THE FIN-DE-SIÈCLE WOMAN
The world has fought step by step the elevation of woman from inferiority to equality, but at last she is being recognised as a potent factor in our civilisation.
The most marked change which has been made in woman’s position during the last half century or more has been effected by higher education, and since the universities have thrown open their doors to her, she has been allowed, in many cases, to take the same courses that her brother does.
Still, the way has not been entirely smooth for educated and literary women, for the public press has too often frowned upon their efforts to obtain anything like equal recognition for equal ability. The literary woman has, for years, been the target of criticism, and if we are to believe her critics, she has been entirely shunned by the gentlemen of her acquaintance; but the fact that so many of them are wives and mothers, and, moreover, good wives and mothers, proves conclusively that these statements are not trustworthy.
It is true that some prefer the society of women who know just enough to appreciate their compliments—women who deprecate their “strong-minded” sisters, and are ready to agree implicitly with every statement that the lords of creation may make; but this readiness is due to sheer inability to produce a thought of their own.
It is true that some men are afraid of educated women, but a man who is afraid of a woman because she knows something is not the kind of a man she wants to marry. He is not the kind of a man she would choose for either husband or friend; she wants an intellectual companion, and the chances are that she will find him, or rather that he will find her. A woman need not be unwomanly in order to write books that will help the world.
She may be a good housekeeper, even if she does write for the magazines, and the husbands of literary women are not, as some folks would have us believe, neglected and forlorn-looking beings. On the contrary, they carry brave hearts and cheerful faces with them always, since their strength is reinforced by the quiet happiness of their own firesides.
The fin-de-siècle woman is literary in one sense, if not in another, for if she may not wield her pen, she can keep in touch with the leading thinkers of the day, and she will prove as pleasant a companion during the long winter evenings as the woman whose husband chose her for beauty and taste in dress.
The literary woman is not slipshod in her apparel, and she may, if she chooses, be a society and club woman as well. Surely there is nothing in literary culture which shall prevent neatness and propriety in dress as well as in conduct.
The devoted admirer of Browning is not liable to quote him in a promiscuous company and though a lady may be familiar with Shakespeare, it does not follow that she will discuss Hamlet in social gatherings.
If she reads Greek as readily as she does her mother tongue, you may rest assured she will not mention Homer in ordinary conversation, for a cultivated woman readily recognises the fitness of things, and accords a due deference to the tastes of others. She has her club and her friends, as do the gentlemen of her acquaintance, but her children are not neglected from the fact that she sometimes thinks of other things. She is a helpmeet to her husband, and not a plaything, or a slave. If duty calls her to the kitchen, she goes cheerfully, and, moreover, the cook will not dread to see her coming; or if that important person be absent, the table will be supplied with just as good bread, and just as delicate pastry, as if the lady of the house did not understand the chemicals of their composition.
If trouble comes, she bears it bravely, for the cultured woman has a philosophy which is equal to any emergency, and she does the best she can on all occasions.
If her husband leaves her penniless, she will, if possible, clothe her children with her pen, but if her literary wares are a drug on the market, she will turn bravely to other fields, and find her daily bread made sweet by thankfulness. She does not hesitate to hold out her hands to help a fellow-creature, either man or woman, for she is in all things womanly—a wife to her husband and a mother to her children in the truest sense of the words.
Her knowledge of the classics does not interfere with the making of dainty draperies for her home, and though she may be appointed to read a paper before her club on some scholarly theme, she will listen just as patiently to tales of trouble from childish lips, and will tie up little cut fingers just as sympathetically as her neighbour who folds her arms and who broadly hints that “wimmen’s spear is to hum!”
Whether the literary woman be robed in silk and sealskin, or whether she rejoices in the possession of only one best gown, she may, nevertheless, be contented and happy.
Whether she lives in a modest cottage, or in a fashionable home, she may be the same sweet woman, with cheerful face and pleasant voice—with a broad human sympathy which makes her whole life glad.
Be she princess, or Cinderella, she may be still her husband’s confidant and cherished friend, to whom he may confide his business troubles and perplexities, certain always of her tender consolation and ready sympathy. She may be quick and versatile, doing well whatever she does at all, for her creed declares that “whatever is honest is honourable.”
She glories in her womanhood and has no sympathy with anything which tends to degrade it.
All hail to the woman of the twentieth century; let fin de siècle stand for all that is best and noblest in womanhood: for liberty, equality, and fraternity; for right, truth, and justice.
All hail the widespread movement for the higher education of woman, for in intellectual development is the future of posterity, in study is happiness, through the open door of the college is the key of a truer womanhood, a broader humanity, and a brighter hope. In education along the lines of the broadest and wisest culture is to be found the emancipation of the race.
THE MOON MAIDEN
There’s a wondrous land of misty gold
Beyond the sunset’s bars.
There’s a silver boat on a sea of blue,
And the tips of its waves are stars.
And idly rocking to and fro,
Her cloud robes floating by,
There’s a maiden fair, with sunny hair,
The queen of the dreamy sky.
HER SON’S WIFE
The venerable mother-in-law joke appears in the comic papers with astonishing regularity. For a time, perhaps, it may seem to be lost in the mists of oblivion, but even while one is rejoicing at its absence it returns to claim its original position at the head of the procession.
There are two sides to everything, even to an old joke, and the artist always pictures the man’s dismay when his wife’s mother comes for a visit. Nobody ever sees a drawing of a woman’s mother-in-law, and yet, the bitterness and sadness lie mainly there—between the mother and the woman his son has chosen for his wife.
It is a pleasure to believe that the average man is a gentleman, and his inborn respect for his own mother, if nothing else, will usually compel an outward show of politeness to every woman, even though she may be a constant source of irritation. Grey hair has its own claims upon a young man’s deference, and, in the business world, he is obliged to learn to hold his tongue, hide his temper, and “assume a virtue though he has it not.”
The mother’s welcome from her daughter’s husband depends much upon herself. Her long years of marriage have been in vain if they have not taught her to watch a man’s moods and tenses; when to speak and when to be silent, and how to avoid useless discussion of subjects on which there is a pronounced difference of opinion. Leaving out the personal equation, the older and more experienced woman is better fitted to get along peaceably with a man than the young girl who has her wisdom yet to acquire.
Moreover, it is to the daughter’s interest to cement a friendship between her mother and her husband, and so she stands as a shield between the two she holds dearest, to exercise whatever tact she may possess toward an harmonious end.
“A son’s a son till he gets him a wife,
But a daughter’s a daughter all the days of her life.”
Thus the old saying runs, and there is a measure of truth in it, more’s the pity. Marriage and a home of her own interfere but little with a daughter’s devotion to her mother, even though the daily companionship be materially lessened. The feeling is there and remains unchanged, unless it grows stronger through the new interests on both sides.
If a man has won his wife in spite of her mother’s opposition, he can well afford to be gracious and forget the ancient grudge. It is his part, too, to prove to the mother how far she was mistaken, by making the girl who trusted him the happiest wife in the world. The woman who sees her daughter happy will have little against her son-in-law, except that primitive, tribal instinct which survives in most of us, and jealously guards those of our own blood from the aggression of another family or individual.
One may as well admit that a good husband is a very scarce article, and that the mother’s anxiety for her daughter is well-founded. No man can escape the sensation of being forever on trial in the eyes of his wife’s mother, and woe to him if he makes a mistake or falters in his duty! Things which a woman would gladly condone in her husband are unpardonable sins in the man who has married her daughter, and taken her from a mother’s loving care.
A good husband and a good man are not necessarily the same thing. Many a scapegrace has been dearly loved by his wife, and many a highly respected man has been secretly despised by his wife and children. When the prison doors open to discharge the sinners who have served long sentences, the wives of those who have been good husbands are waiting for them with open arms. The others have long since taken advantage of the divorce laws.
Since women know women so well, perhaps it is only natural for a mother to feel that no girl who is good enough for her son ever has been born. All the small deceits, the little schemes and frailties, are as an open book in the eyes of other women.
“If you were a man,” said one girl to another, “and knew women as well as you do now, whom would you marry?”
The other girl thought for a moment, and then answered unhesitatingly: “I’d stay single.”
Women are always suspicious of each other, and the one who can deceive another woman is entitled to her laurels for cleverness. With the keen insight and quick intuition of the woman on either side of him, when these women are violently opposed to each other, no man need look for peace.
In spite of their discernment, women are sadly deficient in analysis when it comes to a question of self. Neither wife nor mother can clearly see her relation to the man they both love. Blinded by passionate devotion and eager for power, both women lose sight of the truth, and torment themselves and each other with unfounded jealousy and distrust.
In no sense are wife and mother rivals, nor can they ever be so. Neither could take the place of the other for a single instant, and the wife foolishly guards the point where there is no danger, for, of all the women in the world, his mother and sisters are the only ones who could never by any possibility usurp her place.
A woman need only ask herself if she would like to be the mother of her husband—to exchange the love which she now has for filial affection—for a temporary clearness of her troubled skies. The mother need only ask herself if she would surrender her position for the privilege of being her son’s wife, if she seeks for light on her dark path.
Yet, in spite of this, the two are often open and acknowledged rivals. A woman recently wrote to the “etiquette department” of a daily paper to know whether she or her son’s fiancée should make the first call. In answering the question, the head of the department, who, by the way, has something of a reputation for good sense, wrote as follows: “It is your place to make the first call, and you have my sympathy in your difficult task. You must be brave, for you are going to look into the eyes of a woman whom your son loves better than he does you!” “Better than he does you!” That is where all the trouble lies, for each wishes to be first in a relation where no comparison is possible.
When an American yacht first won the cup, Queen Victoria was watching the race. When she was told that the America was in the lead, she asked what boat was second. “Your Majesty,” replied the naval officer sadly, “there is no second!”
So, between wife and mother there is no second place, and it is possible for each to own the whole of the loved one’s heart, without infringing or even touching upon the rights of the other.
Few of the passengers on a lake steamer, during a trip in northern waters a few years since, will ever forget a certain striking group. Mother and son, and the son’s fiancée, were off for a week’s vacation. The mother was tall and stately, with snow-white hair and a hard face deeply seamed with wrinkles, and with the fire of southern countries burning in her faded blue eyes. The son was merely a nice boy, with a pleasant face, and the girl, though not pretty, had a fresh look about her which was very attractive.
She wore an engagement ring, so he must have cared for her, but otherwise no one would have suspected it. From beginning to end, his attention was centred upon his mother. He carried his mother’s wraps, but the girl carried her own. He talked to the mother, and the girl could speak or not, just as she chose. Never for an instant were the two alone together. They sat on the deck until late at night, with the mother between them. When they changed, the son took his own chair and his mother’s, while the girl dragged hers behind them. At the end of their table in the cabin, the mother sat between them at the head. Once, purely by accident, the girl slipped into the nearest chair, which happened to be the mother’s, and the deadly silence could be felt even two tables away. The girl turned pale, then the son said: “You’ll take the head of the table, won’t you, mother?”
The steely tone of her voice could be heard by every one as she said, “No!”
The girl ate little, and soon excused herself to go to her stateroom, but the next day things were as before, and the foolish old mother had her place next to her son.
Discussion was rife among the passengers, till an irreverent youth ended it by saying: “Mamma’s got the rocks; that’s the why of it!”
Perhaps it was, but one wonders why a man should slight his promised wife so publicly, even to please a mother with “rocks!”
To the mother who adores her son, every girl who smiles at him has matrimonial designs. When he falls in love, it is because he has been entrapped—she seldom considers him as being the aggressive one of the two. The mother of the girl feels the same way, and, in the lower circles, there is occasionally an illuminating time when the two mothers meet.
Each is made aware how the other’s offspring has given the entrapped one no peace, and how the affair has been the scandal of two separate neighbourhoods, more eligible partners having been lost by both sides.
In the Declaration of Independence there is no classification of the rights of the married, but the clause regarding “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” has been held pointedly to refer to the matrimonial state. If the mother would accord to her daughter-in-law the same rights she claimed at the outset of her own married life, the relation would be perceptibly smoother in many instances.
When a woman marries, she has a right to expect the love of her husband, material support, a home of her own, even though it be only two tiny rooms, and absolute freedom from outside interference. It is her life, and she must live it in her own way, and a girl of spirit will live it in her own way, without taking heed of the consequences, if she is pushed too far.
On the other hand, the mother who bore him still has proprietary rights. She may reasonably claim a share of his society, a part of his earnings, if she needs financial assistance, and his interest in all that nearly concerns her. If she expects to be at the head of his house, with the wife as a sort of a boarder, she need not be surprised if there is trouble.
Marriage brings to a girl certain freedom, but it gives her no superiority to her husband’s family. A chain is as strong as its weakest link, and the members of a family do not rise above the general level. Every one of them is as good as the man she has married, and she is not above any of them, unless her own personality commands a higher position.
She treasonably violates the confidence placed in her if she makes a discreditable use of any information coming to her through her association with her husband’s family. There are skeletons in every closet, and she may not tell even her own mother of what she has seen in the other house. A single word breathed against her husband’s family to an outsider stamps her as a traitor, who deserves a traitor’s punishment.
The girl who tells her most intimate friend that the mother of her fiancé “is an old cat,” by that act has lowered herself far below the level of any self-respecting cat. Even if outward and visible disgrace comes to the family of her husband, she is unworthy if she does not hold her head high and let the world see her loyalty.
Marriage gives her no right to criticise any member of her husband’s family; their faults are out of her reach except by the force of tactful example. Her concern is with herself and him, not his family, and a wise girl, at the beginning of her married life, will draw a sharp line between her affairs and those of others, and will stay on her own side of the line.
When a man falls in love with a thoughtless butterfly, his womenfolk may be pardoned if they stand aghast a moment before they regain their self-command. In a way it is like a guest who is given the freedom of the house, and who, when her visit is over, tells her friends that the parlour carpet was turned, and the stairs left undusted.
Another household is intimately opened to the woman whom the son has married, and the members of it can make no defence. She can betray them if she chooses; there is nothing to shield them except her love for her husband, and too often that is insufficient.
A girl seldom stops to think what she owes to her husband’s mother. Twenty-five or thirty years ago, the man she loves was born. Since then there has been no time, sleeping or waking, when he has not been in the thoughts of the mother who has sought to do her best by him. She gave her life wholly to the demands of her child, without a moment’s hesitation.
She has sacrificed herself in countless ways, all through those years, in order that he might have his education, his pleasures, and his strong body. With every day he has grown nearer and dearer to her; every day his loss would have been that much harder to bear.
In quiet talks in the twilight, she teaches him to be gentle and considerate, to be courteous to every woman because a woman gave him life; to be brave, noble, and tender; to be strong and fine; to choose honour with a crust, rather than shame with plenty.
Then comes the pretty butterfly, with whom her son is in love. Is it strange that the heart of the mother tightens with sudden pain?
With never a thought, the girl takes it all as her due. She would write a gracious note of thanks to the friend who sent her a pretty handkerchief, but for the woman who is the means of satisfying her heart’s desire she has not even toleration. All the sweetness and beauty of his adoring love are a gift to her, unwilling too often, perhaps, but a gift nevertheless, from his mother.
Long years of life have taught the mother what it may mean and what, alas, it does too often mean. Memories only are her portion; she need expect nothing now. He may not come to see his mother for an old familiar talk, because his wife either comes with him, or expects him to be at home. He has no time for his mother’s interests or his mother’s friends; there is scant welcome in his home for her, because between them has come an alien presence which never yields or softens.
Strangely, and without any definite idea of the change, he comes to see his mother as she is. Once, she was the most beautiful woman in the world, and her roughened hands were lovely because they had toiled for him. Once, her counsel was wise, her judgment good, and the gift of feeling which her motherhood brought her was seen as generous sympathy.
Now, by comparison with a bright, well-dressed wife, he sees what an “old frump” his mother is. She is shabby and old-fashioned, clinging to obsolete forms of speech, hysterical and emotional. When the mists of love have cleared from her boy’s eyes, she may just as well give up, because there is no return, save in that other mist which comes too late, when mother is at rest.
The wife who tries to keep alive her husband’s love for his family, not only in his heart, but in outward observance as well, serves her own interests even better than theirs. The love of the many comes with the love of the one, and just as truly as he loves his sweetheart better because of his mother and sisters, he may love them better because of her.
The poor heart-hungry mother, who stands by with brimming eyes, fearful that the joy of her life may be taken from her, will be content with but little if she may but keep it for her own. It is only a little while at the longest, for the end of the journey is soon, but sunset and afterglow would have some of the rapture of dawn, if her son’s wife opened the door of her young heart and said with true sincerity and wells of tenderness: “Mother—Come!”
A LULLABY
Sleep, baby, sleep,
The twilight breezes blow,
The flower bells are ringing,
The birds are twittering low,
Sleep, baby, sleep.
Sleep, baby, sleep,
The whippoorwill is calling,
The stars are twinkling faintly,
The dew is softly falling,
Sleep, baby, sleep.
Sleep, baby, sleep,
Upon your pillow lying,
The rushes whisper to the stream,
The summer day is dying,
Sleep, baby, sleep.
THE DRESSING-SACK HABIT
Someone has said that a dressing-sack is only a Mother Hubbard with a college education. Accepting this statement as a great truth, one is inclined to wonder whether education has improved the Mother Hubbard, since another clever person has characterised a college as “a place where pebbles are polished and diamonds are dimmed!”
The bond of relationship between the two is not at first apparent, yet there are subtle ties of kinship between the two. If we take a Hubbard and cut it off at the hips, we have only a dressing-sack with a yoke. The dressing-sack, however, cannot be walked on, even when the wearer is stooping, and in this respect it has the advantage of the other; it is also supposed to fit in the back, but it never does.
Doubtless in the wise economy of the universe, where every weed has its function, even this garment has its place—else it would not be.
Possibly one may take a nap, or arrange one’s crown of glory to better advantage in a “boudoir négligée,” or an invalid may be thus tempted to think of breakfast. Indeed, the habit is apt to begin during illness, when a friend presents the ailing lady with a dainty affair of silk and lace which inclines the suffering soul to frivolities. Presently she sits up, takes notice, and plans more garments of the sort, so that after she fully recovers all the world may see these becoming things!
The worst of the habit is that all the world does see. Fancy runs riot with one pattern, a sewing-machine, and all the remnants a single purse can compass. The lady with a kindly feeling for colour browses along the bargain counter and speedily acquires a rainbow for her own. Each morning she assumes a different phase, and, at the end of the week, one’s recollection of her is lost in a kaleidoscopic whirl.
Red, now—is anything prettier than red? And how the men admire it! Does not the dark lady build wisely who dons a red dressing-sack on a cold morning, that her husband may carry a bright bit of colour to the office in his fond memories of home?
A book with a red cover, a red cushion, crimson draperies, and scarlet ribbons, are all notoriously pleasing to monsieur—why not a red dressing-sack?
If questioned, monsieur does not know why, yet gradually his passion for red will wane, then fail. Later in the game, he will be affronted by the colour, even as the gentleman cow in the pasture. It is not the colour, dear madame, but the shiftless garment, which has wrought this change.
There are few who dare to assume pink, for one must have a complexion of peaches and cream, delicately powdered at that, before the rosy hues are becoming. Yet, the sallow lady, with streaks of grey in her hair, crow’s feet around her eyes, and little time tracks registered all over her face, will put on a pink dressing-sack when she gets ready for breakfast. She would scream with horror at the thought of a pink and white organdie gown, made over rosy taffeta, but the kimono is another story.
Green dressing-sacks are not often seen, but more’s the pity, for in the grand array of colour nothing should be lacking, and the wearers of these garments never seem to stop to think whether or not they are becoming. What could be more cheerful on a cloudy morning than a flannel négligée of the blessed shade of green consecrated to the observance of the seventeenth of March?
It looks as well as many things which are commonly welded into dressing-sacks; then why this invidious distinction?
When we approach blue in our dressing-sack rainbow, speech becomes pitifully weak. Ancient maidens and matrons, with olive skins, proudly assume a turquoise négligée. Blue flannel, with cascades of white lace—could anything be more attractive? It has only one rival—the garment of lavender eiderdown flannel, the button-holes stitched with black yarn, which the elderly widow too often puts on when the tide of her grief has turned.
The combination of black with any shade of purple is well fitted to produce grief, even as the cutting of an onion will bring tears. Could the dear departed see his relict in the morning, with lavender eiderdown environment, he would appreciate his mercies as never before.
The speaking shades of yellow and orange are much affected by German ladies for dressing-sacks, and also for the knitted tippets which our Teutonic friends wear, in and out of the house, from October to July. Canary yellow is delicate and becoming to most, but it is German taste to wear orange.
At first, perhaps, with a sense of the fitness of things, the négligée is worn only in one’s own room. She says: “It’s so comfortable!” There are degrees in comfort, varying from the easy, perfect fit of one’s own skin to a party gown which dazzles envious observers, and why is the adjective reserved for the educated but abbreviated Mother Hubbard?
“The apparel oft proclaims the man,” and even more is woman dependent upon her clothes for physical, moral, and intellectual support. An uncorseted body will soon make its influence felt upon the mind. The steel-and-whalebone spine which properly reinforces all feminine vertebra is literally the backbone of a woman’s self-respect.
Would the iceman or the janitor hesitate to “talk back” to the uncorseted lady in a pink dressing-sack?—Hardly!
But confront the erring man with a quiet, dignified woman in a crisp shirt-waist and a clean collar—verily he will think twice before he ventures an excuse for his failings.
The iceman and the grocery boy see more dressing-sacks than most others, for they are privileged to approach the back doors of residences, and to hold conversations with the lady of the house, after the departure of him whose duty and pleasure it is to pay for the remnants. And in the lower strata they are known by their clothes.
“Fifty pounds for the red dressing-sack,” says the iceman to his helper, “and a hundred for the blue. Step lively now!”
And how should madame know that her order for a steak, a peck of potatoes, and two lemons, is registered in the grocery boy’s book under the laconic title, “Pink”?
After breakfast, when she sits down to read the paper and make her plans for the day, the insidious dressing-sack gets in its deadly work.
“I won’t dress,” she thinks, “until I get ready to go out.” After luncheon, she is too tired to go out, and too nearly dead to dress.
Friends come in, perhaps, and say: “Oh, how comfortable you look! Isn’t that a dear kimono?” Madame plumes herself with conscious pride, for indeed it is a dear kimono, and already she sees herself with a reputation for “exquisite négligée.”
The clock strikes six, and presently the lord of the manor comes home to be fed. “I’m dreadfully sorry, dear, you should find me looking so,” says the lady of his heart, “but I just haven’t felt well enough to dress. You don’t mind, do you?”
The dear, good, subdued soul says he is far from minding, and dinner is like breakfast as far as dressing-sacks go.
Perhaps, in the far depths of his nature, the man wonders why it was that, in the halcyon days of courtship, he never beheld his beloved in the midst of a gunny—no, a dressing-sack. Of course, then, she didn’t have to keep house, and didn’t have so many cares to tire her. Poor little thing! Perhaps she isn’t well!
Isn’t she? Let another woman telephone that she has tickets for the matinée, and behold the transformation! Within certain limits and barring severe headaches, a woman is always well enough to do what she wants to do—and no more.
As the habit creeps upon its victim, she loses sight of the fact that there are other clothes. If she has a golf cape, she may venture to go to the letter-box or even to market in her favourite garment. After a while, when the habit is firmly fixed, a woman will wear a dressing-sack all the time—that is, some women will, except on rare and festive occasions. Sometimes in self-defence, she will say that her husband loves soft, fluffy feminine things, and can’t bear to see her in a tailor-made outfit. This is why she wears the “soft fluffy things,” which, with her, always mean dressing-sacks, all the time he is away from home, as well as when he is there.
It is a mooted question whether shiftlessness causes dressing-sacks, or dressing-sacks cause shiftlessness, but there is no doubt about the loving association of the two. The woman who has nothing to do, and not even a shadow of a purpose in life, will enshrine her helpless back in a dressing-sack. She can’t wear corsets, because, forsooth, they “hurt” her. She can’t sit at the piano, because it’s hard on her back. She can’t walk, because she “isn’t strong enough.” She can’t sew, because it makes a pain between her shoulders, and indeed why should she sew when she has plenty of dressing-sacks?
This type of woman always boards, if she can, or has plenty of servants at her command, and, in either case, her mind is free to dwell upon her troubles.
First, there is her own weak physical condition. Just wait until she tells you about the last pain she had. She doesn’t feel like dressing for dinner, but she will try to wash her face, if you will excuse her! When she returns, she has plucked up enough energy to change her dressing-sack!
The only cure for the habit is a violent measure which few indeed are brave enough to adopt. Make a bonfire of the offensive garments, dear lady; then stay away from the remnant counters, and after a while you will become immune.
Nothing is done in a négligée of this sort which cannot be done equally well in a shirt-waist, crisp and clean, with a collar and belt.
There is a popular delusion to the effect that household tasks require slipshod garments and unkempt hair, but let the frowsy ones contemplate the trained nurse in her spotless uniform, with her snowy cap and apron and her shining hair. Let the doubtful ones go to a cooking school, and see a neat young woman, in a blue gingham gown and a white apron, prepare an eight-course dinner and emerge spotless from the ordeal. We get from life, in most cases, exactly what we put into it. The world is a mirror which gives us smiles or frowns, as we ourselves may choose. The woman who faces the world in a shirt-waist will get shirt-waist appreciation, while for the dressing-sack there is only a slipshod reward.
IN THE MEADOW
The flowers bow their dainty heads,
And see in the shining stream
A vision of sky and silver clouds,
As bright as a fairy’s dream.
The great trees nod their sleepy boughs,
The song birds come and go,
And all day long, to the waving ferns
The south wind whispers low.
All day among the blossoms sweet,
The laughing sunbeams play,
And down the stream, in rose-leaf boats
The fairies sail away.
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