among the first of those who are kindled with the social consciousness, and able to spread the light and heat of it to others. His work is extremely able, though irregular; and with his unrivalled imagination, wide scientific knowledge, and highly developed art, he ought to be one of the prime movers of the world today. But here enter the disabilities of sex. Not only, as in this tale, is a mans' political life ruined by open scandal, but the artist, scientist, and publicist is cut off from highest usefulness by this constant limitation. ——— In a publication whose popularity proves its knowledge of the prevailing tastes of the man in the street, has been running a story most pleasing and absorbing to that man. With passionate eagerness he read it from week to week, discussed it with his friends, commented sagely on its florid philosophy. 170 Comment and Review This story is "The Grain of Dust," by the late David Graham Phillips. It is a man's story, utterly; masculine from start to finish; with woman only thrown in as a background; the vain and shallow fiancee, the vain and shallow sister, the vain and shallow girl who served as a grain of dust to stop the action of the hero's "works"; —not that she had power even to do that —the power was all in him! " 'It isn't the woman who makes a fool of the man,' said Norman, 'it's the man who makes a fool of himself!' " The most amusing feature of the book is this; the ultra-male hero; vain beyond belief, brutally self-confident, unprincipled as a fish, indifferent to any interests but his own, self-indulgent to a degree which would have made him a shameful wreck in five years had not the author endowed him with a magic immunity to all excesses; and first, last and always the ceaseless mouthpiece of an egotism unmeasured and unashamed; this man dwells continually on the vanity and egotism of women! Because a girl, the effect of whose marvelous everchanging beauty forms the subject matter of the story, thinks she is beautiful—therefore she is a monument of the egotism of her sex! Because another girl whom this lovable hero was about to marry for her beauty, money and position, and who was somewhat in love with him; really expected him to love her; really resented his loving another woman while relentlessly going to marry her for business purposes; and really recognized in herself the beauty, wealth and position he was marrying her for —she was another monument of feminine egotism. It would seem on the face of it that if one wished to write a book to establish the utter incapacity, selfishness and vanity of women; one would choose a type of that sort, and surround her with the effective contrast of useful, noble, modest and unselfish men. Such a woman, so exhibited, should exert her arts in vain upon these noble characters. In this story, however, we have for our heroine a quiet, lovely girl, efficient and devoted as a daughter; self-supporting and self-respecting under long temptation; finally choosing to marry her chief pursuer even without "love," preferring his wealth and professed devotion to long poverty and possible failure and shame: a deed at worst no more to be condemned than his earlier attempt. His wealth, by the way, was nonexistent when he married her—he deliberately deceived her in this; and his "love" vanished on the morning after. Thereafter he treats her as an upper servant, whose business in life is to minister to his personal comfort— whose only claim on him was for "support;" and in her new efforts to please him, forgetting that she had done the work of a house for years and cared tenderly for an absent-minded father, while at the same time earning her living at distasteful labor, he is at great pains to show her pitifully inefficient and never more than moderately successful. And we can never ask the author if this book was really meant as a satire on men! "The Players of London." Written by Louise Beecher Chancellor, decorated by Harry B. Matthews, Published by B. W. Dodge Company, New York, 1909. This is not a new book, in the strict publisher's sense, but it is an extremely attractive one, with its profuse inner trimmings of lilac, and vivid illuminations in black and white. The story is a simple one, of the days of Good Queen Bess, with no less a person for the hero than Master Will. Shakespere; and for the heroine, the first woman to appear on the English stage. It does seem strange indeed for Romeo and Juliet to be written with the expectation of some lad's taking the part of that passionate young heroine. But this appears to be what Shakspere did. How he was misled in the matter, for what noble purpose and to what poor end, is shown in this old world tale. The Forerunner THE HOME ITS WORK AND INFLUENCE By Charlotte Perkins Gilman A new edition offered in response to continued demand for this book, first published in 1903. With sound logic and sparkling wit, Mrs. Gilman discusses Domestic Mythology Art, Ethics and Entertainment, Home Cooking, and the Influence of the Home on the Man, the Woman, the Girl and the Child, concluding with a study of the tendencies to change and improvement already visible, and a forecast of the future. Mailed postpaid by In Cloth, $1.00 THE CHARLTON COMPANY 67 Wall Street New York City -------------------------------------------------------- "HUMAN WORK" By Charlotte Perkins Gilman Charlotte Perkins Gilman has added a third to her great trilogy of books on economic subjects as they affect our daily life, particularly in the home. Mrs. Gilman is by far the most brilliant woman writer of our day, and this new volume, which she calls "Human Work," is a glorification of labor.—New Orleans Picayune. In her latest volume, "Human Work," Charlotte Perkins Gilman places herself among the foremost students and elucidators of the problem of social economics.—San Francisco Star. It is impossible to overestimate the value of the insistence on the social aspect of human affairs as Mrs. Gilman has outlined it.—Public Opinion. Mailed postpaid by In Cloth, $1.00 THE CHARLTON COMPANY 67 Wall Street New York City The Forerunner Subscribe for The Woman's Journal 585 Boylston St., Boston, Mass. Official Organ of the National American Woman Suffrage Association A weekly newspaper devoted to winning the ballot for women Contains all the best news about women and their progress FOUNDED 1870 BY LUCY STONE AND HENRY B. BLACKWELL Edited by Alice Stone Blackwell The Woman's Journal is published in Boston and controlled by the National American Woman Suffrage Association whose headquarters are at 505 Fifth Avenue, New York City. 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