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      Woman’s Voice: An Anthology | Project Gutenberg
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<body>
<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75366 ***</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_i"></a>[i]</span></p>

<h1>Woman’s Voice</h1>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_ii"></a>[ii]</span></p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_iii"></a>[iii]</span></p>

<p class="titlepage larger"><span class="smcap">Woman’s Voice</span><br>
<span class="smaller">AN ANTHOLOGY</span></p>

<p class="titlepage"><span class="smaller"><i>By</i></span><br>
JOSEPHINE CONGER-KANEKO</p>

<figure class="figcenter illowp75" id="stratford" style="max-width: 9.375em;">
  <img class="w100" src="images/stratford.jpg" alt="">
</figure>

<p class="titlepage">BOSTON<br>
<span class="smcap">The Stratford Company</span><br>
1918</p>

<p class="titlepage smaller">Copyright 1918<br>
The STRATFORD CO., Publishers<br>
Boston, Mass.</p>

<p class="titlepage smaller">The Alpine Press, Boston, Mass., U. S. A.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_iv"></a>[iv]</span></p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_v"></a>[v]</span></p>

<div class="chapter front-matter">

<p class="center larger gothic">Dedicated to</p>

<p class="center allsmcap">THE SPLENDID WOMEN OF ALL NATIONS AND ALL
AGES WHO HAVE VALIANTLY STRIVEN TOWARD
THE BROADER FIELDS OF THOUGHT AND
ACTIVITY FOR THEIR SISTERS AND
FOR MANKIND AS A WHOLE</p>

</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_vi"></a>[vi]</span></p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_vii"></a>[vii]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="EDITORS_PREFACE">EDITOR’S PREFACE</h2>

</div>

<p>Just now, when the world is going through the
most significant period of human history, it is
well that woman’s voice be heard above the tumult.
For upon woman’s activity may rest the salvation of
the race.</p>

<p>This Anthology is not an attempt at literary effects
so much as it is an attempt to present seriously
woman’s viewpoint of life to a nation standing on
the verge of—it knows not what!</p>

<p>So new is the voice of woman in the affairs of
life, that in time of stress or panic it must become
insistent to be heard or heeded. One book, by one
woman, regardless of its strength or purpose, could
not have the effect that one book by “crowds” of
women could have. That is why this volume has come
into existence. It literally is the voice of “crowds of
women.”</p>

<p>Those whose words are quoted here are representative
women, leaders in their various organizations,
representing hundreds of thousands of individuals.
Many of them are among our foremost writers,
artists, teachers, actors, orators and organizers—some
of them combining several of these qualities.</p>

<p>“Woman’s Voice” might easily have been two
or three times its present size, but that would have
meant a publication too expensive to reach the thousands
of readers of moderate means to whom this<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_viii"></a>[viii]</span>
work is an immediate, special appeal. Future editions
of this Anthology will be revised and enlarged
until we finally shall have a perfect volume which
will take its place in every home as a standard household
classic, along with those other books of strong
human appeal which every home possesses.</p>

<p>Much of the material in “Woman’s Voice” is
covered by copyright, and special permission has been
granted the editor to reproduce it here. Many very
good things were taken from exchanges (more or
less obscure publications), and in such cases the
original source of their appearance was difficult to
trace. However, in each instance attempt has been
made to give credit where it is due, and the editor
hopes she has made no serious failures in this respect.</p>

<p>The many publishers and publications, as well
as authors and artists represented here, have been
very kind in their co-operation to make “Woman’s
Voice” a success, by granting permission to use these
selections from their output. Special mention is
given them elsewhere.</p>

<p>It is the editor’s hope that this volume will circulate
very largely in the small towns and country
districts of our nation. I want the millions of women
who are feeling, and thinking, but who are as yet
inarticulate upon the larger affairs of life, to find
their need and their voice in this volume. I want
that great isolated sisterhood, many of whom have
never read a book by a woman on social questions, to
have this volume in their homes—and always near
at hand; on the sewing table, or in the kitchen cabinet,
where it may be referred to between cake-baking and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_ix"></a>[ix]</span>
bread-making times. I hope the children in these
homes will memorize the verses in this book, and recite
them at the Friday afternoon “Literaries,” in
their schools.</p>

<p>I hope the club women will make constant use
of this volume in their club work—in the preparation
of programs, and in roll calls. For the things
quoted here deal with the most vital issues of the
times, as well as with the most intimate personal
emotions and needs of the individual, and are presented
by responsible and capable women. Also, they
show the growth of race progress through woman’s
efforts—how she has struggled and won educational
rights; how she has struggled and won political
rights; how she has struggled and won matrimonial
rights, and rights for her children, and for the world’s
workers. How she is struggling still to bring about
an ever higher and fuller life for today and for the
future.</p>

<p>And in all this she needs your help, you in your
isolated corners; for not until every nook and cranny
is active and comes to the front, can our nation attain
to those heights for which our womankind is so
valiantly working.</p>

<p>When woman’s voice is heard the world around,
mankind will hearken to her cries and heed them.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_x"></a>[x]</span></p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xi"></a>[xi]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="INDEX_OF_AUTHORS">INDEX OF AUTHORS</h2>

</div>

<table>
  <tr>
    <td></td>
    <td class="tdpg smaller">PAGE</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Adams, Abigail,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_32">32</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Addams, Jane,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_28">28</a>, <a href="#Page_61">61</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Alexander, Mrs. R. P.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_90">90</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Allen, Carrie W.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_168">168</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Allen, Elizabeth Akers,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_111">111</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Anthony, Katherine,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Anthony, Susan B.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_33">33</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Archer, Ruby,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_102">102</a>, <a href="#Page_254">254</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Atherton, Gertrude,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_44">44</a>, <a href="#Page_273">273</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Austin, Mary,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_160">160</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr class="letter">
    <td>Bachi, Mme,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_163">163</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Barker, Elsa,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_268">268</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Barnard, Anne Morton,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_104">104</a>, <a href="#Page_161">161</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Barnes, Florence Elberta,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_189">189</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Barnhart, Nora Elizabeth,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_158">158</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Barnum, Gertrude,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_5">5</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Barr, Amelia E.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_163">163</a>, <a href="#Page_164">164</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Bartlett, Lucy Re,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_51">51</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Barton, C. Josephine,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_81">81</a>, <a href="#Page_121">121</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Bass, Mrs. George,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_38">38</a>, <a href="#Page_252">252</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Beacon, Virginia Cleaver,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_278">278</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Beals, May,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_272">272</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Beard, Mary Ritter,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_1">1</a>, <a href="#Page_204">204</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Belmont, Mrs. O. H. P.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_15">15</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Birney, Elizabeth Cherrill,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_192">192</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Blackwell, Elizabeth,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_199">199</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xii"></a>[xii]</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Bloomer, Amelia,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_286">286</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Bocage, Mme. du,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_163">163</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Booth, Eva Gore,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_184">184</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Brandreth, Paulina,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_278">278</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Breshkovskaya, Catherine,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_270">270</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Brewer, Grace D.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_132">132</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Brower, Pauline Florence,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_83">83</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Brown, Rev. Antoinette,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_35">35</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Brown, Marion,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_225">225</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Browning, Elizabeth Barrett,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_104">104</a>, <a href="#Page_241">241</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Burr, Amelia Josephine,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_155">155</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Butler, Josephine,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_157">157</a>, <a href="#Page_171">171</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr class="letter">
    <td>Cairo, Mona,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_119">119</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Campbell, Helen,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_85">85</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Cannon, Ida M.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_264">264</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Carbutt, Mary E.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_103">103</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Carr, Edna Elliott,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_223">223</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Cipriani, Charlotte,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_207">207</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Cleyre, Voltairine de,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_237">237</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Clifford, Mrs. W. K.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_161">161</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Cobb, Frances Power,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_292">292</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Cockran, Mrs. Burke,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_15">15</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Colet, Louise,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_164">164</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Colquhoun, Ethel Maude,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_145">145</a>, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>, <a href="#Page_182">182</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Comer, Cornelia A. P.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_141">141</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Conger, M. Josephine,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_46">46</a>, <a href="#Page_177">177</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Cook, Coralie Franklin,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_2">2</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Cook, Elizabeth,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_56">56</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Cooper, Elizabeth,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_206">206</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Cotton, Mrs. R. R.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_36">36</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xiii"></a>[xiii]</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr class="letter">
    <td>Daggett, Mable Potter,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_88">88</a>, <a href="#Page_226">226</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Dargan, Olive Tilford,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_215">215</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Davies, Mary Carolyn,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_139">139</a>, <a href="#Page_283">283</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Deardorf, Neva R.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_4">4</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>De Ford, Miriam Allen,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_37">37</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Deland, Margaret,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_294">294</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Dick, Mrs. Fred,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_62">62</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Dix, Beulah Marie,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_233">233</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Dix, Dorothy,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_159">159</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Dorr, Rheta Childe,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_123">123</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Doty, Madeline Z.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_218">218</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Douglas, Winona,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_115">115</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Downing, Agnes,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_294">294</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Downy, June E.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_287">287</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr class="letter">
    <td>Edgar, Mary S.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_243">243</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Eliot, George,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_161">161</a>, <a href="#Page_162">162</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Eulalia, Infanta,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_274">274</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr class="letter">
    <td>Fawcett, Millicent Garrett,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_263">263</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Fee, Mme,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_293">293</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Field, Mary,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_217">217</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Flahaut, Mme. de,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_163">163</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Flexner, Hortense,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_107">107</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Fuller, Gertrude Breslau,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_36">36</a>, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>, <a href="#Page_171">171</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr class="letter">
    <td>Gaffny, Fannie Humphrey,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_2">2</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Gage, Matilda Jocelyn,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_15">15</a>, <a href="#Page_289">289</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Gale, Zona,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_24">24</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Garrison, Theodosia,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_155">155</a>, <a href="#Page_182">182</a>, <a href="#Page_291">291</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Gilman, Charlotte Perkins,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_120">120</a>, <a href="#Page_142">142</a>, <a href="#Page_280">280</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xiv"></a>[xiv]</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Girardin, Mme. de,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_161">161</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Grove, Lady,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_85">85</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Gruenberg, Sidonie Matzner,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_89">89</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Guerin, Eugenie de,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_293">293</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr class="letter">
    <td>Haile, Margaret,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_244">244</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Haines, Marion Gertrude,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_192">192</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Hale, Beatrice Forbes-Robertson,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_16">16</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Hallam, Julia Clark,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_116">116</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Hamilton, Cicily,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_45">45</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Harland, Marion,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_112">112</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Harper, Ida Husted,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_34">34</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Harrison, Elizabeth,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_91">91</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Hartley, C. Gasquoine,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_124">124</a>, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>, <a href="#Page_211">211</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Henry, Alice,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_72">72</a>, <a href="#Page_160">160</a>, <a href="#Page_203">203</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Higgs, Mary,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_65">65</a>, <a href="#Page_182">182</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Hillis, Mrs. Newell Dwight,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_142">142</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Hoblitt, Margaret,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_237">237</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Hollins, Dorothea,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_266">266</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Holly, Marietta,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_25">25</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>H. R. H.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_274">274</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Houdetot, Comtesse d’,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_161">161</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Houston, Margaret Belle,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_100">100</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Hoyt, Helen,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_137">137</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Hultin, Ida C.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_170">170</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Hutchins, Emily J.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_5">5</a>, <a href="#Page_204">204</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr class="letter">
    <td>Irwin, Inez Haynes,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_272">272</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Israels, Belle Lindner,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_36">36</a>, <a href="#Page_186">186</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr class="letter">
    <td>Jameson, Anna,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_164">164</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xv"></a>[xv]</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr class="letter">
    <td>Kassimer, Ada M.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_114">114</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Keller, Helen,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_53">53</a>, <a href="#Page_209">209</a>, <a href="#Page_265">265</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Kelly, Florence,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_86">86</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Kenton, Edna,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_71">71</a>, <a href="#Page_268">268</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Key, Ellen,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_83">83</a>, <a href="#Page_125">125</a>, <a href="#Page_143">143</a>, <a href="#Page_189">189</a>, <a href="#Page_234">234</a>, <a href="#Page_248">248</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Kiper, Florence,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_84">84</a>, <a href="#Page_171">171</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Knowles, Josephine Pitcairn,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_148">148</a>, <a href="#Page_208">208</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr class="letter">
    <td>La Follette, Mrs. Belle Case,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_22">22</a>, <a href="#Page_69">69</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Lagerlof, Selma,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_52">52</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Laidlaw, Mrs. James Lees,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_47">47</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Lambert, Mme. de,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_162">162</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>LaMotte, Ellen N.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_228">228</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Lathrop, Julia,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_91">91</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Laughlin, Clara E.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_68">68</a>, <a href="#Page_169">169</a>, <a href="#Page_264">264</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Lawrence, Mrs. Pethick,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_126">126</a>, <a href="#Page_180">180</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Lazarovick-Hrebelianovich,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_240">240</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Lebedeff-Kropotkin, Sarah,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_224">224</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>L’Enclos, Le,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_161">161</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Lespinasse, Mlle. de,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_293">293</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Lewis, Lena Morrow,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_23">23</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Lloyd, Caro,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_63">63</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Lowe, Caroline A.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_19">19</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Lowell, Josephine Shaw,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_267">267</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Lyttleton, Hon. Mrs. Arthur,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_51">51</a>, <a href="#Page_205">205</a>, <a href="#Page_253">253</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr class="letter">
    <td>MacLean, Annie Marion,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_175">175</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Macy, Mrs,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_210">210</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>May, Florence,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_260">260</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Maintenon, de,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_161">161</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Maley, Anna A.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_227">227</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xvi"></a>[xvi]</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Malkiel, Theresa,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_44">44</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Marsden, Dora,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_186">186</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Martin, Mrs. John,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_274">274</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Marwedel, Emma,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_210">210</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>McCracken, Elizabeth,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_69">69</a>, <a href="#Page_90">90</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>McCulloch, Catherine Waugh,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_43">43</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>McDowell, Mary,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_249">249</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>McKeehan, Irene P.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_285">285</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Meynell, Alice,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_31">31</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Millay, Edna St. Vincent,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_138">138</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Miller, Emily Huntington,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_116">116</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Monroe, Harriet,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_94">94</a>, <a href="#Page_180">180</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Montefiore, Dora B.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_20">20</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Montessori, Maria,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_195">195</a>, <a href="#Page_249">249</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Morgan, Angela,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_167">167</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Morgan, Lady,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_17">17</a>, <a href="#Page_201">201</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Morton, Honnor,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_185">185</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Mott, Lucretia,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_146">146</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Motteville, Mme. de,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_164">164</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr class="letter">
    <td>Natahlie, Countess,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_162">162</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Necker, Mme,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_164">164</a>, <a href="#Page_293">293</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Newman, Pauline M.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_251">251</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Nichols, Clarina Howard,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_150">150</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Nordica, Mme,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_183">183</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Norton, Grace Fallow,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_176">176</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr class="letter">
    <td>O’Hare, Kate Richards,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_119">119</a>, <a href="#Page_183">183</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>O’Reilly, Mary,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_258">258</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>“Ouida”,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_3">3</a>, <a href="#Page_113">113</a>, <a href="#Page_162">162</a>, <a href="#Page_202">202</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xvii"></a>[xvii]</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr class="letter">
    <td>Pankhurst, Sylvia,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_12">12</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Parce, Lida,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_74">74</a>, <a href="#Page_174">174</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Parker, Adella M.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_152">152</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Parsons, Elsie Clews,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_170">170</a>, <a href="#Page_248">248</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Pease, Leonora,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_79">79</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Peck, Mary Gray,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_39">39</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Pethick-Lawrence,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_126">126</a>, <a href="#Page_180">180</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Peyser, Ethel R.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_30">30</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Philip, Elizabeth,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_142">142</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Pompadour, Mme. de,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_164">164</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Porter, Mrs. C. E.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_68">68</a>, <a href="#Page_133">133</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Potter, Frances Squire,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_255">255</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Powers, Rose Mills,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_231">231</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Putnam, Alice H.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_116">116</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Putnam, Emily James,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_184">184</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Putnam, Helen G.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_69">69</a>, <a href="#Page_86">86</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr class="letter">
    <td>Repplier, Agnes,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_79">79</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Reyband, Mme,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_164">164</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Richards, Ellen H.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_184">184</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Richardson, Bertha June,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_202">202</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Ridge, Lola,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_193">193</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Rieux, Mme. de,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_163">163</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Robins, Elizabeth,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_42">42</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Robins, Margaret Dreier,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_180">180</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Robinson, Ethel Blackwell,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_81">81</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Royle, Emily Taplin,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_185">185</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>“Ruth”,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_277">277</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr class="letter">
    <td>Sage, Mrs. Russell,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_3">3</a>, <a href="#Page_170">170</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Sand, George,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_163">163</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xviii"></a>[xviii]</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Schoff, Mrs. Frederick,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_87">87</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Schreiner, Olive,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_41">41</a>, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>, <a href="#Page_289">289</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Sellers, Sarah,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_289">289</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Shaw, Anna Howard,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_1">1</a>, <a href="#Page_51">51</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Simmons, Laura,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_117">117</a>, <a href="#Page_277">277</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Snow, Mary,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_191">191</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Sonza, Mme. de,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_293">293</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Sorringe, Katherine Parrott,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_11">11</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Stael, Mme. de,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_164">164</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Stanton, Elizabeth Cady,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_206">206</a>, <a href="#Page_248">248</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Stern, Meta L.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_11">11</a>, <a href="#Page_250">250</a>, <a href="#Page_286">286</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Stewart, Anna Bigoney,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_194">194</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Stewart, Ella S.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_34">34</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Stobart, Mrs. St. Clair,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_55">55</a>, <a href="#Page_144">144</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Stone, Lucy,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_147">147</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Stoner, Winifred Sackville,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_71">71</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Swanwick, Mrs. H. W.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_205">205</a>, <a href="#Page_264">264</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr class="letter">
    <td>Tarbell, Ida,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_63">63</a>, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>, <a href="#Page_195">195</a>, <a href="#Page_266">266</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Teichner, Miriam,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_39">39</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Thomas, M. Carey,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_10">10</a>, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>, <a href="#Page_149">149</a>, <a href="#Page_176">176</a>, <a href="#Page_208">208</a>, <a href="#Page_262">262</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Thomas, Mrs. Leonard,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_80">80</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Turczynowicz, Laura de,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_227">227</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Tweedie, Mrs. Alec,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_126">126</a>, <a href="#Page_162">162</a>, <a href="#Page_206">206</a>, <a href="#Page_286">286</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Twining, Luella,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_23">23</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr class="letter">
    <td>Valois, Margaret de,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_162">162</a>, <a href="#Page_163">163</a>, <a href="#Page_293">293</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Van de Water, Virginia Terhune,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_91">91</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Van Vorst, Mrs. John,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_57">57</a>, <a href="#Page_96">96</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Varnhagen, Rachel,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_138">138</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xix"></a>[xix]</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr class="letter">
    <td>Wald, Lillian D.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_70">70</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Warwick, Countess of,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_253">253</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Wedgewood, Julia,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_47">47</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Wentworth, Eleanor,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_245">245</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Wentworth, Marion Craig,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_215">215</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Wharton, Edith,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_73">73</a>, <a href="#Page_294">294</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Widdemer, Margaret,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_144">144</a>, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>, <a href="#Page_242">242</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Wilcox, Louise Collier,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_7">7</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Wilde, Lady,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_262">262</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Wilkinson, Margaret O. B.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_151">151</a>, <a href="#Page_173">173</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Willard, Emma,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_196">196</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Willard, Frances E.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_250">250</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Wilson, Marjorie,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_221">221</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Wollstonecraft, Mary,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_37">37</a>, <a href="#Page_87">87</a>, <a href="#Page_121">121</a>, <a href="#Page_146">146</a>, <a href="#Page_274">274</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr class="letter">
    <td>Young, Laura P.,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_62">62</a>, <a href="#Page_67">67</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr class="letter">
    <td>Zetkin, Clara,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_222">222</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xx"></a>[xx]</span></p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxi"></a>[xxi]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="INDEX_OF_SUBJECTS">INDEX OF SUBJECTS</h2>

</div>

<table>
  <tr>
    <td></td>
    <td class="tdpg smaller">PAGE</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td colspan="2" class="tdc">BOOK I<br><span class="smcap">The Woman Movement</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>A Generation Ago, Deardorf,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_4">4</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>A Great Life, Harper,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_34">34</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>A Lady Rebel, Adams,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_32">32</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>A Pageant of Great Women, Hamilton,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_45">45</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>A Prisoner in Bow, Pankhurst,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_12">12</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>A Spade’s a Spade, Peyser,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_30">30</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>A Woman’s Question, Thomas,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_10">10</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Allegory on Wimmin’s Rights, Holly,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_25">25</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>All Methods Employed, Belmont,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_15">15</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Because They Cannot Vote, Stern,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_11">11</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Call to Social Service, Bass,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_38">38</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Clearing Up the Muss, Fuller,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_36">36</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Coming Into Her Own, Gaffny,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_2">2</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Feminism a Tree, Forbes-Robertson Hale,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_16">16</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>For Woman Suffrage, Addams,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_28">28</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Freedom of the Women, Wilcox,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_7">7</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>From “The Convert”, Robins,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_42">42</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Gibraltar of Our Cause, Anthony,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_33">33</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Glory in Power, Cockran,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_15">15</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>He Shall See the New Woman, Daggett,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_6">6</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Legislative Responsibility, Hutchins,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_5">5</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Man Cannot Represent Woman, Brown,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_35">35</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Mankind Our Neighbor, Cotton,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_36">36</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Most Brilliant Period, Shaw,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>New Woman, Montefiore,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_20">20</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxii"></a>[xxii]</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Our Common Interests, Lewis,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_23">23</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Out of the Dark, Gage,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_15">15</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Plea of the Women, Sorringe,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_11">11</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Prayer of the Modern Woman, Conger,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_46">46</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Price of Liberty, Peck,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_39">39</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Revolt of Women, “Ouida”,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_3">3</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Rights, Privileges and Capacities, McCulloch,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_43">43</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Sisterhood of Women, Cook,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_2">2</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Submission, Teichner,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_39">39</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Story of Katie Malloy, Lowe,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_19">19</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Suffrage a Means to an End, Stewart,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_34">34</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>To Raise the Standards of Life, Barnum,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_5">5</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Unanimity of Needs, Anthony,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Universality, Israels,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_36">36</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>What Is This Government? La Follette,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_22">22</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Wisdom Comes with Freedom, Wollstonecraft,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_37">37</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Woman’s Awakening, Beard,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Woman Has Helped, Twining,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_23">23</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Woman Has Justified Herself, Morgan,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_17">17</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Woman on the Scaffold, Meynell,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_31">31</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Woman’s Right, Schreiner,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_41">41</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Woman’s Weak Dependency, Atherton,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_44">44</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Women, Gale,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_24">24</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Women to Men, De Ford,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_37">37</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Women’s Qualifications for Suffrage, Sage,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_3">3</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Working Woman’s Awakening, Malkiel,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_44">44</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td colspan="2" class="tdc">BOOK II<br><span class="smcap">The Home</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Cannot Replace the Home, Wald,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_70">70</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Child at Home, The, McCracken,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_69">69</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxiii"></a>[xxiii]</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Domestic Home Destroyed, Parce,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_74">74</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Domestic Strife, La Follette,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_69">69</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Home, The, Young,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_62">62</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Home Influence, Tarbell,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_63">63</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Home of the Workingman, Henry,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_72">72</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Honest Partnership in the Home, Dick,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_62">62</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Hotel “Home”, The, Wharton,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_73">73</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Immorality and the Home, Laughlin,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_68">68</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Inefficient Home, The, Young,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_67">67</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Lovers of Home, Shaw,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_51">51</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Man, Woman and the Home, Kenton,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_71">71</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Market Value of Home Labor, Putnam,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_69">69</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Mother and Child-Character, Stoner,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_71">71</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Perpetuate the Ideal, Porter,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_68">68</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Poor and Good Housing, Cook,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_56">56</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Spirit of the Home, Bartlett,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_51">51</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Then—Back to the Home, Lloyd,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_63">63</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>War and the Home, Addams,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_61">61</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Where She Lived, Van Vorst,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_57">57</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Woman and the Primitive Home, Stobart,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_55">55</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Woman’s High Achievement, Lagerlof,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_52">52</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Woman’s Place, Lyttleton,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_51">51</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Woman’s Sphere the Home, Keller,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_53">53</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Women’s Lodging Houses, Higgs,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_65">65</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td colspan="2" class="tdc">BOOK III<br><span class="smcap">The Child</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Announce Her Maturity, Barnard,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_104">104</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Blot on Civilization, Lathrop,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_91">91</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Call of the Unborn, The, Robinson,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_81">81</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Child, The, Repplier,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_79">79</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxiv"></a>[xxiv]</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Child and Parental Youth, McCracken,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_90">90</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Child Labor, Archer,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_102">102</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Children Innumerable, Kiper,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_84">84</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Child Slavery, Fuller,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_108">108</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Children’s Ward, Flexner,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_107">107</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Consideration for Others, Alexander,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_90">90</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Cotton Mill Child, The, Van Vorst,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_96">96</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Crusade of the Children, Houston,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_100">100</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Cry of the Children, Browning,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_104">104</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Equality in Fitness, Putnam,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_86">86</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Factory Child, Monroe,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_94">94</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Fettered Little Children, Carbutt,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_103">103</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Fewer and Better Children, Campbell,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_85">85</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>For Father’s Amusement, Harrison,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_91">91</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Government and Child Life, Schoff,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_87">87</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Ideals of the Child, Gruenberg,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_89">89</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Little Beloved, Pease,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_79">79</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>More Woman’s Work, Thomas,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_80">80</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>My Little Son, Brower,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_83">83</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Need the Vote for Children, Thomas,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_102">102</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Nursery A University, Barton,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_81">81</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Parental Duty, Key,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_83">83</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Quantity Versus Quality, Grove,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_85">85</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Reason and the Child, Wollstonecraft,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_87">87</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Rising Value of a Baby, The, Daggett,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_88">88</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Teaching the Child Citizenship, Van de Water,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_91">91</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Where Women Have Voted, Kelly,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_86">86</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td colspan="2" class="tdc">BOOK IV<br><span class="smcap">The Mother</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Adolescent Child, Hallam,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_116">116</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>A Good Mother, Wollstonecraft,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_121">121</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxv"></a>[xxv]</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Ancient and Modern Mother, Tweedie,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_126">126</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Collective Motherhood, Dorr,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_123">123</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Companion Mother, Tarbell,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_124">124</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Factory Worker and Motherhood, O’Hare,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_119">119</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Fatherhood Cannot Be Motherhood, Kassimer,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_114">114</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Functions Identical, Putnam,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_116">116</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>I am the Mother-Heart, Brewer,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_132">132</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Mother, Simmons,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_117">117</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Mother, a Creator, Barton,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_121">121</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Mother’s Influence, “Ouida”,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_113">113</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Mother, The, Pethick-Lawrence,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_126">126</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Mother, The, Harland,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_112">112</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Mothers, Gilman,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_120">120</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Parental Respect for Rights of Child, Key,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_125">125</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Passionate Instinct, Miller,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_116">116</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Rock Me to Sleep, Allen,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_111">111</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Price, The, Douglas,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_115">115</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Wise Mothers, Cairo,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_119">119</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Woman and Mother, Hartley,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_124">124</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td colspan="2" class="tdc">BOOK V<br><span class="smcap">Love and Marriage</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>A Man Never Gets Over It, Comer,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_141">141</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>A New Stimulus to Marriage, Stobart,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_144">144</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>A Possible Utopia, Knowles,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_148">148</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Art of Loving, Key,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_143">143</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Ashes of Life, Millay,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_138">138</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Confidante, The, Barnhart,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_158">158</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Cry of Man to Woman, Hartley,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_154">154</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Flirt, The, Burr,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_155">155</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Greatest Love, Varnhagen,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_138">138</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxvi"></a>[xxvi]</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>I Can Go to Love Again, Widdemer,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_156">156</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Love that Pales, Wollstonecraft,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_146">146</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Love Songs, Davies,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_139">139</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Marriage a Partnership, Hillis,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_142">142</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Marriage and the Labor Market, Thomas,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_149">149</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Marriage Laws of 1850, Nichols,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_150">150</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Marriage Not an Assurance of Support, Henry,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_160">160</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Marriage of the Friends, Mott,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_146">146</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Marriage the Sole Means of Maintenance, Butler,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_157">157</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Mirandy on the Monotony of Domesticity, Dix,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_159">159</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Old Suffragist, Widdemer,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_144">144</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>One of the Best Things, Gilman,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_142">142</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Overheard in the Marriage Congress, Parker,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_152">152</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Postponing Marriage, Colquhoun,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_145">145</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Preventive of Divorce, A, Wilkinson,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_151">151</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Price of Love, Austin,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_160">160</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>To Love on Feeling Its Approach, Hoyt,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_137">137</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>What Is Love? Philip,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_142">142</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>When Love Went By, Garrison,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_155">155</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>When Marriage Meant Bondage, Stone,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_147">147</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td colspan="2" class="tdc">BOOK VI<br><span class="smcap">Woman and Labor</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Bondwomen, Marsden,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_186">186</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Changed Condition of Tomorrow, Wilkinson,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_173">173</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Development Through the Choice of Work, Kiper,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_171">171</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Economics and the Home, Colquhoun,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_182">182</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Exploitation of Workingwomen, O’Hare,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_183">183</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Housewife, Morgan,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_167">167</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>How Is She Housed? Higgs,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_182">182</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Lady, Putnam,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_184">184</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxvii"></a>[xxvii]</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Left-Over Women, Colquhoun,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_172">172</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Morality and Woman in Industry, Laughlin,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_169">169</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>One-Fifth of the Woman Population at Work, Thomas,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_176">176</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Orchards, Garrison,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_182">182</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Sex-Parasitism, Schreiner,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_172">172</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Simple Right to Live, Robins,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_180">180</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Sisterhood in Labor, Hultin,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_170">170</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Song of the Working Girls, Monroe,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_180">180</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Success Through Work, Nordica,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_183">183</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Unequal Distribution of Labor, Morton,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_185">185</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Wasted Energy and Talent, Sage,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_170">170</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Woman and Social Betterment, Richards,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_184">184</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Woman and the Dinner Pail, Gore-Booth,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_184">184</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Woman in the Home, Allen,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_168">168</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Woman’s Awakening, Conger,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_177">177</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Woman’s Demand for Work, Butler,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_171">171</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Woman’s Place, Fuller,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_171">171</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Woman’s Wages, Pethick-Lawrence,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_180">180</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Woman’s Work in Woman’s Way, Parce,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_174">174</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Women Are Going to Work, Parsons,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_170">170</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Women Who Sit at Ease, Norton,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_176">176</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Women Workers in New England, MacLean,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_175">175</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Working Woman Speaks, Royle,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_185">185</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td colspan="2" class="tdc">BOOK VII<br><span class="smcap">Education</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Aim and End of Education, Ridge,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_193">193</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>A Moral Crusade, Blackwell,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_199">199</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>A Plan for Improving Female Education, Willard,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_196">196</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxviii"></a>[xxviii]</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Democratization of Learning, Cipriani,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_207">207</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Educating Children, Montessori,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_195">195</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Educating the Daughter, Knowles,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_208">208</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Education and Votes For Women, Cooper,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_206">206</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Essentials in Education, Snow,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_191">191</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Equal Advantages of Education, Stanton,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_206">206</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Greatness of Froebel, Haines,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_192">192</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>History of Woman’s Education, Beard,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_204">204</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Intellect Wins, Tweedie,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_206">206</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Intellectual Women of Rome, Morgan,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_201">201</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Mothers’ Library, Birney,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_192">192</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Mother’s Task, The, Tarbell,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_195">195</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Old and New Schools, Barns,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_189">189</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Plan for Improving Female Education, Willard,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_196">196</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Power of Education, “Ouida”,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_202">202</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Professions Educational, Lyttleton,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_205">205</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Social Education Important, Keller,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_209">209</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Soul Murder in the Schools, Key,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_189">189</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Standards Raised by Women Teachers, Stewart,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_194">194</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>To Reach the Divine, Marwedel,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_210">210</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Traditions Upset, Hutchins,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_204">204</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Vision Realized, The, Richardson,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_202">202</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Vocational Training for Girls, Henry,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_203">203</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Woman’s Struggle for Educational Rights, Swanwick,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_205">205</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>World of Scholarship a Man’s World, Thomas,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_208">208</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td colspan="2" class="tdc">BOOK VIII<br><span class="smcap">War and Peace</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Babies Bred for War, Field,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_217">217</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Breeding Machines, Wentworth,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_215">215</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxix"></a>[xxix]</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Deserter, The, LaMotte,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_228">228</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Devonshire Mother, Wilson,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_221">221</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Early Morning Funeral, Carr,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_223">223</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Last Racial War, Zetkin,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_222">222</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Prayer of the Toilers, Powers,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_231">231</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Prussians in Poland, Turczynowicz,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_227">227</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Red Easter, Brown,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_225">225</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Righteous Wars, Dix,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_233">233</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Rising Value of a Baby, Daggett,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_226">226</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Russian Women in Time of War, Kropotkin-Lebedeff,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_224">224</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>These Latter Days, Dargan,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_215">215</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>War Cripples, Doty,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_218">218</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Wars Will Cease, Maley,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_227">227</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td colspan="2" class="tdc">BOOK IX<br><span class="smcap">Classes</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Abolish “Dependent Classes”, Lowell,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_267">267</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>After the Fight, O’Reilly,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_258">258</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Breadth of Woman Suffrage, Fawcett,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_263">263</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Break Down the Wall, Key,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_248">248</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Breaking Up in Violence, Laughlin,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_264">264</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Breshkovskaya, Barker,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_268">268</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Class Intolerance Passing, Parsons,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_248">248</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Class Legislation, Thomas,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_262">262</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Despair, Lady Wilde,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_262">262</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Enslaved, The, Warwick,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_253">253</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Factories Instead of Homes, McDowell,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_249">249</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Fool’s Christmas, The, May,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_260">260</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Glad Day of Universal Brotherhood, The, Willard,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_250">250</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxx"></a>[xxx]</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>God and the Strong Ones, Widdemer,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_242">242</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Happy Warrior, Hollins,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_266">266</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Inequality for Women, Lyttleton,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_253">253</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Lore of the Woods, Archer,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_254">254</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Moses, the Strike Leader, Potter,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_255">255</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>My Sister’s Heritage, Edgar,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_243">243</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>New Sense of Justice, Stanton,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_248">248</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Of What Use Is It? Cannon,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_264">264</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Old Comrade, Beals,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_272">272</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Organized Woman Labor, Bass,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_252">252</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Our New Aristocracy, Atherton,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_273">273</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Outcasts, Wentworth,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_245">245</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Out of the Darkness, de Cleyre,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_237">237</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Poet’s Task, Hoblitt,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_237">237</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Poor Sex, Swanwick,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_264">264</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Revolutionist, Breshkovskaya,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_270">270</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Servant Class, Kenton,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_268">268</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Servitude, Montessori,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_249">249</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Socialist Prayer, Haile,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_244">244</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Two Sides of the Shield, Lazarovick-Hrebelianovich,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_240">240</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Voice of Labor, The, Irwin,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_272">272</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Voteless Sex, Stern,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_250">250</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Woman’s Labor Organizations, Tarbell,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_266">266</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Women and the Oppressed, Browning,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_241">241</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Worker’s Right, Keller,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_265">265</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Working Girls Must Cooperate, Newman,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_251">251</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td colspan="2" class="tdc">BOOK X<br><span class="smcap">Miscellaneous</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Contrast, A, Simmons,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_277">277</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxxi"></a>[xxxi]</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Custom, Sellers,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_289">289</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Dare We Judge? Brandreth,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_278">278</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Difference, The, Schreiner,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_289">289</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Doomed Men’s Message, Davies,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_283">283</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Dress Reform, Bloomer,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_286">286</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Giving Up Her Name, Tweedie,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_286">286</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>I Heard the Spirit Singing, Downy,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_287">287</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>In Passing, “Ruth”,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_277">277</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Mary and Magdalene, Beacon,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_278">278</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Purse and the Soul, Stern,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_286">286</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Road Song, McKeehan,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_285">285</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Sheaf of Quotations,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_293">293</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Thanksgiving, Garrison,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_291">291</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>The Unfair Status, Gage,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_289">289</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Two Storks, Gilman,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_280">280</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>Women Run in Molds, Cobb,</td>
    <td class="tdpg"><a href="#Page_292">292</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxxii"></a>[xxxii]</span></p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxxiii"></a>[xxxiii]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="INTRODUCTORY_NOTE">INTRODUCTORY NOTE</h2>

</div>

<p>The American people today may be likened to
the onlookers of a great drama. A drama so
tremendous, so spectacular, so tragic, that it surpasses
anything the mind of man has hitherto conceived.
The onlookers of this drama naturally are absorbed
with its immediate movements. With its broad meanings
they are intensely concerned, but beyond these
they have no interest. Their vision for detail is
clouded by the flare and vastness of the apparent.
What lies beneath, above, about, are only incidentals
and of no immediate consequence to them.</p>

<p>But the “incidentals” of the present war are, for
the careful observer, to say nothing of the professional
drama critic, the chips which show what is
taking place as the result of the flare and the noise,
and the tragedy. One of these incidents is the coming
of woman into realms of activity which not for
a million years—that is to say, never before—have
been opened to her.</p>

<p>Under the stress involved in winning a world
peace, this fact is scarcely noted, and is not understood
in its full meaning. But the moment peace is
declared it will become a question of vital importance,
involving as it does all lines of human endeavor—labor,
commerce, philosophy, literature, agriculture,
law, education, and the crafts as well as the arts.</p>

<p>The conservative mind, freed from the absorption<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxxiv"></a>[xxxiv]</span>
of war, will turn with startled gasp to discover
that one half of the race has been shaken out of the
rut of ages, and is spilling itself helter-skelter, into
every department of social achievement. And the
conservative mind will ask with child-like frankness
if the women are equal to the responsibility and the
opportunity which has been thrust upon them.</p>

<p>“Woman’s Voice” has been compiled in anticipation
of this awakening on the part of the multitude,
as an answer to its wondering inquiry.</p>

<p>That women have themselves long yearned toward
the broader paths of effort and usefulness is
manifest in the utterances of those who have learned
the art of self-expression. That they fully comprehend
the meaning, hardships and blessings of the
broader life, is plainly shown in their wide-spread
printed word. “Woman’s Voice” is an effort to collect,
in what may be called at once a brief and an
exposition of woman’s entrance into the world of
general endeavor, the wisdom of the women who have
studied conditions with an earnestness and efficiency
which renders them peculiarly fitted to speak for
themselves upon the questions most closely touching
themselves and their children.</p>

<p>For ages untold only the voice of man has dictated
the conditions under which the rest of the world
should live, including women and children. All the
poetry, all the philosophy, all the wisdom of the ages
was presented in man’s words, and from man’s standpoint.
Woman, dumb, untutored, and handicapped
by an adverse public opinion, another creation of the
solely masculine mind, held to her chimney corner<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxxv"></a>[xxxv]</span>
as helpless in the face of petty and colossal injustices
as the children she bore.</p>

<p>“Woman’s Voice” portrays the effort of women
to get away from this now apparent social mistake.
Women have spoken and will continue to speak, for,
if we are to proceed speedily and with the least possible
resistance into the new order of things, education
is still essential. There are millions to whom
the apparent is not apparent, and whose eyes must
be opened before the democracy for which the world
is paying in blood and agony can become a reality.</p>

<p>I believe “Woman’s Voice” should be in every
home in the nation, and in all nations where society
is affected by the conditions which have brought
women away from the hearth-stone into the market-place.
As a digest of the best thought of representative
women the world over, it will be read when the
multiplicity of volumes from which it is quoted are
passed by. It will be read not only for its seriousness,
but for its poetic sentiment, and its sprightly
comment on the every-day things of life. Its usefulness
to club members and to workers in the equal suffrage
campaigns will be invaluable, but it is to the
average housewife and mother that I trust it will
make its strongest appeal. To the women who have
more or less dimly felt, but who have not as yet
found a voice or an avenue through which to develop
or express this feeling about things which so much
concern them and their children. I am hoping, also,
that it will fall into the hands of thousands of theorists
who are opposing, for no reason except their<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxxvi"></a>[xxxvi]</span>
own ignorance about it, the advance of women in the
coming world-democracy.</p>

<p>Briefly, but earnestly, I wish to thank the publishers,
editors and writers who have made this Anthology
possible through their permission to reprint
from books, magazines and articles the matter contained
herein. I have endeavored in all instances to
give full credit to all of these, and if errors happen
to occur in this regard they are unintentional, and
only the result of the initial publishing of a work
as new and comprehensive as this one. Also, if any
name has been omitted whose observations should
have appeared in this book, it is only because it was
impossible for a very busy editor to fail to miss some
very worthy writers. In future editions these can
be gathered up, until we have a volume or many
volumes which may be perfectly representative of
the woman’s voice of the world.</p>

<p class="right"><span style="margin-right: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Josephine Conger</span></span><br>
Compiler “Woman’s Voice”</p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<h2 class="nobreak" id="BOOK_I">BOOK I<br>
<span class="smaller">The Woman Movement</span></h2>

</div>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_1"></a>[1]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_WOMAN_MOVEMENT">THE WOMAN MOVEMENT</h2>

</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Most Brilliant Period</h3>

<p class="author">By Anna Howard Shaw</p>

<p class="intro">(American contemporary. Former president of the National
American Suffrage Association. From a series of articles in “The
Metropolitan.”)</p>

</div>

<p>The winning of the suffrage states, the work in
the states not yet won, the conventions, gatherings
and international councils in which women of every
nation have come together, have all combined to
make this quarter of a century the most brilliant
period for women in the history of the world.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Woman’s Awakening</h3>

<p class="author">By Mary Ritter Beard</p>

</div>

<p>The awakening of women to the low social
status of their sex is the most encouraging fact of
the century.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Unanimity of Needs</h3>

<p class="author">By Katherine Anthony</p>

<p class="intro">(Author of “Mothers Who Must Earn,” and “Feminism in
Germany and Scandinavia,” from which the following is taken.)</p>

</div>

<p>The woman movement of the civilized world
wants much the same thing in whatever language
its demands are expressed. In more or less unconscious
cooperation, the women of the civilized nations
have from the first worked for similar ends
and common interests. Beyond all superficial differences
and incidental forms, the vision of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_2"></a>[2]</span>
emancipated woman wears the same features whether
she be hailed as <i>frau</i>, <i>fru</i>, or <i>woman</i>. The disfranchisement
of a whole sex, a condition which
has existed throughout the civilized world until a
comparatively recent date, has bred in half the population
an unconscious internationalism. The man
without a country was a tragic exception; the woman
without a country was the accepted rule. The
enfranchisement of the women now under way has
come too late to inculcate in them the narrow views
of citizenship which were once supposed to accompany
the gift of the vote. Its effect will rather be
to make the unconscious internationalism of the
past the conscious internationalism of the future.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Coming Into Her Own</h3>

<p class="author">By Fanny Humphrey Gaffny</p>

<p class="intro">(American contemporary. President National Council of Women.
From a speech delivered at the celebration of Miss Anthony’s
80th birthday.)</p>

</div>

<p>The Christian world reckoned by centuries is
just coming of age. Therefore women are beginning
to put away childish things and to realize the
greatness of womanhood.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Sisterhood of Women</h3>

<p class="author">By Coralie Franklin Cook</p>

<p class="intro">(From a speech delivered at the 80th birthday celebration of
Susan B. Anthony.)</p>

</div>

<p>Not until the suffrage movement had awakened
woman to her responsibility and power, did she<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_3"></a>[3]</span>
come to appreciate the true significance of Christ’s
pity for Magdalene as well as of his love for Mary;
not till then was the work of Pundita Ramabai in
far away India as sacred as that of Frances Willard
at home in America; not till she had suffered under
the burden of her own wrongs and abuses did she
realize the all-important truth that no woman and
no class of women can be degraded and all womankind
not suffer thereby.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Revolt of Women</h3>

<p class="author">“Ouida” in Lippincott’s</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_113">See page 113</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>The whole human race is involved in the results
of the present revolt and reaction amongst
women; if turned back upon itself by mockery it
will burn and bite on unseen, and find its issue in
mad sins, wild frivolity, and all the anarchy of
voluptuous abandonment; if rightly met, if rightly
guided, it may become the noblest and highest
revolution that has ever broken the chains of effete
prejudices, and let out human souls from the darkness
of ignorance into the light and glory of a day
of liberty.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Women’s Qualifications for Suffrage</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. Russell Sage</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_170">See page 170</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>Twenty years ago I did not think that women
were qualified for suffrage, but the strides they<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_4"></a>[4]</span>
have made since then in the acquirement of business
methods, in the management of their affairs, in the
effective interest they have evinced in civic matters,
and the way in which they have mastered parliamentary
methods, have convinced me that they are
eminently fitted to do men’s work in all purely
intellectual fields.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>A Generation Ago</h3>

<p class="author">By Neva R. Deardorf, Ph. D.</p>

<p class="intro">(Department Public Health and Charities, Philadelphia. From
“Annals of the American Academy.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Woman’s place in the crowd of a generation
ago was immediately back of her masculine kinsfolk.
Here she enjoyed protection from the rough
elbowing of the crowd, though in return for this
shelter she forfeited her liberty and was expected
to devote all of her physical strength and mental
energy to pushing some particular masculine protector
to the front. Some times her efforts were
appreciated, frequently they were taken for granted,
since etiquette favored a covert manner of pushing.
But the rules of the game have changed.
Partners and co-laborers are taking the place of
lords and masters. Farmers, professors, clergymen,
politicians, in fact, husbands of every calling are
coming to see the advantage of having a wife beside,
instead of behind, them. They now take pride
in a wife who enjoys an outlook on the world which
enables her to help far more intelligently and effectively
than did the wife of a generation ago.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_5"></a>[5]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>To Raise the Standards of Life</h3>

<p class="author">By Gertrude Barnum</p>

<p class="intro">(American newspaper woman. Speaker and writer in the
cause of organized labor.)</p>

</div>

<p>The attitude of men toward women, economic,
social, political, reacts upon man and society. In
recognizing this, the man with the scythe is a
length ahead of the man with the cap and gown,
the cassock or the check book. The awakening to
a sense of the economic interdependence and fellowship
of men and women, has made the trade unionist
the first to recognize the justice and wisdom of
“universal suffrage,” and annually in convention
the American Federation of Labor declares:</p>

<p>“That the best interests of labor require the
admission of women to full citizenship—not only
as a matter of justice to them, but also as a necessary
step toward insuring and raising the American
standards of life for all.”</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Legislative Responsibility</h3>

<p class="author">By Emily J. Hutchins</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_204">See page 204</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>The most obvious effect of the vote is that it
puts women upon a plane of political equality with
other normal adults.... Universal suffrage stands
for a certain recognition of the stake that all human
beings, irrespective of sex, have in the general welfare,
and destroys a false sense of sex limitations.
By virtue of their new standing in the community
women assume an equal responsibility with men,
for both good and bad legislation.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_6"></a>[6]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>He Shall See the New Woman</h3>

<p class="author">By Mabel Potter Daggett</p>

<p class="intro">(From “What the War Means to Woman,” in “Pictorial Review.”)</p>

</div>

<p>You see, when her country called her, it was destiny
that spoke. Though no nation knew. Governments
have only thought they were making women
munition workers and women conductors and
women bank-tellers and women doctors and women
lawyers and women citizens and all the rest. I
doubt if there is a statesman anywhere who has
learned to unlock a door of opportunity to let the
woman movement by, who has realized that he was
but the instrument in the hands of a higher power
that is re-shaping the world for mighty ends, rough-hewn
though they be today from the awful chaos
of war.</p>

<p>But there is one who will know. When the man
at the front gets back and stands again before the
cottage rose-bowered on the English downs, red-roofed
in France and Italy, blue-trimmed in Germany,
or ikon-blessed in Russia, or white-porched off
Main Street in America, he will clasp her to his heart
once more. Then he will hold her off, so, at arm’s
length and look long into her eyes and deep into her
soul. And lo, he shall see there the New Woman.
This is not the woman whom he left behind when he
marched away to the Great World War. Something
profound has happened to her since. It is woman’s
coming of age.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_7"></a>[7]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Freedom of the Women</h3>

<p class="author">By Louise Collier Wilcox</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Woman’s Journal.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">When woman knew that on her strength devolved the care of race,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">She crept into her cave to sleep and told her man to face</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The prowling outer dangers, and the dark and fearful odds,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The thunder, beasts, and lightning, and the wrath of all the gods;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For at her heart she carried the future and its cares,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And the freedom that she needed was more precious far then theirs.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">So she watched her babe’s eyes open, and the little limbs grow straight,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And she taught him all the lore she’d learned, and what to love and hate;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And she trained the little body, and she led the little soul,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Till another woman took him to lead further toward the goal;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Then the mother smiled in anguish, though she laughed at age and cares,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For the freedom that she wanted was a longer one than theirs.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">When the work of life grew harder and men bowed beneath the yoke,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Of needs too great to master, and lusts too deep to choke,</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_8"></a>[8]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">She worked and slaved and tended, she wrestled with the dearth;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">She harnessed up herself to beasts, to till the barren earth;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And she planted in her garden and she weeded out the tares,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For the freedom that she wanted was more beautiful than theirs.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">But when she saw man bestial and content with earthly things,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">She scourged herself in cloisters, and she wept and prayed for wings.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Then she nurtured heavenly visions and she held aloft the cross,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To show eternal values amid life’s gain and loss.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And she pointed to the radiance round the crown the god-man wears,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For the freedom that she wanted was a holier one than theirs.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Then she smiled from out her shelter while her men coped with the world;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Her strength she made of weakness, and about her heart she curled</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The tendrils of dependence and his little children’s love;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And she showed him what a home was in her gathered treasure trove.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">All the time her eyes were smiling with the smile the seer wears,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For the freedom that she wanted was the freedom of his heirs.</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_9"></a>[9]</span>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Still her heart grew great and greater, and her eyes she would not blind</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To the suffering of the victims, to the needs of all mankind.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And she knew her safety futile and her children’s stronghold weak,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Till the least, last one is sheltered, and there’s none astray to seek.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">So she looked far down the ages to the good that all man shares,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For the freedom that she wanted was a broader one than theirs.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">And she knew her man short-sighted, since he had not borne the pain,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The slavery, drudgery, darkness, the glory and the stain</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Of womanhood and motherhood. How could he love the race?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">As she who bore and nurtured, God’s instrument of grace?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">So she ceased to coax and wheedle, and commanded as one dares</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Whose only love of freedom is a higher one than theirs.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="center">...</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">She stands, now, hand upon the helm, to help him govern life,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And she steers her world, his equal, in love, in peace, in strife;</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_10"></a>[10]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">She owns her strength and wisdom; and he may read who runs,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">That she must demand her freedom from his daughters and his sons.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Neither beneath nor over, but equal in her place,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The freedom that she’ll die for, is the freedom of the race.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>A Woman’s Question</h3>

<p class="author">By M. Carey Thomas</p>

<p class="intro">(A contemporary. President of Bryn Mawr College. From an
address at the College Evening of the National American Suffrage
Association.)</p>

</div>

<p>Woman suffrage is first of all a woman’s question.
We cannot remain indifferent. The issues involved
are so overwhelmingly important, first of
all, to us as women caring as we must for all other
women’s welfare, and second, to us as citizens of
the modern industrial state. I am sure as the result
of repeated experiment that it is only necessary
for generous and unprejudiced women to realize the
present economic independence of millions of women
workers, and the swiftly coming economic independence
of millions upon millions more women
workers for woman suffrage to seem to them inevitable
from that moment.</p>

<p>No one can maintain by serious arguments—that
is, by arguments that are not pure and simple
distortion of fact—that the ballot will not aid
women workers, as it has aided men workers, to
obtain fairer conditions and fairer wages. All working
men and all men of every class regard the ballot<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_11"></a>[11]</span>
as their greatest protection against the oppression
and injustice of other men. It is only necessary to
ask ourselves what would be the fate of any political
party whose platform contained a plank depriving
laboring men of the right to vote.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Because They Cannot Vote</h3>

<p class="author">By Meta L. Stern</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_250">See page 250</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>Industrial organization and political activity
constitute the two powerful arms of the labor movement.
Men are free to use both their arms. Women
are struggling with one arm tied.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Plea of the Women</h3>

<p class="author">By Katherine Parrott Sorringe</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Woman’s Journal.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Standing before you with suppliant hands,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Mothers and wives and daughters, we</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Sue for the justice long denied;—</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Give us the vote that makes us free!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">She who went down to the gates of death,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Joyful, to fling the life-doors wide,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Mother of statesman, soldier, saint—</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Set this crown on her patient pride!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">She, your comrade, who steadfast stood</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Shoulder to shoulder, through storm and night,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Held up your hands till victory pealed—</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Grant her this prize of well-fought fight.</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_12"></a>[12]</span>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Who trips laughing across your life,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Light of your love, your soul made fair?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Give her this pledge of a father’s faith,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Flower o’ freedom to deck her hair!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Mothers and wives and daughters, we,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Shall we ask in vain, with suppliant hand?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">We, who are children of the free!</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">We, who are builders in the land!</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>A Prisoner in Bow</h3>

<p class="author">By Sylvia Pankhurst</p>

<p class="intro">(A leader of the Suffragette movement of England. The following,
quoted from “The Woman’s Journal,” is an account of
one of her imprisonments in the London jails.)</p>

</div>

<p>My eight days’ license had expired. The police
were massed outside the Bromley Public Hall where
I was speaking, waiting to arrest me. Numbers of
detectives in plain clothes within were amongst the
audience; the people hissed and howled at them and
they threatened them with sticks. At the close of
the meeting, the people, declaring that I should not
be arrested, crowded down the stairs and out in a
thick mass with men in the center of them all. The
police rushed at us, striving to break our ranks and
to force a way through to me.... Policemen were
on every side of me. Two of them gripped and
bruised my arms, dragging me along. The crowd
followed, calling to me.... The policemen dug
their fingers into my flesh. One of them took out
his truncheon and grasped it tight against my hand
and arm. The back of my left hand was bruised<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_13"></a>[13]</span>
from it all next day. Several women rushed up to
me and were arrested, and one girl who did not
know any of us, or what the trouble was about,
called out: “Oh, you should not hurt her,” and was
taken into custody. They dragged me into a Cannon
Row police station....</p>

<p>So, hatless, and without so much as a brush or
comb, I was taken back to gaol to begin my hunger,
thirst and sleep strike. When I reached my cell,
the same cell in the hospital in which during February
and March I had been forcibly fed for five
weeks, I began to pace up and down.</p>

<p>A woman officer came to me and said I must not
make a noise.... I took a blanket from the bed and
spread it on the floor to deaden the sound of my
footsteps, lest any of the other women prisoners
should hear them and be kept awake.</p>

<p>Then I walked on and on, five short steps across
the cell and five short steps back, on and on, and
on.... As the hours dragged their slow way I
stumbled often over the blanket that wrinkled up
and caught in my feet. Often I stooped with dizzy
brain to straighten it. The walking, the ceaseless
walking, when I was so tired, made me grow sick
and faint. I was stumbling, falling to my knees,
clutching, as one drowning, at the bed or chair.
Sometimes I think I slept an instant or two as I lay,
for sleep seemed to be dogging as I walked.</p>

<p>It was cold, cold and colder, as the morning
came, as the sombre yellow faded and the gray
sky turned to violet—such a strange brilliant violet,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_14"></a>[14]</span>
almost startling it seemed through those heavy
bars. Then the violet died into the bleak white chill
of early day.</p>

<p>In the day time I still walked, but sometimes I
had to rest in the hard, wooden chair, and then I
would be startled to feel my head nod heavily to one
side. My legs ached, the soles of my feet were
swollen. They burned, and I thought of the women
of the past who were made to walk on red hot
plough shares for their faith. After the first few
days I remembered that tramps rubbed soap on
their feet to prevent their getting sore. I rubbed
soap on mine and found that it eased them a good
deal. Each time I took my stocking off to do this I
noticed that my feet had grown more purple. My
hands, too, were purple as they hung at my sides.
My throat was parched and dry. My lips were
cracked. On Wednesday I fainted twice, and afterwards
there came and stayed till I was released, a
strange pressure in the head, especially in the ears.
There was a sharp pain across my chest. That
evening I asked to see a doctor from the home office.
On Thursday afternoon he came. On Friday there
was no more likelihood of my sleeping. I lay on
the bed most of the day burning hot, with cold
shivers that seemed to pass over me as though a
cold wind was blowing on my face. In the afternoon
I was released and came back to the little red-roofed
house under St. Stephen’s church and the
kind hearts of Bow.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_15"></a>[15]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Out of the Dark</h3>

<p class="author">By Matilda Jocelyn Gage</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “Woman, Church and State.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Although England was Christianized in the
fourth century, it was not until the tenth that the
Christian wife of a Christian husband acquired the
right of eating at table with him.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>All Methods Employed</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. Oliver H. P. Belmont</p>

<p class="intro">(In “Harper’s Bazar.” President of the Political Equality
Association of New York, a leading spirit in the Congressional Union,
an organization whose tactics have caused it to be called the militant
wing of the suffrage movement.)</p>

</div>

<p>Woman suffrage is a war on ignorance, prejudice
and vice. To attack certain gigantic forces, a
people must take any and every line open to them.
If the Germans had attacked Warsaw from but one
side, that great city would still be under Russian
rule. I believe, therefore, that women in fighting
for their suffrage should use all lines approaching
the enemy. I personally am working along all roads
of attack, for I feel that where one method may fail,
another may succeed.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Glory in Power</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. Burke Cockran</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “Harper’s Bazar.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Suffragists are born, not made. There are
many women whose brains will never respond to
suffrage argument.... And yet I am convinced<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_16"></a>[16]</span>
that these women, when they do receive the vote,
will not only use their power judiciously and conscientiously,
but will eventually glory in it.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Feminism a Tree</h3>

<p class="author">By Beatrice Forbes-Robertson Hale</p>

<p class="intro">(Well-known English actress. Author of “What Women
Want,”<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> from which the following is taken.)</p>

</div>

<p>... Feminism is a tree, and woman suffrage merely
one of its many branches. Some of these branches
are essential to the life of the tree, others are not.
Some grow strong and put forth shoots in their turn,
others blossom prematurely, wither young, and drop
from the trunk. Meanwhile the tree towers up into
the sun with its crown of sturdy growths, and its
abortive shoots lie forgotten in the shadow below,
leaving hardly a scar upon the great stem to mark
their death. Only few people see this tree as a unit.
All who do know that woman suffrage is one of its
essential growths. But the majority still concentrate
their gaze upon one branch or another, whichever
seems to them most fair, and the parent tree is lost
to sight amid the multiplicity of its offspring’s leaves.
Suffrage has rallied to its march thousands of conservative
women who are indifferent, or even opposed,
to some newer branches of the tree, while those who
are absorbed in certain later and eccentric growths
are sometimes amusingly contemptuous of the older
limbs. They forget that the topmost crown could
not flourish if the wide boughs below did not help
the tree to breathe. They are sometimes, too, in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_17"></a>[17]</span>
danger of forgetting that if the great roots of the
trees were not anchored deep in the soil of woman’s
nature itself, in her motherhood, her strong tenderness,
and her service, the whole growth would perish.</p>

<div class="footnotes">
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[1]</a> Frederick A. Stokes Co.</p>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Woman Has Justified Herself</h3>

<p class="author">By Lady Morgan</p>

<p class="intro">(English. From “Woman and Her Master,” published in
Paris, in a “Collection of Ancient and Modern British Authors,”
1840.)</p>

</div>

<p>Notwithstanding her false position, woman has
struggled through all disabilities and degradations,
has justified the intentions of Nature in her behalf,
and demonstrated her claim to share in the moral
agency of the world. In all outbursts of mind, in
every forward rush of the great march of improvement
she has borne a part; permitting herself to be
used as an instrument, without hope of reward, and
faithfully fulfilling her mission, without expectation
of acknowledgment. She has, in various ages, given
her secret service to the task-master, without partaking
in his triumph, or sharing in his success. Her
subtlety has insinuated views which man has shrunk
from exposing, and her adroitness found favor for
doctrines which he had the genius to conceive, but not
the art to divulge. Priestess, prophetess, the oracle
of the tripod, the sibyl of the cave, the veiled idol of
the temple, the shrouded teacher of the academy, the
martyr or missionary of a spiritual truth, the armed
champion of a political cause, she has been covertly
used for every purpose, by which man, when he has
failed to reason his species into truth, has endeavored<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_18"></a>[18]</span>
to fanaticize it into good; whenever mind
has triumphed by indirect means over the hearts of
the masses.</p>

<p>In all moral impulsions, woman has aided and been
adopted; but, her efficient utility accomplished, the
temporary part assigned her for temporary purposes
performed, she has ever been hurled back into her
natural obscurity, and conventional insignificance....
Alluded to, rather as an incident, rather than
a principle in the chronicles of nations, her influence,
which cannot be denied, has been turned into a reproach;
her genius, which could not be concealed, has
been treated as a phenomenon, when not considered
as a monstrosity!</p>

<p>But where exist the evidences of these merits unacknowledged,
of these penalties unrepealed? They
are to be found carelessly scattered through all that
is known in the written history of mankind, from the
first to the last of its indited pages. They may be
detected in the habits of the untamed savage, in the
traditions of the semi-civilized barbarian! And in
those fragments of the antiquity of our antiquity,
scattered through undated epochs,—monuments of
some great moral debris, which, like the fossil remains
of long-imbedded, and unknown species, serve to
found a theory or to establish a fact.</p>

<p>Wherever woman has been, there has she left the
track of her humanity, to mark her passage—incidentally
impressing the seal of her sensibility and
wrongs upon every phase of society, and in every
region, “from Indus to the Pole.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_19"></a>[19]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Story of Katie Malloy</h3>

<p class="author">By Caroline A. Lowe</p>

<p class="intro">(Well-known as a speaker on the Socialist and labor platforms.
From a speech before the Committee on the Judiciary, House of
Representatives, Sixty-Second Congress.)</p>

</div>

<p>The need of the ballot for the wage-earning
woman is a vital one. No plea can be made that we
have the protection of the home or are represented
by our fathers or brothers....</p>

<p>What of the working girls, who through unemployment
are no longer permitted to sell the labor
of their hands and are forced to sell their virtue?</p>

<p>I met Katie Malloy under peculiar circumstances.
It was because of this that she told me of her terrible
struggles during the great garment workers strike in
Chicago. She had worked at H——’s for five years
and had saved $30. It was soon gone. She hunted
for work, applied at the Young Women’s Christian
Association and was told that so many hundreds of
girls were out of work that they could not possibly
do anything for her. She walked the streets day after
day without success. For three days she had almost
nothing to eat. “Oh,” she said, with the tears streaming
down her cheeks, “there is always some place
where a man can crowd in and keep decent, but for
us girls there is no place, no place but one, and it is
thrown open to us day and night. Hundreds of
girls—girls that worked by me in the shop—have
gone into houses of impurity.”</p>

<p>Has Katie Malloy and the five thousand working
girls who are forced into lives of shame each
month no need of a voice in a Government that
should protect them from this worse than death!</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_20"></a>[20]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The New Woman</h3>

<p class="author">By Dora B. Montefiore</p>

<p class="intro">(In “The Progressive Woman.” English Contemporary.
Writer and speaker on woman and labor problems.)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Pausing on the century’s threshold,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">With her face toward the dawn,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Stands a tall and radiant presence;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">In her eyes the light of morn,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">On her brow the flush of knowledge</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Won in spite of curse and ban,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">In her heart the mystic watchword</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Of the Brotherhood of Man.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">She is listening to the heartbeats</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Of the People in its pain;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">She is pondering social problems</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Which appeal to heart and brain.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">She is daring for the first time</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Both to think—and then to act;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">She is flouting social fictions,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Changing social lie—for Fact.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Centuries she followed blindfold</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Where her lord and master led;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Lived his faith, embraced his morals;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Trod but where he bade her tread.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Till one day the light broke round her,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And she saw with horror’s gaze,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">All the filth and mire of passion</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Choking up the world’s highways.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Saw the infants doomed to suffering,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Saw the maidens slaves to lust,</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_21"></a>[21]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">Saw the starving mothers barter</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Souls and bodies for a crust.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Saw the workers crushed by sweaters,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Heard the cry go up, “How long?”</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Saw the weak and feeble sink ’neath</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Competition’s cursed wrong.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">For a moment paused she shuddering;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Hers in part the guilt, the blame—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Untrue to herself and others,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Careless to her sister’s shame.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Then, she rose—with inward vision</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Nerving all her powers for good;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Feeling one with suffering sisters</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">In a perfect womanhood.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Rising ever ’bove the struggle</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">For this mortal fleeting life;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Listening to the God within her</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Urging Love—forbidding Strife.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Love and care for life of others</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Who with her must fall or rise.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">This the lesson through the ages</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Taught to her by Nature Wise.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">She had pondered o’er the teaching,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">She had made its truths her own;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Grasped them in their fullest meaning,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">As “New Woman” she is known.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">’Tis her enemies have baptized her</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">But she gladly claims the name;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Hers it is to make a glory</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">What was meant to be a shame.</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_22"></a>[22]</span>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Thinking high thoughts, living simply,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Dignified by labor done;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Changing the old years of thraldom</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">For new freedom—hardly won.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Clear-eyed, selfless, saved through knowledge,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">With her ideals fixed above,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">We may greet in the “New Woman”</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">The old perfect Law of Love.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>What Is This Government?</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. Belle Case La Follette</p>

<p class="intro">(American contemporary. Wife of the United States Senator,
Robert La Follette. The following is from a speech on suffrage,
given in Boston.)</p>

</div>

<p>What is this government that we women have
been taught to think of as something so remote from
our interests, so unrelated to the immediate personal
preoccupations of our daily lives? There are three
great matters in which we are all concerned: religion,
education and government. In religion men and
women share equally (indeed, men sometimes are
content that women should do more than their share).
In education it has come to pass that both men and
women participate equally, though that was not always
so. It is less than two generations that our
universities and even our high schools have been open
to women upon the same terms as to men.</p>

<p>But government is considered as man’s exclusive
province—a limitation that has narrowed the lives
of the women, that has robbed the children, and that
has reacted most injuriously upon the State. For
with what matters does government concern itself?
Why, with matters that touch intimately home happiness<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_23"></a>[23]</span>
and home prosperity, with laws and regulations
that guard and further human lives.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Woman Has Helped</h3>

<p class="author">By Luella Twining</p>

</div>

<p>Woman always has figured prominently in every
movement and transformation that has changed the
conditions of human life.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Our Common Interests</h3>

<p class="author">By Lena Morrow Lewis</p>

<p class="intro">(American contemporary. Writer. Speaker. Former member
of the National Executive Committee of the Socialist Party. Editor
“The Seattle Call.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Every argument in behalf of man suffrage
applies with equal force to woman suffrage. Men
and women have more in common as members of the
same species, belonging to the same human family,
than they have differences, because of the incident
of sex. To deny woman the ballot because of her sex
is virtually to repudiate her right and claim as a
human being. That a difference does exist between
men and women is on the other hand a strong argument
in behalf of woman suffrage. The giving of the
ballot to woman will not rob man of his just rights.
The admission of woman into the political arena will
do away with male supremacy, which is injurious to
man, breeds tyranny and results in injustice to
woman. Justice to woman does not mean injustice
to man. Our common interests as human beings,
and our differences as men and women both demand
political power and social rights for women the same
as for men.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_24"></a>[24]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Women</h3>

<p class="author">By Zona Gale</p>

<p class="intro">(Contemporary American writer and suffragist. In “The
American Magazine.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">They looked from farm house window;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Their joyless faces showed</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Between the curtain and the sill—</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">You saw them from the road.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">They looked up while they churned and cooked</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And washed and swept and sewed.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Some could die and some just lived, and many a one went mad,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But it’s “Mother be up at four o’clock,” the menfolk bade.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">They looked from town-house windows,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">A shadow on the shade</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Rose-touched by colorful depths of room</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Where harmonies were made.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Within, the women went and came,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And delicately played.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Some could grow, and some could work, but many of them were dead.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">“We must be gowned and gay tonight when the men come home,” they said.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">They looked from factory windows</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Where many an iron gin</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Drew in their days and ground their days</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">On the black wheels within,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Drew in their days and wove their days</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">To a web exceeding thin.</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_25"></a>[25]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">And they suffered what women have suffered over and over again.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And it’s “Double your speed for a living wage, ye mothers and wives of men!”</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">They looked from brothel windows,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And caught the curtain down.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">A piteous, beckoning hand thrust out,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">To summon or clod, or clown.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">They named them true, they named them true,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">The Women of the Town.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Some could live and some just died, and most of them none could know,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And it’s “What if the fallen women vote?” from the men who keep them so.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Allegory on Wimmin’s Rights</h3>

<p class="author">By Josiah Allen’s Wife
(Marietta Holly)</p>

<p class="intro">(American contemporary. A philosopher who uses the humorous
story to carry her message to the reading public.)</p>

</div>

<p>“Wimmin haint no business with the laws of the
country,” said Josiah.</p>

<p>“If they haint no business with the law, the law
haint no business with them,” said I warmly. “Of
the three classes that haint no business with the law—lunatics,
idiots and wimmin—the lunatics and idiots
have the best time of it,” says I with a great rush
of ideas into my brain that almost lifted up the
border of my head-dress. “Let a idiot kill a man;
‘What of it?’ says the law. Let a luny steal a sheep;
again the law murmurs in a calm and gentle tone,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_26"></a>[26]</span>
‘What of it? They haint no business with the law,
and the law haint no business with them!’</p>

<p>“But let one of a third class, let a woman steal
a sheep, does the law soothe her in those comfortin’
tones? No; it thunders to her in awful accents: ‘You
haint no business with the law, but the law has a good
deal of business with you, vile female; start for state’s
prison! You haint nothin’ at all to do with the law,
only to pay all the taxes it tells you to, embrace a
license bill that is ruinin’ to your husband, give up
your innocent little children to a wicked father if it
tells you to, and a few other little things, such as
bein’ dragged off to prison by it, chained up for life,
and hung, and et cetery.”</p>

<p>“‘Methought I once heard the words,’ sithes the
female, ‘True government consists in the consent of
the governed. Did I dream them, or did the voice
of a luny pour them into my ear?’</p>

<p>“‘Haint I told you,’ frowns the law on her, ‘that
that don’t mean wimmin? Have I got to explain
again to your weakened female comprehension, the
great fundymental truth that wimmin haint included
and mingled in the law books and statutes of the
country, only in a condemnin’ and punishin’ sense
as it were?’</p>

<p>“‘Alas!’ sithes the woman to herself, ‘would
that I had the sweet rights of my wild and foolish
companions, the idiots and lunys!’</p>

<p>“‘But,’ says she, ‘are the laws always just, that
I should obey them thus implicitely?’</p>

<p>“‘Idiots, lunatics! and wimmin! Are they goin’
to speak?’ thunders the law. ‘Can I believe my noble<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_27"></a>[27]</span>
right ear? Can I, bein’ blindfolded, trust my seventeen
senses? I’ll have you understand that it haint
no woman’s business whether the laws are just or
unjust; all you have to do is just to obey ’em. So
start off for prison, my young woman.’</p>

<p>“‘But my housework,’ pleads the woman.
‘Woman’s place is the home. It is her duty to remain,
at all hazards, within its holy and protectin’
precincts. How can I leave its sacred retirement to
moulder in state’s prison?’</p>

<p>“‘Housework!’ and the law fairly yells the
words, he is so filled with contempt at the idea.
‘Housework! Jest as if housework is goin’ to stand
in the way of the noble administration of the law!
I admit the recklessness and immorality of her leavin’
that holy haven long enough to vote; but I guess she
can leave her housework long enough to be condemned,
and hung, and so forth.’</p>

<p>“‘But I have got a infant,’ says the woman, ‘of
tender days. How can I go?’</p>

<p>“‘That is nothin’ to the case,’ says the law in
stern tones. ‘The peculiar conditions of motherhood
only unfits a female woman from ridin’ to town in a
covered carriage once a year, and layin’ her vote on
a pole. I’ll have you understand it’s no hinderence
to her at all in a cold and naked cell, or in a public
court room crowded with men.’</p>

<p>“As the young woman totters along to prison
is it any wonder that she sithes to herself—</p>

<p>“‘Would that I were an idiot! Alas is it not
possible that I may become even now, a luny? Then
I should be respected!’”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_28"></a>[28]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>For Woman Suffrage</h3>

<p class="author">By Jane Addams</p>

<p class="intro">(From speech favoring a suffrage amendment to the Constitution,
before the Committee on the Judiciary, House of Representatives,
Sixty-Second Congress. Prior to the enfranchisement of the
Illinois women.)</p>

</div>

<p>As I have been engaged for a number of years
in various philanthropic undertakings, perhaps you
will permit me, for only a few moments, to speak
from experience. A good many women with whom
I have been associated have initiated and carried forward
philanthropic enterprises, which were later
taken over by the city, and thereupon the women have
been shut out from the opportunity to do the self-same
work which they have done up to that time. In
Chicago the women for many years supported school
nurses who took care of the children, both made them
comfortable and kept them from truancy. When the
nurses were taken over by the health department of
the city the same women who had given them their
support and management were shut out from doing
anything more in that direction. And I think Chicago
will bear me out when I say that the nurses are
not now doing as good work as they did before.</p>

<p>I could also use the illustration of the probation
officers in Chicago who are attached to the juvenile
court. For a number of years women selected and
supported these probation officers. Later, when the
same officers, paid the same salary, were taken over
by the county and paid from the county funds, the
women who had had to do with the initiation and
beginning of the probation system, and with the
primary and early management of the officers, had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_29"></a>[29]</span>
no more to do with them. At the present moment
the juvenile court in Chicago has fallen behind its
former position in the juvenile courts of the world.
I think the fair-minded men of Chicago will admit
that it was a disaster for the juvenile court when the
women were disqualified, by their lack of the franchise,
to care for it.</p>

<p>The juvenile court has to do largely with delinquent
and dependent children, and I think there is
no doubt that on the whole women can deal with
such cases better than men, because their natural interests
lie in that direction....</p>

<p>The establishment of a sanitarium for the care
of tubercular patients in Chicago was begun by some
philanthropic women, and later on, when these also
were put under the care of the city, these women were
shut out, save as they were permitted to do some work
through the courtesy of the officials. Sometimes the
officials are very courteous to them and glad to have
their assistance; sometimes they quite resent the suggestions
from them, claiming it is “up to” them to
take care of the city affairs, and that women are only
interfering when they try to help.</p>

<p>So, it seems fair to say, if women are to keep on
with the work which they have done since the
beginning of the world—to continue with their
humanitarian efforts which are so rapidly being taken
over by the Government, and often not properly administered,
that the women themselves will have to
have the franchise.</p>

<p>The franchise is only a little bit of mechanism
which enables the voter to say how much money shall<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_30"></a>[30]</span>
be appropriated from the taxes, of which women pay
so large a part. When a woman votes, she votes in
an Australian ballot box, very carefully guarded from
roughness, and it seems to us only fair to the State
activities which are so largely humanitarian that
women should have this opportunity.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>A Spade’s A Spade</h3>

<p class="author">By Ethel R. Peyser</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “Judge.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">She’s treated by him like a queen,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">She’s helped across the streets,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">She’s given every courtesy</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">That every woman greets;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And yet he thinks the vote for her</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Would signal grave defeats.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">She trained and reared his able sons,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">She helped him make his cash,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">She advised him in his business,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">She made him act less rash;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And yet he thinks the vote for her</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Would be “just so much trash.”</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">She answers all his business notes</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">In a manner quite “parfait,”</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">She does all his stenography</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And seems to have great sway;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And yet he thinks the vote for her</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Would bring “naught but dismay.”</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_31"></a>[31]</span>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">She knows the whys of stocks and bonds,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">She knows statistics dull,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">She keeps him up on markets</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And knows the price to cull;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And yet he thinks the vote for her</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">“Would be an awful mull.”</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">She’s placed on rate commissions,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">She takes part in great debates,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">She is asked for her opinion,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">She knows causes, bills, and dates;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And yet he thinks the vote for her</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Would cause the fall of States.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">She’s the brains of large conventions,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">She knows well the social trend,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">She has written books of civics,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">She has made great forces blend;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And yet the vote for such as she</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">He cannot comprehend!</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Woman on the Scaffold</h3>

<p class="author">By Alice Meynell</p>

<p class="intro-c">(English contemporary. Poet and essayist. From “The
Bookman.”)</p>

</div>

<p>See the curious history of the political rights of
woman under the Revolution. On the scaffold she
enjoyed an ungrudged share in the fortunes of a
party. Political life might be denied her, but that
seems a trifle when you consider how generously
she was permitted political death. She was to spin<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_32"></a>[32]</span>
and cook for her citizen in the obscurity of her
living hours; but to the hour of her death was
granted no part in the largest interests, social,
national, international. The blood with which she
should, according to Robespierre, have blushed to
be seen or heard in the tribune was exposed in the
public sight unsheltered by her veins.... Women
might be, and were, duly silenced when, by the
mouth of Olympe de Gougas, they claimed a
“right to concur in the choice of representatives for
the formation of the laws,” but in her person, too,
they were liberally allowed to bear responsibility
to the Republic. Olympe de Gougas was guillotined.
Robespierre then made her public and complete
amends.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>A Lady Rebel</h3>

<p class="author">By Abigail Adams</p>

<p class="intro">(Wife of one president of the United States, and mother of
another. A brilliant correspondent, her letters showing her to be a
woman unusual in breadth of interest, and general culture. The following
extract is from a letter written to her husband in 1774, during
the session of the First Continental Congress.)</p>

</div>

<p>I long to hear that you have declared an independency.
And in the new code of laws which I
suppose it will be necessary for you to make, I desire
you would remember the ladies, and be more generous
and favorable to them than your ancestors....
If particular care and attention is not paid to the
ladies, we are determined to foment a rebellion, and
will not hold ourselves bound by any laws in which
we have no voice or representation.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33"></a>[33]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>“The Gibraltar of Our Cause”</h3>

<p class="author">By Susan B. Anthony</p>

<p class="intro">(From a speech delivered at the Suffrage Convention held at
Syracuse, N. Y. September 8, 1852. Quoted from “Life and Work
of Susan B. Anthony.”<a id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>The claims we make at these conventions are
self-evident truths. The second resolution affirms
the right of human beings to their persons and earnings.
Is that not self evident? Yet the common
law, which regulates the relations of husband and
wife, and is modified only in a few instances, gives
the “custody” of the wife’s person to the husband,
so that he has a right to her, even against herself.
It gives him her earnings, no matter with what
weariness they have been acquired, or how greatly
she may need them for herself or her children. It
gives him a right to her personal property, which
he may will entirely away from her, also the use of
her real estate, and in some of the states married
women, insane persons and idiots are ranked
together as not fit to make a will, so that she is left
with only one right, which she enjoys in common
with the pauper, the right of maintenance. Indeed,
when she has taken the sacred marriage vows, her
legal existence ceases. And what is our position
politically? The foreigner, the negro, the drunkard,
all are entrusted with the ballot, all are placed
by men higher than their own mothers, wives, sisters
and daughters!</p>

<p>The woman, who, seeing this, dares not maintain
her rights is the one to hang her head and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34"></a>[34]</span>
blush. We ask only for justice and equal rights—the
right to vote, the right to our own earnings,
equality before the law: these are “the Gibraltar
of our Cause.”</p>

<div class="footnotes">
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2" class="label">[2]</a> The Bowen Merrill Co.</p>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>A Great Life</h3>

<p class="author">By Ida Husted Harper</p>

<p class="intro">(Biographer of Susan B. Anthony. From Introduction to the
“Life and Works of Susan B. Anthony.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Those who follow the story of this life will confirm
the assertion that every girl who enjoys a
college education; every woman who has the chance
of earning an honest living in whatever sphere she
chooses; every wife who is protected by law in the
possession of her person and property; every mother
who is blessed with the custody and control of her
own children—owes these sacred privileges to Susan
B. Anthony beyond all others.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Suffrage a Means to an End</h3>

<p class="author">By Ella S. Stewart</p>

<p class="intro">(Contemporary. Ex-President the Illinois Equal Suffrage Association—Former
Secretary “National American Suffrage Association.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Suffrage is not an end in itself, but a means to
an end....</p>

<p>The opposition of the liquor forces is not
gauged by the number of women actively engaged
in temperance work. That number is still comparatively
small. It takes no comfort from the fact that
suffrage associations are non-partisan on all questions<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35"></a>[35]</span>
except suffrage. It would fear and fight off
the enfranchisement of women if every temperance
organization were to disband today. Therein it
unconsciously pays its high tribute to woman and
confesses its own lack of moral defense.... The
forces of evil fear for woman’s vote.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Man Cannot Represent Woman</h3>

<p class="author">By Rev. Antoinette Brown</p>

<p class="intro">(The first woman ordained to preach in the United States.
The following extract is from a speech delivered at the Suffrage
Convention at Syracuse, N. Y., Sept. 8, 1852.)</p>

</div>

<p>Man cannot represent woman. They differ in
their nature and relations. The law is wholly masculine;
it is created and executed by man. The
framers of all legal compacts are restricted to the
masculine standpoint of observation, to the
thoughts, feelings and biases of man. The law then
can give us no representation as women, and therefore
no impartial justice, even if the law makers
were intent upon this, for we can be represented only
by our peers.... When woman is tried for crime,
her jury, her judges, her advocates, are all men;
and yet there may have been temptations and various
palliating circumstances connected with her peculiar
nature as woman, such as man cannot appreciate.
Common justice demands that a part of the
law-makers and law-executors should be of her own
sex. In questions of marriage and divorce, affecting
interests dearer than life, both parties in the contract
are entitled to an equal voice.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_36"></a>[36]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Universality</h3>

<p class="author">By Belle Lindner Israels</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From the Introduction to “The Upholstered Cage.”)</p>

</div>

<p>There can be no problem of women anywhere
without aspects of universality.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Mankind Our Neighbor</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. R. R. Cotton</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “Social Service Review.”)</p>

</div>

<p>The day is past when we deluded ourselves with
the thought that our responsibilities ceased with the
performance of our individual duties. We are
jointly responsible for the existing conditions, and
only by a joint effort can they be improved. Our
neighbor’s welfare is our business, and our neighbor
is mankind.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Clearing Up the Muss</h3>

<p class="author">By Gertrude Breslau Fuller</p>

<p class="intro">(American contemporary. Prominent as a Lyceum speaker on
social questions.)</p>

</div>

<p>You say politics are too corrupt for women to
mix up in? Well, they are pretty bad, there is no
doubt about that. You have laid almost everything
under heaven onto the women, but this one thing
that has been under your own exclusive, masculine
domain.</p>

<p>Don’t you know that the principal business of
women, all down the ages, has been to go along
after the men and clear up the everlasting muss
they made? Well, we are still at the same task.
Our politics are no more corrupt than our housekeeping
would be if we let you run it alone.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_37"></a>[37]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Wisdom Comes with Freedom</h3>

<p class="author">By Mary Wollstonecraft</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_121">See page 121</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>In France or Italy have the women confined
themselves to domestic life? Though they have not
hitherto had a political existence, yet have they not
illicitly had great sway, corrupting themselves and
the men with whose passions they played? In
short, in whatever light I view the subject, reason
and experience convince me that the only method of
leading women to fulfill their peculiar duties is to
free them from all restraint by allowing them to
participate in the inherent rights of mankind.</p>

<p>Make them free, and they will quickly become
wise and virtuous, as men become more so, for the
improvement must be mutual, or the injustice which
one-half of the race are obliged to submit to retorting
on their oppressors, the virtue of men will
become worm-eaten by the insect whom he keeps
under his feet.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Women to Men</h3>

<p class="author">By Miriam Allen De Ford</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Woman Voter.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">We are they that wept at Babylon,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And still are they that weep;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">We have watched the cradles of the world,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And hushed its sick to sleep;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">We have served your folly and desire,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And drunk your cruel will;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">You have smiled on us with far content:—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Are you smiling still?</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38"></a>[38]</span>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">We were slaves most fit for Solomon,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">That now can call you kin;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">It was strength of soul and many years</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">That changed us so within;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The strength of those you killed with scorn,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The years you could not kill;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Steep were the stairs to climb and hard:—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Are you smiling still?</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">We have shared your salt of loyalty,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And eaten of its bread;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">We have died with you for Freedom’s sake,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And gained it, being dead:</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">You have drawn from out our breasts your life,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The life you use so ill:</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">We are they that bore you in the night:—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Are you smiling still?</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Call to Social Service</h3>

<p class="author">By Elizabeth (Mrs. George) Bass</p>

<p class="intro">(American contemporary. Former president of the Woman’s
City Club, Chicago. Chairman Chicago-Biennial Board, General Federation
of Women’s Clubs. From editorial in “Life and Labor.”)</p>

</div>

<p>The call to social service and action has brought
the modern club woman along an ever broadening
path to the high, wind-swept levels, where she
sights limitless opportunity for expression and
action; and two things she has come to see clearly,
first, that she needs the ballot to do this, her natural
work, more effectively; and second, that the Commonwealth
needs her.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_39"></a>[39]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Submission</h3>

<p class="author">By Miriam Teichner</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Woman’s Journal.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Submission? They have preached at that so long,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">As though the head bowed down would right the wrong;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">As though the folded hands, the coward heart,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Were saintly signs of souls sublimely strong;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">As though the man who acts the waiting part</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And but submits, had little wings a-start.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But may I never reach that anguished plight,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Where I at last grow weary of the fight!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Submission? “Wrong of course, must ever be</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Because it ever was. ’Tis not for me</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">To seek a change; to strike the maiden blow.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">’Tis best to bow the head and not to see;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">’Tis best to dream, that we need never know</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">The truth—to turn our eyes away from woe.”</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Perhaps. But, ah! I pray for keener sight.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And—may I not grow weary of the fight!</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Price of Liberty</h3>

<p class="author">By Mary Gray Peck</p>

<p class="intro">(In “Life and Labor.” Chairman Committee on Drama, General
Federation of Women’s Clubs.)</p>

</div>

<p>“I know not what course others may take, but
as for me, give me liberty or give me death.”</p>

<p>Patrick Henry, when he said that, was not
asking that liberty come as a free gift. No race or
class ever has attained it so cheaply. Fifty years<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_40"></a>[40]</span>
after the battle of Gettysburg, the negro is still
fighting for the liberty which the bloodiest war in
history could not confer on him. He must get it for
himself.</p>

<p>Women have been fighting longer than that for
freedom.</p>

<p>It is the glory of the women’s labor movement
that working women struck the first blow for
women’s liberty in this country.</p>

<p>For a hundred years, working women have
made straight the way for all women to follow.
It was the women in the mills and the shops and
factories who made it possible sixty years ago for
women to enter the schools and the professions.</p>

<p>Today, in the ultimate analysis, it is the women
in the mills of commerce who gave women the ballot
in the suffrage states. It is they who are paying
the price. <i>Their strikes are all hunger strikes; not
a hunger for bread alone, but a hunger for life and
the liberty of soul.</i></p>

<p>Not till these strikes end in victory, not till the
last burning-factory martyr has rendered up her
life as a sacrifice necessary to the destruction of
the system which thrives on factory fires, can we
count the price which working women have paid to
make all women free.</p>

<p>“No people can long endure half slave and
half free.”</p>

<p>If the working women had consented to be
slaves, there would have been no woman movement.
More than that—without the woman’s trade unions
there could be no organized labor movement.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_41"></a>[41]</span>
Theirs is the strategic point in the conflict in which
the whole world is lining up. Around them will
rage the fiercest fight; but the stars in their courses
fight for them.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Woman’s Right</h3>

<p class="author">By Olive Schreiner</p>

<p class="intro">(South African novelist. Contemporary. Author of “An
African Farm,” “Three Dreams in a Desert,” “Woman and Labor,”
etc. The following is from “Woman and Labor.”<a id="FNanchor_3" href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>Thrown into strict logical form, our demand is
this: We do not ask that the wheels of time should
reverse themselves, or the stream of life flow backward.
We do not ask that our ancient spinning
wheels be again resuscitated and placed in our
hands; we do not demand that our old grindstones
and hoes be returned to us, or that man should again
betake himself entirely to his province of war and
the chase, leaving to us all domestic and civil labor.
We do not even demand that society shall immediately
so reconstruct itself that every woman may
again be a child bearer (deep and overmastering as
lies the hunger for motherhood in every virile
woman’s heart!); neither do we demand that the
children we bear shall again be put exclusively
into our hands to train. This, we know, cannot be.
The past material conditions of life have gone
forever; no will of man can recall them. But <i>this</i>
is our demand: We demand that, in that strange
new world that is arising alike upon the man and
the woman, where nothing is as it was, and all<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_42"></a>[42]</span>
things are assuming new shapes and relations, that
in this new world we also shall have our share of
honored and socially useful human toil, our full
half of the labor of the Children of Woman. We
demand nothing more than this, and will take
nothing less. <i>This is our WOMAN’S RIGHT!</i></p>

<div class="footnotes">
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_3" href="#FNanchor_3" class="label">[3]</a> Frederick A. Stokes Co.</p>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>From “The Convert”</h3>

<p class="author">By Elizabeth Robins</p>

<p class="intro">(English contemporary. Actress, playwright, novelist. Author
of “Way Stations,” “The Convert,” etc. The following is from a
suffrage speech by one of her characters, Miss Claxton, in “The
Convert.”)</p>

</div>

<p>What, women don’t want it? Are you worrying
about a handful who think because they have been
trained to like subservience everybody else ought
to like subservience, too?... The women who are
made to work over hours—they want the vote. To
compel them to work over hours is illegal. But who
troubles to see that laws are fairly interpreted for
the unrepresented.... I know a factory where a
notice went up yesterday to say that the women employed
there will be required to work 12 hours a
day for the next few weeks.... Much of woman’s
employment is absolutely unrestricted except that
they may not be worked on Sunday. And while all
this is going on, comfortable gentility sit in arm
chairs and write alarmist articles on the falling
birth-rate and the horrible amount of infant mortality.
Here and there we find a man who realizes that
the main concern of the State should be its children,
and that you can’t get worthy citizens when the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43"></a>[43]</span>
mothers are sickly and enslaved. The question of
statecraft rightly considered always reaches back to
the mother. That State is most prosperous that most
considers her. No State that forgets her can survive.
The future is rooted in the real being of women. If
you rob the women, your children and your child’s
children pay. Men haven’t realized it—your boasted
logic has never yet reached so far. Of all the community
the women who give the next generation birth,
and who form its character, during the most impressionable
years of its life—of all the community, these
mothers now, or mothers to be, ought to be set free
from the monstrous burden that lies upon the shoulders
of millions of women.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Rights, Privileges and Capacities</h3>

<p class="author">By Catherine Waugh McCulloch</p>

<p class="intro">(American contemporary. Former President Illinois Woman
Suffrage Association, and practicing attorney. The following is
from a pamphlet, “Illinois Laws Concerning Women,” issued by
the I. W. S. A.)</p>

</div>

<p>We read that no person shall be denied any
political rights, privileges, or powers on account of
religion. The word sex should have been added.
People may change their religion, but never their
sex. Rights, privileges and capacities ought never
to depend on color of eyes or hair, cast of features,
sex or any other accident for which a person is not
to be blamed and which a person can never overcome.
Any other qualification demanded of a voter
may be acquired by one’s own exertion, or the lapse
of time. Property may be earned, minority out-grown,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_44"></a>[44]</span>
education secured, sanity regained, alienage
removed, imprisonment outlived. But no industry,
no age, no brilliancy, no morality, can change sex.
Sex should be made less a disgrace instead of more
of a disgrace than poverty, minority, alienage, insanity
and criminality.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Working Woman’s Awakening</h3>

<p class="author">By Theresa Malkiel</p>

<p class="intro">(In “The Progressive Woman.” American contemporary. Socialist.
Speaker and writer on woman, child and labor problems.)</p>

</div>

<p>Unconsciously, with closed eyes, driven, perhaps,
by the herd instinct that makes her follow
the others, the working woman is rising at last from
her long slumber....</p>

<p>The solution of the problem of existence is
pressing upon her more and more. Even the
mantle of marriage does no longer save her from it.
The patient sufferer cannot and will not see her
children destitute and hungry. She wants some of
the celestial promises to be realized here on earth.
Hence this general unrest of womanhood the world
over.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Woman’s Weak Dependency</h3>

<p class="author">By Gertrude Atherton</p>

<p class="intro">(American contemporary. Said by the London critics to be
the most brilliant of American women novelists. The following is
from “Julia France and Her Times.”)</p>

</div>

<p>No wonder so few women had left an impression
on history. How could any brain, even if endowed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_45"></a>[45]</span>
with true genius, reach the highest order of development
while the character remained placid in its
willing dependence upon the reigning sex? And
man had despised woman through the ages, even
when most enslaved by her, knowing that on him
depended her very existence. He had the physical
strength to wring her neck, and the legal backing
to treat her as partner or servant, whichever he
found convenient.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>A Pageant of Great Women</h3>

<p class="author">By Cicily Hamilton</p>

<p class="intro">A dramatic poem of power and beauty. Woman contends with
prejudice in an argument before the throne of Justice, calling a
pageant of the world’s great women to justify her claims. She wins
her freedom and speaks to man as follows:</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">I have no quarrel with you, but I stand</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For the clear right to hold my life my own:</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The clear, clean right. To mould it as I will,—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Not as you will, with or apart from you</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To make of it a thing of brain and blood,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Of tangible substance and of turbulent thought—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">No thin, gray shadow of the life of man!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Your love, perchance, may set a crown on it;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But I may crown myself in other ways—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">(As you have done, who are in one flesh with me).</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I have no quarrel with you; but, henceforth</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">This you must know: The world is mine as yours—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The pulsing strength and passion and hurt of it:</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The work I set my hand to, woman’s work,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Because I set my hand to it.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_46"></a>[46]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Prayer of the Modern Woman</h3>

<p class="author">By Josephine Conger</p>

<p class="intro-c">(Published in various Suffrage Journals.)</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_177">See page 177</a>)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Unbind our hands. We do not ask for favor in this fight</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Of human souls for human needs. We ask for naught but right,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">That we may throw the burden from our backs, and from our brains</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The thrall of servitude. We are so weary of the pains</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">That crush our hearts and cramp our wills, reducing all desires</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To childish whims, while great hopes lie like smould’ring fires</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Within our brains, or burst distorted from some weak, unguarded point,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Leaving ruin and anguish in their track. With woman bound, the whole world’s out of joint,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For women are the mothers of the race. We cannot boast</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Of natural rights, of liberty, while mothers of the host</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Must know they’re classed in common law with idiots and slaves,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Must stand aside with criminals, with imbeciles and knaves.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The sturdy sons nursed at their breast cannot be wholly free,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For what the mother is, the child will in a measure be.</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_47"></a>[47]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">You are not granting Favor when you give us equal power;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The shame is, you’ve withheld from us so long our dower</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Of earth’s inheritance. We do not beg for alms, for charity.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">We do not want our rights doled out; we want full liberty</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To grow, to be, to do our part, as Nature meant we should.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">We want a perfect sister-, as well as brother-hood.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3 class="x-ebookmaker-important">By Mrs. James Lees Laidlaw</h3>

<p class="intro">(Chairman of the New York City Suffrage Party. In “Harper’s
Bazar.”)</p>

</div>

<p>The getting of votes has been to us like the
saving of souls.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3 class="x-ebookmaker-important">By Julia Wedgewood</h3>

<p class="intro">(English writer. From an essay, “Female Suffrage, Considered
Chiefly with Regard to Its Indirect Results.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Of course, if women are either exactly like men,
or simply men minus something or other, they could
add no light to that already possessed by a male constituency,
but I know of no one who seriously believes
either of these things.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_48"></a>[48]</span></p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_49"></a>[49]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="BOOK_II">BOOK II<br>
<span class="smaller">The Home</span></h2>

</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_50"></a>[50]</span></p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_51"></a>[51]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_HOME">THE HOME</h2>

</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>“The Woman’s Place”</h3>

<p class="author">By The Hon. Mrs. Arthur Lyttleton</p>

<p class="intro">(English contemporary. The following is taken from “Women
and Their Work.”)</p>

</div>

<p>“The woman’s place is the home.”</p>

<p>Such is a very common reply to those who propound
any new schemes for educating or helping
women. No one would deny the statement. It is
true that those who make it sometimes forget that
now-a-days a considerable number of women have
no homes, and that therefore the remark by no
means meets the whole case.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Spirit of the Home</h3>

<p class="author">By Lucy Re Bartlett</p>

<p class="intro">(English contemporary. Author of “Toward Liberty,” from
which the following is taken.)</p>

</div>

<p>By all means let most women choose the home
for their sphere, if they will, and even severely avoid
politics for the moment, if they be so minded. But
whether in the home, or outside it, let all women
consider well what be the spirit they are bringing
into life—whether it be one which liberates and
uplifts, or one which makes, instead, for bondage.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Lovers of Home</h3>

<p class="author">By Dr. Anna Howard Shaw</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Metropolitan Magazine.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Every suffragist I have ever met has been a lover
of home; and only the conviction that she is fighting
for her home, her children, for other women, for all
of these, has sustained her in her public work.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_52"></a>[52]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Woman’s High Achievement</h3>

<p class="author">By Selma Lagerlof</p>

<p class="intro">(Swedish contemporary. Prominent in literary and progressive
circles. From an address delivered before the Sixth Congress of the
International Suffrage Alliance in Stockholm, entitled “Woman the
Savior of the State.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Have women done nothing which entitles us to
equal rights with man? Our time on earth has been
long—as long as his. Have we created nothing of
incontestable worth to life and civilization? Besides
this, that we have brought human beings into the
world, have we contributed nothing of use to mankind?...
I look at paintings and engravings, pictures
of old women, of olden times. Their faces are
haggard and stern; their hands rough and bony.
They had their struggles and their interests. What
have they done?</p>

<p>I place myself before Rembrandt’s old peasant
woman, she of the thousand wrinkles in her intelligent
face, and I ask myself why she lived? Certainly
not to be worshipped by many men, not to rule a
state, not to win a scholar’s degree! And yet the
work to which she devoted herself could not have
been of a trivial nature. She did not go through life
stupid and shallow! The glances of men and women
rest rather upon her aged countenance than upon that
of the fairest young beauty. Her life must have had
a meaning.</p>

<p>We all know what the old woman will reply to
my question. We read the answer in her calm and
kindly smile: “All that I did was to make a good
home.”</p>

<p>And look you! That is what the women would<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_53"></a>[53]</span>
answer if they could rise from their graves generation
after generation, thousands upon thousands,
millions upon millions: “All that we strove for was
to make a good home.”</p>

<p>We know that if we were to ask the men, could
we line them up, generation after generation, thousands
and millions in succession, it would not occur
to one of them to say that he had lived for the purpose
of making a good home....</p>

<p>We know that it is needless to seek further. We
should find nothing. Our gift to humanity is the
home—that, and nothing else....</p>

<p>For the home we have been great; for the home
we have been petty. Not many of us have stood with
Christina Gyllenstierna on the walls of Stockholm and
defended a city; still fewer of us have gone forth with
Jeanne D’Arc to battle for the Fatherland. But if
the enemy approached our own gate, we stood there
with broom and dish rag, with the sharp tongue and
clawing hand, ready to fight to the last in defense of
our creation, the home. And this little structure
which has cost us so much effort, is it a success or a
failure? Is this woman’s contribution to civilization
inconsiderable or valuable? Is it appreciated or
despised?</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Woman’s Sphere the Home</h3>

<p class="author">By Helen Keller</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “Out of the Dark.”<a id="FNanchor_4" href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a>)</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_209">See page 209</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>Woman’s sphere <i>is</i> the home, and the home, too,
is the sphere of man. The home embraces everything<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_54"></a>[54]</span>
we strive for in this world. To get and maintain a
decent home is the object of all our best endeavors.
But what is the home? What are its boundaries?
What does it contain? What must we do to secure
and protect it?</p>

<p>In olden times the home was a private factory....
Home and industrial life were one.... Once
the housewife made her own butter and baked her
own bread; she even sowed, reaped, threshed, and
ground the wheat. Now her churn has been removed
to great cheese and butter factories. The village mill,
where she used to take her corn, is today in Minneapolis;
her sickle is in Dakota. Every morning the
express company delivers her loaves to the local
grocer from a bakery that employs a thousand hands.
The men who inspect her winter preserves are
chemists in Washington. Her ice box is in Chicago.
The men in control of her pantry are bankers in
New York. The leavening of bread is somehow dependent
upon the culinary science of congressmen,
and the washing of milk cans is a complicated art
which legislative bodies, composed of lawyers, are trying
to teach the voting population on the farms.</p>

<p>It would take a modern woman a lifetime to walk
across her kitchen floor; and to keep it clean is an
Augean labor. No wonder that she sometimes shrinks
from the task and joins the company of timid, lazy
women who do not want to vote. But she <i>must</i> manage
her home; for, no matter how grievously incompetent
she may be, there is no one else authorized or
able to manage it for her. She <i>must</i> secure for her
children clean food at honest prices. Through all<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_55"></a>[55]</span>
the changes of industry and government she remains
the baker of bread, the minister of the universal
sacrament of life.</p>

<div class="footnotes">
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_4" href="#FNanchor_4" class="label">[4]</a> Doubleday Page &amp; Co.</p>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Woman and the Primitive Home</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. St. Clair Stobart</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_144">See page 144</a>)</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “War and Woman.”)</p>

</div>

<p>In the days when such proverbs as “The woman,
the cat and the chimney should never leave the
house”, “<i>Bonne femme est oiseau de cage</i>”, “A wife
and a broken leg are best left at home”, were current
in every household, there was some reason why
women should remain at home. For <i>within the home</i>
were conducted—by women—all the industries of
life. In those days women not only made jams and
pickles, cured the hams and bacon, concocted wines
and medicines, they also designed and embroidered
all the curtains, tapestries and carpets; the making
of beautiful laces, the spinning, the weaving, the
sewing and the knitting of all the garments was committed
to the charge of women. In those days when
the control of all that made life worth living was
with woman, she did not need, nor did she seek, outside
occupations, which indeed consisted chiefly of
the less intellectual pursuits of hunting and fishing.
There was plenty of scope <i>within</i> doors for the intellectual,
industrial, and artistic faculties of every
active-minded woman. If it is true that woman was
more honored at that time when she remained indoors
than she is now, this was <i>not because</i> she remained<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_56"></a>[56]</span>
at home, but because all the arts and crafts
of life were in her hands—<i>within the home</i>. But now
all this is changed, through no fault of the woman
herself, and, except for the young wife and mother
who has plenty of occupation in the rearing of her
family, there is not enough work <i>within the home</i> for
additional active-minded and able-bodied women, the
numerous daughters, sisters, cousins, aunts, who
need occupation, but who have no family of their
own because there are not enough men to go round.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Poor and Good Housing</h3>

<p class="author">By Elizabeth Cook</p>

<p class="intro">(From Speech on “Housing and Morals in Richmond.”
Quoted from “Woman’s Work in Municipalities.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Can children raised in Jail Bottom, whose only
outlook is a mountain-like dump of rotting and rusty
tin cans on the one side, and on the other a stream
which is an open sewer, smelling to heaven from the
filth which it carries along, or leaves here and there
in slime upon its banks, have any but debasing ideas?
Can parents inculcate high moral standards when
across the street or down the block are houses of the
“red light” district? Is the world so small that
there is no room left for the amenities of life? Are
ground space and floor space of more value than
cleanliness and health and morality?... It is certainly
a fallacy that the poor do not want good housing.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_57"></a>[57]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Where She Lived</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. John Van Vorst</p>

<p class="intro">(American contemporary writer on Child Labor Problems.
The following is taken from her book, “The Cry of the Children.”)</p>

</div>

<p>The cotton-mill “folks” wear unwittingly a
badge which distinguishes them far and wide. As
I came along down over the hillside I met a child
holding in her arms another smaller child; both were
covered, their hair, their clothes, their very eyelids,
with fine flakes of lint, wisps of cotton, fibres of the
great web in which the factories imprison their
victims.</p>

<p>“Hello,” I said, “do you work in the mill?”</p>

<p>“Yes, meaum.” The voice was gentle and the
manner friendly. And giving a sidewise hitch to the
baby, who had a tendency to slip from her tiny
mother’s arms, this little worker showed me one of
her fingers done up in a loose, dirty bandage.</p>

<p>“I cut my finger right smart,” she drawled,
“so I’m takin’ a day off.”</p>

<p>“How old are you?”</p>

<p>“Tweaulve.”</p>

<p>“Got any brothers or sisters?”</p>

<p>“I’ve got him.... And I’ve got one brother in
the mill.”</p>

<p>“How old is he?”</p>

<p>“Tweaulve.”</p>

<p>“Twins?” I asked.</p>

<p>She smiled and shook her head. “He’s
tweaulve in the mill, and he’s teayun outside.”</p>

<p>This little bit of humanity, taking a day off as
mother of a still tinier being, seemed a promising<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_58"></a>[58]</span>
sponsor, and I suggested that we walk along together.
She could not go to the mill with me, she explained,
without first consulting her mother, so we proceeded
to the settlement in which she lodged, along with
eighty or a hundred families, who man the mill in
which she was a hand.</p>

<p>“That’s where we live.”</p>

<p>Her fleet little bare feet picked a way deftly
over the stony path, and she kept a hand free—when
it was not laid on the baby’s back—to point out the
turns in the road that led to “where she lived.” Her
home was one of a group of frame one-story houses,
perched on a slant of ground. Each house was encircled
by a wooden veranda, and the order of the
housekeeping described itself before the eyes, as a
whisk of the broom which carried all the dirt from
the kitchen onto the porch, and another whisk which
landed it on the slant of ground, bedecked, in consequence,
with old tin cans, decayed vegetables, pieces
of dirty paper, rags and chicken feathers.</p>

<p>It was to the more intimate quarters, however,
that I penetrated with my guide. The inside court,
or square upon which these “homes” opened their
back doors, was a large mud puddle overhung with
the collective wash of the neighborhood. In and out
of the mud puddle wallowed the younger members
of the mill families, receiving from time to time admonition
and reprimand from a gently irate parent,
who swished her long cotton wrapper over the court,
drawling to her offspring: “I sure will whip you if
you-all don’t quit.”</p>

<p>“That-a-ways where we live,” said my little<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_59"></a>[59]</span>
companion, stepping onto the porch and depositing
her load, as she opened the door to announce a visitor
to her mother. The woman turned listlessly
from her sewing machine over which she was bent.</p>

<p>“Won’t you come in?” she called to me, dragging
out a chair by the fire, without getting up.
“Lookin’ for work?” she asked.</p>

<p>I took a seat, glancing at the interior which my
little friend called “home.” The outer room was
a kitchen—though it might, except for the stove, have
been mistaken for a hen coop. The chickens pecked
their way about the dirty floor, venturing as far,
even, as the table upon which stood the meagre remains
of a noonday meal. The second and the inner
room had each a bed;—an unmade bed, I was going
to say, but how, indeed, could a bed be made without
either sheets or pillows? Two grimy counterpanes
were flung in disorder across the mattresses; a few
chairs, a bureau and the sewing machine completed
the house furnishings.</p>

<p>As the listless woman talked with me in a kindly
manner about work, the baby, who had crawled in
from the porch, and arrived as far as his mother’s
skirts, now tugged at these, to be taken up. His tiny
hands had served as propellers across the filthy floor.
The piece of lemon candy had added to the general
stickiness of the dirt, with which both hands and
face were smeared. As a soldier shoulders a gun—the
burden to which he is most accustomed—this mother
swung her baby into her arms, and, while she talked
on, giving items about the cost of living, and factory
wages, she loosened her cotton jacket—evidently the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_60"></a>[60]</span>
only garment she had on—and folding the baby to
her breast, she lulled its whimperings.</p>

<p>“Yes,” she said, “we pay $1.50 a week for three
rooms. That’s a little over six a month. I call it
high. We don’t get no runnin’ water. Every drop
we use’s got to be drawed in the yard; an’ we don’t
get no light, either, nuthin’ but lamps.”</p>

<p>The baby, comfortable and contented, let his
hand stray over the mother’s throat, with little spasmodic
caresses which left in their trail smears of dirt,
flecked with tiny scarlet streaks where the sharp nails
had caught in the pale, withered flesh.</p>

<p>“I reckon you-all might be cold,” she said,
directing the older child to put more wood on the
open grate fire, thinking apparently nothing of herself.
“We don’t like it here first-rate. Maybe we’ll
move on. I sure do crave traveling. Well, honey,”
this was addressed to the baby, who had sat up with
a jerk and began to whine. The candy picked up
from the floor where it had fallen and restored to its
owner’s mouth, did not seem the desired thing. The
mother looked at me with a knowing smile.</p>

<p>“I reckon I can guess what ails him. He wants
his babies.” And at this, always without getting
out of her chair before the machine, she reached behind
her and drew from a shelf over her head two
white rats. These were apparently what the baby
wanted. In the game that ensued between him and
his pets, his chief delight seemed to be in seeing the
rats disappear through the open throated gown of
his mother, and making the tour of her bodice, wriggling,
burrowing, crawling, to emerge finally from<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_61"></a>[61]</span>
her collar at the nape of her neck. Sometimes they
diversified their gyrations, proceeding upward into
her hair and down again by way of her ears onto
easier climbing ground. Impassable, unmoved, she
talked on in her gentle voice, giving no sign whatever
that she noticed the animals. It was only when
the baby plunged his short nails into the white rat’s
side that she ejaculated mercifully:</p>

<p>“Quit that! You-all ’ll hurt them babies.”</p>

<p>I was somewhat dazed as I proceeded presently
with my little girl guide from this interior to the
mill. The squalor and disorder of what I had
seen, the ignorance and the insensibility, contrasted
strangely with the courtesy that had been shown me,
the friendly concern about any intention I might have
to get work, the desire to help me on my way, the
strange lethargic tenderness which took the form of
pity for even rats.</p>

<p>“Like animals,” my friend had told me. That
we must wait to see.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The War and the Home</h3>

<p class="author">By Jane Addams</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_28">See page 28</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>This war is destroying the home unit in the most
highly civilized countries in the world to an extent
which is not less than appalling.... At the present
moment women in Europe are being told: bring children
into the world for the benefit of the nation; for
the strengthening of future battle lines; forgetting
everything that you are taught to hold dear; forgetting
your struggles to establish the responsibilities<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_62"></a>[62]</span>
of fatherhood; forgetting all but the appetite of war
for human flesh. It must be satisfied and you must
be the ones to feed it, cost what it may; this is war’s
message to the world of women.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Home</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. Laura P. Young</p>

</div>

<p>It is the home, and specifically the mother, who,
with taste and tact, experience and wisdom, and above
all, with love and faith, must guide and steady and
inspire these lives. If we want our boys and girls to
be free from discontent, free from hard commercialism,
free from vulgarity and false ideals, we must
enter their lives and quietly guide them into a youthful
brotherhood and sisterhood of service.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Honest Partnership in the Home</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. Fred Dick</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From speech before Congress on Welfare of the Child.)</p>

</div>

<p>The homemaking of the future ... must be
founded in this day and generation on financial independence.
The girl of the past used to go from financial
dependence in the girlhood home, to financial dependence
as wife. She now goes from the independence
of a wage earner to financial dependence
as a wife, which relationship creates friction, and
leads to incompatibility and divorce. There should
be an adjustment of the responsibilities of home life
before marriage on the basis of honest partnership.
The children coming into the home should be taken<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_63"></a>[63]</span>
into partnership financially and occupationally. They
should be paid for their work on the basis that “If
you don’t work you can’t eat,” and held responsible
for their share in the home-making.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Home Influence</h3>

<p class="author">By Ida Tarbell</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “The Business of Being a Woman.”<a id="FNanchor_5" href="#Footnote_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a>)</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_266">See page 266</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>Every home is perforce a good or bad educational
center. It does its work in spite of every effort
to shirk or supplement it. No teacher can entirely
undo what it does, be that good or bad. The natural,
joyous opening of a child’s mind depends on its first
intimate relations. These are, as a rule, with the
mother. It is the mother who “takes an interest,”
who oftenest decides whether the new mind shall
open frankly and fearlessly. How she does her work
depends less upon her ability to answer questions,
than her effort not to discourage them; less upon her
ability to lead authoritatively into great fields than
her efforts to push the child into those which attract
him. To be responsive to his interests is the woman’s
greatest contribution to the child’s development.</p>

<div class="footnotes">
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_5" href="#FNanchor_5" class="label">[5]</a> McMillan Publishers.</p>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Then—Back to the Home!</h3>

<p class="author">By Caro Lloyd</p>

<p class="intro">(American contemporary writer. Sister of Henry Demarest
Lloyd, and author of his Biography. The following was taken from
an article in “The Progressive Woman.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Search any woman’s heart, no matter how
“emancipated”, how “modern”, she may be, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_64"></a>[64]</span>
you will find there the love of home, of a lover, of a
child, either realized or hoped for. How far this love
is being denied to women today needs no showing.
Women are being forced from the home into industry
at a faster rate than the birth rate. Those still in the
home are beginning to realize the interdependence of
the modern social order and to see that only by extending
their home-making out into the larger life of
the community are their own circles safe.</p>

<p>As they go out into this wider service and
struggle, women will take the spirit of the home with
them. There are already signs that the faith, honesty,
cleanliness, kindness of the home are to become the
qualities of future society. We are to forsake our
present régime with its cruel hostilities, and to build
an order which shall meet the needs of all its children
with the tenderness of father and mother, which shall
institutionalize sisterhood and brotherhood. In this
reconstruction women, the home-makers, will do a
valiant share.</p>

<p>Then, having battled for their emancipation and
won, and having used their new powers to join in
the crusade for a higher civilization and won, women
will go back into the home. Back to the home! But
it will be as free women to a free home, under whose
roof justice, equality and security will be sheltered.
At last there will be an era of peace, and the morning
rays of the golden age will tint the hilltops.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_65"></a>[65]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Women’s Lodging Houses</h3>

<p class="author">By Mary Higgs</p>

<p class="intro">(English contemporary. Author of “The Master,” “How to
Deal With the Unemployed,” “Glimpses Into the Abyss,” etc. The
following extract is taken from the last named book.)</p>

</div>

<p>We sat watching until we were weary, between
11 and 12, and then went to our bedroom. The same
beds were reserved, and one woman who was said
to work for her living, and had a very bad cough,
was already in bed. We were speedily in bed also,
and for awhile were quiet. The room was very
stuffy, in spite of two ventilators; the sheets were
not very clean, but still fairly so. The beds were
filled by degrees all but one, that previously occupied
by the Scotch woman. One girl who came in
late said she was not on the streets; that she had
begged money for her lodging, as she was out too
late to return to her place. It was holiday time,
being Whit week. One girl came in late and had had
drink, which made her talkative, said she was a servant,
and had just left a place where she had been
ten months.... She meant to “enjoy herself” over
the holiday and go to service again.</p>

<p>One girl who had been in before grumbled that
her bed had been slept in and was dirty; but her
own underlinen was far from clean. No one seemed
to possess a nightgown; all slept in their underlinen.</p>

<p>We had the door a little ajar, and far into the
night the doorbell kept ringing, and girls were admitted,
and laughter and conversation drifted up
the stairs. Our room settled down sometime past<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_66"></a>[66]</span>
midnight, but the girl who was drunk several times
tried to begin a conversation. At last we all slept.
Two, however, had bad coughs. I woke at intervals
through the night, and finally at 6.30. I was longing
for fresh air, so put on a skirt and went down
to enquire the time, and decided to go out for a
quiet stroll. The bath room was empty, the bath
had old papers in it, and did not look as if it was
often used. There was a table with a looking glass,
and a good deal of rouge about. The wash basin
was very small, and no soap was provided. There
was a roller towel for everybody. We had learned
by experience to take our own soap and towel, and
we lent the soap several times....</p>

<p>I slipped out to the brightness of a May morning,
and walked in the direction of the park. The
park was not open, as it was not yet seven, but just
outside I found a resting place. What a contrast
to the fresh budding life of the trees was that perversion
and decay of budding womanhood I had
left behind me! A tree cut down in its prime to
make way for building furnished me with a parallel.
What <i>artificial</i> conditions of man’s making, are
pressing on those young lives, sapping them off
from true use to rottenness and decay?...</p>

<p>Is there even at the back an <i>organized</i> system,
seeking victims and preying on them? This much is
certain: that there is room for an allowance of greed
and wickedness against defenseless womanhood.
For if a woman cannot get work, where is she to go?
What is she to do? Can all our homes and shelters
together prevent many from drifting “on the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_67"></a>[67]</span>
streets”? Do we not need a national provision for
migration, and temporary destitution among
women?</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Inefficient Home</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. Laura P. Young</p>

<p class="intro">(From a paper read at the Third International Congress on
“Welfare of the Child.”)</p>

</div>

<p>At present the chief reason I see for the fostering
of a recreative social relationship among high school
students is the inefficiency of the average home....</p>

<p>For instance, there is the home where the father
may assume the attitude that after working all day
at his own necessary pursuits, he cannot be annoyed
by a riotous lot of youngsters all over the place in the
evening. This is the short-sighted home....</p>

<p>There is the home in which the mother values her
housekeeping above her home-making, the mother
who cannot have her cherished lares and penates
marred or displaced by visiting young people or indeed
even by her own. This is the home of things,
not of children....</p>

<p>And an especially pitiful type of inefficient home
is that materially prosperous one in which the parents
are too absorbed in their own affairs, social and business,
to encourage home social life in their children.
This type flourishes in many so-called exclusive suburban
districts.</p>

<p>From whatever type of home a child goes to
school, it is in that home that his standards of conduct
and ideals of life are formed, and it is these that
he carries to his association with his fellow-pupils.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_68"></a>[68]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Immorality and the Home</h3>

<p class="author">By Clara E. Laughlin</p>

<p class="intro">(Contemporary—Author of “The Evolution of a Girl’s
Ideal,” “Everybody’s Lonesome,” “The Work-a-Day Girl.” The
following extract is from “The Work-a-Day Girl.”)</p>

</div>

<p>What is the relation between domestic service
and criminality and immorality? Between erring
girls and their own homes as nurseries of weakness
and wilfulness? It is this: housework as a sad
majority of women perform it, is the most unsystematized,
unstandardized, undisciplinary, unsocial
and uninteresting work in the world. And family
relations, as a sad majority of our citizens comprehend
them, are the most unregulated relations in
the world; there are a few standards below which
the social conscience of the community will not allow
a parent to fall in the treatment of a child, or a mistress
to fall in the treatment of a maid; but they are
standards so low that almost any other human relationship
is better regulated by law and by public sentiment.
The home is the most haphazard institution
of our day.... Of the twelve or fifteen million homes
in the country, probably not one million would pass
an efficiency test based on the way they are run and
the quality of their output.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Perpetuate the Ideal</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. C. E. Porter</p>

</div>

<p>If every man and woman held in their hearts
a definite home ideal,—a lofty conception of their
united lives, the highest function of parenthood would
then, too, be perfect. There is little credit in simply
perpetuating either a condition or a race.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_69"></a>[69]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Market Value of Home Labor</h3>

<p class="author">By Helen G. Putnam, M. D., LL. D.</p>

</div>

<p>If the labors which the great majority of women
are putting in homes were estimated at market rates
like those of men—and domestic arts are coming to
have high values—husband’s incomes in a great
majority of cases could not secure either the quality
or the quantity. This, the largest single field of industries,
is not enumerated by the census. Accurate
valuation would put an end to the shibboleth, “The
husband supports the wife”; would give self-respect
to millions of women, and so inspire them; would remove
the unsound impression of women’s comparative
irresponsibility and men’s comparative dependability,
whose psychologic effect is disastrous.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Domestic Strife</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. Belle Case La Follette</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_22">See page 22</a>)</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Woman’s Journal.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Where do we find strife amid civilization? In
the homes where husband and wife have not had
mutual interests, where they have grown apart, and
one has outstripped the other in development.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Child at Home</h3>

<p class="author">By Elizabeth McCracken</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_90">See page 90</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>In one of the letters of Alice, Grand Duchess
of Hesse, to her mother, Queen Victoria, she writes:
“I try to give my children in their home what I had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_70"></a>[70]</span>
in my childhood’s home. As well as I am able, I
copy what you did.”</p>

<p>There is something essentially British in this
point of view. The English mother, whatever her
rank, tried to give her children in their home what
she had in her childhood’s home; as well as she is
able, she copies what her mother did. The conditions
in her life may be entirely different from
those of her mother, her children may be unlike herself
in disposition; yet she holds to tradition in regard
to their upbringing; she tries to make their
home a reproduction of her mother’s home.</p>

<p>The American mother, whatever her station,
does the exact opposite—she attempts to bestow upon
her children what she did not possess; and she
makes an effort to imitate as little as possible what
her mother did.... Her ambition is to train her
children, not after the mother’s way, but in accordance
with “the most approved method”. This is
apt, on analysis, to turn out to be merely the reverse
of her mother’s procedure.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Cannot Replace the Home</h3>

<p class="author">By Lillian D. Wald</p>

<p class="intro-c">(Of Henry Street Settlement, New York.)</p>

</div>

<p>We acknowledge the inability and the inefficiency
of the parents and the home to control the
fortunes of the child when we substitute for them
the parental function of government; nevertheless,
the strongest of education remains in the home, and
the school and the settlement and other agencies
that hover over it cannot replace that home.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_71"></a>[71]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Man, Woman, and the Home</h3>

<p class="author">By Edna Kenton</p>

<p class="intro">(American contemporary writer. The following quotation is
from “The Militant Women—and Women,” in “The Century
Magazine.”)</p>

</div>

<p>There is a rising revolt among women against
the unspeakable dullness of unvaried home life. It
has been a long, deadly routine, a life of servitude
imposed on her for ages in a man-made world. No
honest woman will deny—man’s opinion is valueless
here—that there is nothing in the home alone to satisfy
woman’s human longing for variety, adventure,
romance. But any man will tell you strongly that
home is not enough to fill a human being’s life—<i>if
that human being is to be himself</i>.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Mother and Child-Character</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. Winifred Sackville Stoner</p>

<p class="intro">(Of the University of Pittsburgh, and noted specialist in
Child Culture.)</p>

</div>

<p>As you know, the ancients believed that a
mother had a great deal to do with the character of
her children, and this is true, for no mother has
the right to bring children into this world and not
give them the best of care and attention. I believe
that every child born into this world has the trinity
of mental, physical and moral elements, and it is up
to the mother to develop this trinity....</p>

<p>I believe more good can be accomplished by
proper training right from the cradle than all the
corporal punishment in the world. I have ten rules,
and they are:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_72"></a>[72]</span></p>

<p>1. Never say “don’t.” The very atmosphere of
some homes is fairly reeking with “don’t”.</p>

<p>2. Never scold. A scolding mother is worse
than a spanking mother.</p>

<p>3. Never give corporal punishment.</p>

<p>4. Never say “must”.</p>

<p>5. Never allow a child to lose its self-respect or
respect for its parents.</p>

<p>6. Never frighten a child.</p>

<p>7. Never refuse to answer questions.</p>

<p>8. Never ridicule a child or tease him.</p>

<p>9. Don’t banish the fairies.</p>

<p>10. Don’t let a child ever think there is any more
attractive place than its own home.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Home of the Workingman</h3>

<p class="author">By Alice Henry</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_203">See page 203</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>I look forward to a time I believe to be rapidly
approaching, when the home of the workingman, like
everyone else’s home, will be truly a home, the happy
resting-place, the sheltering nest of father, mother
and children, and when, through the rearrangement
of labor, the workingman’s wife will be relieved from
her monotonous existence of unrelieved domestic
drudgery and overwork, disguised under the name of
wifely and maternal duties, when the cooking and
the washing, for instance, will be no more part of the
home life in the humblest home than in the wealthiest.
The workingman’s wife will then share in the general
freedom to occupy part of her time in whatever occupation<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_73"></a>[73]</span>
she is best fitted for, and, along with every
other member of the community, she will share in the
benefits arising from the better organization of domestic
work.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Hotel “Home”</h3>

<p class="author">By Edith Wharton</p>

<p class="intro-c">(Contemporary American Novelist. From “The House of
Mirth.”)</p>

</div>

<p>The environment in which Lily found herself
was as strange to her as its inhabitants. She was unacquainted
with the world of the fashionable New
York hotel—a world over-heated, over-upholstered,
and over-fitted with mechanical appliances for the
gratification of fantastic requirements, while the comforts
of a civilized life were as unattainable as in a
desert. Through this atmosphere of torrid splendor
moved wan beings as richly upholstered as the furniture,
beings without definite pursuits or permanent
relations, who drifted on a languid tide of curiosity
from restaurant to concert hall, from palm-garden to
music-room, from “art-exhibit” to dressmaker’s opening.
High-stepping horses or elaborately equipped
motors waited to carry these ladies into vague metropolitan
distances, whence they returned, still more
wan from the weight of their sables, to be sucked
back into the stifling inertia of the hotel routine.
Somewhere behind them in the background of their
lives, there was doubtless a real past, peopled by real
human activities; they themselves were probably the
product of strong ambitions, persistent energies,
diversified contacts with the wholesome roughness of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_74"></a>[74]</span>
life; yet they had no more real existence than the
poet’s shades in limbo.</p>

<p>Lily had not been long in this pallid world without
discovering that Mrs. Hatch was its most substantial
figure.... The details of her existence were
as strange to Lily as its general tenor. The lady’s
habits were marked by an Oriental indolence and
disorder peculiarly trying to her companion. Mrs.
Hatch and her friends seemed to float together outside
the bonds of time and space. No definite hours
were kept; no fixed obligations existed: night and
day floated into one another in a blur of confused
and retarded engagement so that one had the impression
of lunching at the tea-hour, while dinner was
often merged in the noisy after-theater supper
which prolonged Mrs. Hatch’s vigil until daylight.
Through this jumble of futile activities came and
went a strange throng of hangers-on—manicures,
beauty-doctors, hairdressers, teachers of bridge, of
French, of “physical development”.... Mrs. Hatch
swam in a haze of interminate enthusiasms, of aspirations
culled from the stage, the newspapers, the
fashion-journals, and a gaudy world of sport still
more completely beyond her companion’s ken.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Domestic Home Destroyed</h3>

<p class="author">By Lida Parce</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “Economic Determinism.”<a id="FNanchor_6" href="#Footnote_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a>)</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_174">See page 174</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>We have seen how the ties of mutual interest and
common experience are disrupted by the transference
of industry from the home to the factory. We have
seen members of the family forsake the roof-tree in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_75"></a>[75]</span>
pursuit of work. We have seen the wife and child
receiving their pay from the corporation, in definite,
fixed wages.... The home shifts from time to time.
Light, food, air, space, all are inadequate or polluted.
The parents are irritable from the constant friction
and anxiety of the predicament in which they live.
Naturally, none of them can love “the home” very
deeply. The children feel little reverence for the
parents whose helplessness exposes the family to such
a life. There are few common activities and interests
between the members of the family, hence, there are
few strong ties. The companions of the alleyways
and streets form the social circle of the young, and
the cheap theatres which offer their attractions at
short intervals along the city streets fill up that
vacuum in their experience which the nature of man
abhors. Children living in these conditions do not
have a reasonable chance to grow up with strong
minds in sound bodies. Nor can this kind of youthful
life develop those ideas of fair and right conduct,
that honorable and dignified attitude of mind which
are essential to good citizenship. Born into such a
world, growing up in such an environment, why
should they respect anything or any body? They do
not. And the family disintegrates as soon as the
children are old enough to declare their independence.
Society has deprived the family of the means of
securing normal living conditions for its future citizens.
It is now confronted by the immediate and
urgent problem of providing those conditions outside
the family. The domestic home having been
destroyed, a social one must be provided.</p>

<div class="footnotes">
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_6" href="#FNanchor_6" class="label">[6]</a> Kerr Publishing Company.</p>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_76"></a>[76]</span></p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_77"></a>[77]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="BOOK_III">BOOK III<br>
<span class="smaller">The Child</span></h2>

</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_78"></a>[78]</span></p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_79"></a>[79]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_CHILD">THE CHILD</h2>

</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Child</h3>

<p class="author">By Agnes Repplier</p>

</div>

<p>This is so emphatically the children’s age that a
good many of us are thankful that we were not born
in it. The little girl who said she wished she had
lived in the time of Charles II because then “education
was much neglected” wins our sympathy. It
is a doubtful privilege to have the attention of the
civilized world focussed upon us both before and
after birth.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Little Beloved</h3>

<p class="author">By Leonora Pease</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Progressive Woman.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">I hold by man’s hand for thy sake,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Little Beloved.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Of the large human life, in thy being I partake,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Little Beloved.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">My heart’s to the lowly, the weary and frail,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Who shall fail,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For they step up and enter thy place;</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Lift thy face,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Little Beloved.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">My soul fellowships in thy name,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Little Beloved.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Man’s overcoming is mine, his wrong is my shame,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Little Beloved.</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_80"></a>[80]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">Thy image for me stamps the low and the high,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">As a die,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And thou, of thy kind, one with all,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Mount or fall,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Little Beloved.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">When sounds the alarm of disaster,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Little Beloved,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For the swift prayer of my heart runneth faster,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Little Beloved.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Thou, too, imperiled, fashioned as they,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Of the clay;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Thou, too, who shalt walk in the way,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Or astray,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Little Beloved.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">I would disentangle in vain,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Little Beloved,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Thy one shining, delicate thread from the skein,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Little Beloved.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For Fate’s fast-running loom all the strands doth enmesh,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Of the flesh,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And her intricate pattern unroll,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">As a whole,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Little Beloved.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>More Woman’s Work</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. Leonard Thomas</p>

</div>

<p>The child from its birth is more woman’s work
than man’s.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_81"></a>[81]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Call of the Unborn</h3>

<p class="author">By Ethel Blackwell Robinson</p>

<p class="intro">(Author of “The Religion of Joy,” and “A Child’s Glimpse
of God, for Grown-Up Children”—from which the following
is taken.)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Oh, smile up your heart for me, mother,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Be happy, be buoyant, be mild;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Oh, smile up your heart, for I’m coming!</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">You’ll make me a lovelier child.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I’ll bud as a gay little lassie,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Or bloom as a cheery young lad;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">So, smile up your heart, mother darling,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">You’ll always be grateful and glad.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Nursery a University</h3>

<p class="author">By C. Josephine Barton</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_121">See page 121</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>If your child is rightly born, with no prenatal
drapery to untangle from, you need concern yourself
about his proper guidance, only past the infant
age. He will educate, without your insistence. He
will be showing you new points wherein your old
rhetoric is at fault, or your mental philosophy behind
the times. If you are wise, you will get vast lessons
from him.</p>

<p>Froebel said: “The nursery was my university.”
The child receives there indelible lessons,
nor does he judge as to whether a thing is literal or
figurative. It is all fact to him. Plato says it is
most important that tales which the young first
hear should be models of virtuous thought. The<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_82"></a>[82]</span>
highest and grandest that could be said of that
strange phase of human experience, the Flesh-birth
phase, was said by Friedrich Froebel, substantially
as follows: “With the beginning of every new
family there is issued to mankind and to each individual
human being, the call to represent humanity
in <i>pure development</i>; to represent man in his <i>ideal
perfection</i>.” Froebel was broad in saying also,
“The destiny of nations lies far more in the hands
of women, the mothers, than in the possessors of
power, or of those innovators who, for the most
part, do not understand themselves! We <i>must
cultivate women</i>, who are the educators of the race,
else the new generation cannot accomplish its task.”</p>

<p>Now Froebel was not contending for woman’s
rights, but for the <i>race</i>. He speaks of woman, because
he saw that <i>her element</i> in the cause of civilization
was in need of accentuation. He was seeking
in the race that <i>balance</i> which is imperative in the
promotion of perfect conditions.... Froebel spoke
of women because men have held the reins of education
in the past. Even in the matter of bringing
children into the world....</p>

<p>Above all things do not encourage the child to
occupy his time with trivialities, to the neglect of
the grand phenomena of nature—the beauty and
poetry everywhere, along the dewy borders of the
country road, the hedges and fields, the rocks and
imbedded fossils, insects and plants. To study
botany, geology, physiology and even psychology in
youth, is excellent occupation.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_83"></a>[83]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Parental Duty</h3>

<p class="author">By Ellen Key</p>

<p class="intro-c">(Swedish contemporary. From “Love and Marriage.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Children begotten under a sense of duty would ... be
deprived of a number of essential conditions
of life; among others that of finding in their parents
beings full of life and radiating happiness which
constitutes the chief spiritual nourishment of children—and
it may be added that parents who live entirely
for their children are seldom good company
for them.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>My Little Son</h3>

<p class="author">By Pauline Florence Brower</p>

<p class="intro-c">(American contemporary poet. From “Century Magazine.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">We were so very intimate, we two,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Even before I knew</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The outline of the little face I love,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Or bent above</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The small, sweet body made so strong and fair;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For we had learned to share</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The silences that are more than speech,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Before your cry could reach</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">My listening heart, or I could see</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The miracle made manifest to me.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">My little son,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Most glad, most radiant one,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Too soon, too soon, the hour must be cried</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">That draws you from my side!</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_84"></a>[84]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">In life’s exultant hands is lifted up</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">This newly molded cup.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The tangled vineyard of the world demands</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Your toiling hands.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Look deep, and in all women that you meet</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Your searching gaze will greet</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">This mother of the child that used to be;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Beholding women, oh, remember me!</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Children Innumerable</h3>

<p class="author">By Florence Kiper</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Forum.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Our age, it is true, is not a very reverential age,
a sceptical age, one questioning the traditions. It
is doubting the dignity in the lot of a soldier driven
to martial courage by conscription. It is finding
attenuated beauty in unwilling motherhood, though
submission be in the name of God or Social Duty.
It has asked itself this question and the answers are
perturbing—For what and for whom are we breeding
humanity if it be not for humanity itself?...
Indeed, it is unbelievable that there should be a cry
for breeding, when children innumerable crowd the
city slums, deprived of air and spiritual breathing
place, or in small towns and little farm houses grow
dull and vicious through lack of appeal to the imagination
and the intellect. Society as a whole cannot
be too thankful for those women, who, celibate
in body, have given themselves to the rearing of
this “child material below par”, in the belief that
the world is not for its superman but for the many.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_85"></a>[85]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Quantity vs. Quality in Children</h3>

<p class="author">By Lady Grove</p>

<p class="intro-c">(English contemporary. From “Fortnightly Review.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Is not the quality, rather than the quantity, of
children the thing to be aimed at? If, then, by improving
woman’s status the breed improves, as improve
it must, is not this preferable to the “plenty”
in their present very mixed condition? Has no one
sufficient imagination to see in the mind’s eye a
race that would be incapable of breeding this mass
of “undesirable aliens”, who are tossed about from
shore to shore, welcome nowhere, and a curse to
themselves?</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Fewer and Better Children</h3>

<p class="author">By Helen Campbell</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Arena.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Slowly, how slowly, has dawned the thought
that something more than mere numbers is the need
of the family. Man found out long ago what laws
must be studied and carried out in breeding for the
high results in animal life; the brood mare or other
animal rested and skillfully fed. For the woman,
such thought never entered the mind of either
husband or wife. The formula “God wills it”, lifted
the burden of responsibility for defectives, or diseased,
deformed or crippled children.... “Fewer
and better”, has its own mission, till the day comes
when a trained motherhood and fatherhood will
ensure to the state an order of citizens for whom
that war cry is no longer needed. The old phrase<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_86"></a>[86]</span>
“God’s will”, is to fill with new meaning. God’s
will and man’s, more and more with every step forward
in the knowledge of what life was meant to
bring to every child of man.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Equality in Fitness</h3>

<p class="author">By Helen G. Putnam, M. D. LL. D.</p>

</div>

<p>It makes no difference to the child’s inheritance
which parent is unfit. Neither should be. It makes
no difference to the child whether, after birth, the
ignorance, evil instruction, contagious blighting of
him come from a man or from a woman; from domestic
conditions (said to be women’s work), or
from municipal conditions (said to be man’s work).
The responsibility cannot be divided. Before this
ideal—the child’s well being—these sexes are on an
equal footing, nor is one sex justified in wronging
the child because the other says or does so. Nature
forgives no spurious reasoning. The child and the
race suffer the consequences.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Where Women Have Long Voted</h3>

<p class="author">By Florence Kelly</p>

</div>

<p>Never before in human history has the right of
the young to pure living, the claim of the adolescent
to guidance and restraint, the need of the child for
nurture at the hands of father, mother, school and
the community been recognized as in Colorado
today.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_87"></a>[87]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Reason and the Child</h3>

<p class="author">By Mary Wollstonecraft</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_121">See page 121</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>Few parents think of addressing their children
in the following manner, though it is in this reasonable
way that Heaven seems to command the whole
human race:—It is your interest to obey me till you
can judge for yourself; and the Almighty Father of
all has implanted an affection in me to serve as a
guard to you whilst your reason is unfolding; but
when your mind arrives at maturity, you must only
obey me, or respect my opinions, so far as they coincide
with the light that is breaking in on your mind.</p>

<p>A slavish bondage to parents cramps every faculty
of the mind; and Mr. Locke very judiciously observes,
that “if the mind be curbed and humbled too
much in children; if their spirits be abased and broken
much by too strict a hand over them, they lose
all their vigor and industry.” ...</p>

<p>On the contrary, the parent who sets a good example,
patiently lets that example work, and it seldom
fails to produce its natural effect—filial reverence.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Government and Child Life</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. Frederick Schoff</p>

<p class="intro">(National President Congress of Mothers and Parent-Teachers
Association. From speech delivered at Third International Congress
of the Association.)</p>

</div>

<p>The Government’s interest in children shown to
all the world has stimulated every nation to deeper
study of its own conditions as they relate to child life<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_88"></a>[88]</span>
and the effect has been more far-reaching than can
be estimated.</p>

<p>America, which is the Mecca for every nation,
which has within its borders over 100,000 children
of foreign birth and one-quarter of whose children
are of foreign parentage, can claim a wider interest
in the children of every nation than can any other nation
on the globe, for within the boundaries of the
United States may be found children of every race
and every clime.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Rising Value of a Baby</h3>

<p class="author">By Mabel Potter Daggett</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “Pictorial Review.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Only a mother counted her jewels yesterday, you
see. Today, States count them, too. Even Jimmie
Smith in, we will say, England, who before the war
might have been regarded as among the least of these
little ones, has become the object of his country’s
concern. Jimmie came screaming into this troublous
world in a borough of London’s East End, where
there were already so many people that you didn’t
seem to miss Jimmie’s father and some of the others
who had gone to the war. Jimmie belongs to one
of those three hundred thousand London families who
are obliged to live in one- and two-room tenements.
Five or six, perhaps it was five, little previous brothers
and sisters, waited on the stair landing outside the
door until the midwife in attendance ushered them
in to welcome the new arrival. Now Jimmie is the
stuff from which soldiers are made, either soldiers<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_89"></a>[89]</span>
of war or soldiers of industry. And however you look
at the future, his country’s going to need Jimmie.
He is entered in the great new ledger which has been
opened by his government. The Notification of Births
Act, completed by Parliament in 1915, definitely put
the British baby on a business basis. Every child
must now, within thirty-six hours of its advent, be
listed by the local health authorities. Jimmie was.</p>

<p>And he was thereby automatically linked up with
the great national child-saving campaign. Since
then, so much as a fly in his milk is a matter of
solicitude to the borough council. If he sneezes, it’s
heard in Westminster. And it’s at least worried
about there.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Ideals of the Child</h3>

<p class="author">By Sidonie Matzner Gruenberg</p>

<p class="intro">(American Contemporary. From “Your Child To-day and
To-morrow.”)</p>

</div>

<p>We should make a special effort to discover our
children’s ideals, for several reasons. First of all,
by knowing what the girl or boy has nearest the heart
we shall be able to enter into closer sympathy with
the child, we shall be able to understand much of the
conduct that would otherwise baffle as well as annoy
us....</p>

<p>It is very easy to ridicule the ideals and ambitions
of children when they seem to us too high flown
or futile. But a person’s ideals stand too close to the
center of his character to be treated so rudely. It
is better to ignore the many trifling flights of fancy<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_90"></a>[90]</span>
that are not likely to have any permanent effect, and
to throw the child into circumstances that will force
the emergence of more deep-seated or far-reaching
ambitions.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Child and Parental Youth</h3>

<p class="author">By Elizabeth McCracken</p>

<p class="intro-c">(American contemporary. From “The American Child.”)</p>

</div>

<p>A Frenchwoman to whom I once said that American
parents treat their children in many ways as
though they were their contemporaries remarked,
“But does that not make the children old before their
time?”</p>

<p>So far from this, it seems, on the contrary, to
keep the parents young after their time. It has been
truly said that we have in America fewer and fewer
grandmothers who are “sweet old ladies,” and more
and more who are “charming elderly women.” We
hear less and less about the “older” and the
“younger” generations; increasingly we merge two,
and even three, generations into one.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Consideration for Others</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. R. P. Alexander</p>

<p class="intro-c">(Official Delegate to National Mothers’ Council from Tokio,
Japan.)</p>

</div>

<p>A Japanese child is rarely punished and never
whipped, but the strong influence of the home training
makes the average child obedient and self-controlled
at a comparatively early age. He is taught to
conceal his grief with the thought that if he does not,
he will give pain to others.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_91"></a>[91]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>A Blot on Civilization</h3>

<p class="author">By Julia Lathrop</p>

<p class="intro-c">(Head of The National Children’s Bureau)</p>

</div>

<p>Infant mortality is a blot on civilization. If it is
worth while to spend millions to safeguard farm products
which are, after all, only raised to serve the
needs of each generation of children in turn, is it
not worth while to spend the necessary sums to popularize
the methods by which the lives of children themselves
may be safe-guarded?</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Teaching the Child Citizenship</h3>

<p class="author">By Virginia Terhune Van de Water</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “Little Talks with Mothers of Little People.”<a id="FNanchor_7" href="#Footnote_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>One cannot begin too early to teach boys the
duties of citizenship. There are many men who are
educated, intelligent gentlemen who do not “take
the trouble to vote,” and are not ashamed of the
fact. When such things are true, is it any wonder
that we have cause to complain of corruption or misgovernment?
How can it be otherwise when some
of our citizens neglect their duty to their country?</p>

<div class="footnotes">
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_7" href="#FNanchor_7" class="label">[7]</a> D. Estes &amp; Company, Publishers.</p>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>For Father’s Amusement</h3>

<p class="author">By Elizabeth Harrison</p>

<p class="intro">(Author of “A Study in Child-Nature,” “Two Children of
the Foot-Hills,” “Some Silent Teachers,” “In Storyland,” etc.
From “Misunderstood Children.”<a id="FNanchor_8" href="#Footnote_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>I was strolling through a neighboring park one
breezy September day when it occurred. It took less<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_92"></a>[92]</span>
than ten minutes from beginning to end—but did it
<i>end</i> then?</p>

<p>There had been a shower the night before, and
the city’s dust had been washed from the leaves on
trees and shrubbery. All nature seemed in fine mood
and had filled me, along with the rest of the town-imprisoned
mortals, with some of her exuberance and
life.</p>

<p>This keen enjoyment of mere existence, which nature
alone can give, was particularly noticeable in the
buoyant movements of a little three-year-old child,
who was dancing in and out of the shadows of the
tall trees, now running, now skipping, now jumping
in the joyous exhilaration of mere animal life. Ever
and anon he looked back at his father and his father’s
friend, who were strolling along in a more sedate enjoyment
of the fresh air and glittering sunshine. The
fact that each of them carried a tennis racket showed
that they, too, were out for a holiday.</p>

<p>The child’s delight in all the freshness and freedom
about him quickened his senses, as it always will
quicken a healthy child. In a few moments his attention
was attracted by the bending, swaying
branches of a nearby clump of willow trees. The fascination
of the lithe, graceful movement of the boughs
was so strong that he stooped and stood with upturned
face, gazing at them until the two men approached
him. Then catching hold of his father’s hand he exclaimed,
“See! See!” pointing to the nodding tree
branches. His face was full of happiness, and his
eyes were looking into his father’s eyes expecting
sympathy in this new-found wonder of nature. But<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_93"></a>[93]</span>
the father gave no heed to what was interesting the
boy. Instead, he began playfully slapping him on his
skirts with the tennis racket, at the same time saying,
“Will you be good?” “No,” answered the child
in high glee. It was evidently a familiar pastime between
them. “Will you be good?” repeated the
father, in mock threat lifting the tennis racket as if
to strike the child over the head. “No, I won’t! No,
I won’t!” shouted the boy as he scampered off over
the grass. This created a chase in which the father
playfully spanked the captured boy as with make-believe
wrath he dragged him back to the side-walk.
Having returned to the starting point of the chase he
released the boy with the words, “There now, I’ll
spank you hard if you are not a good boy!” He had
scarcely let go his hold on the youngster’s arm before
the latter again ran off, shouting in high glee,
“No, I won’t! No, I won’t be good!” Again came
the chase and again the playful spanking and dragging
back and the release with an admonition that
he would get a beating this time if he was not a good
boy. The tone in which the words were said were an
invitation to the child to renew the game.</p>

<p>The third time he started off, however, the other
man decided that he, too, would take part in the sport.
So he quickly put his tennis racket in front of the
boy, thus obstructing his path. The child manfully
struggled to push it aside, but could not. Soon his
“No, I won’t,” in answer to his father’s “Will you be
good?” had in it a note of fretfulness or, rather, resentment.
He was contending now with two grown
men and his strength was not equal to the strain. He<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_94"></a>[94]</span>
pushed angrily against the racket in front while trying
at the same time to avoid the light blows from the
one in the rear. With cat-like agility the man in
front would withdraw his obstructing tennis racket
until the boy started forward and then check—would
come the racket just in front of him. The very
movement of his arm was like that of a cat regaining
his hold on an escaping mouse. A peal of laughter
from him each time he caught the exasperated child
showed how much he was enjoying the sport. The
father seemed equally amused and joined heartily in
thwarting the efforts of the boy to escape. The little
fellow’s face grew red, and he was soon short of
breath from his struggles, and there was the angry
sob of defeat in his voice. The scene ended by the
child’s getting into a towering rage.</p>

<p>When they passed out of sight the father had
seized him by the arm and was forcing him along, the
boy kicking and struggling, but powerless to help himself.
The two men were laughing heartily.</p>

<p>The child’s blood had been poisoned by the heat
of anger, he had exhausted his physical vitality and
his nervous system had been disarranged, not to
speak of his moral standards—but then, the father
and his friend had been amused.</p>

<div class="footnotes">
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_8" href="#FNanchor_8" class="label">[8]</a> Central Publishing Company.</p>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Factory Child</h3>

<p class="author">By Harriet Monroe</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Century.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Why do the wheels go whirling round,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Mother, mother?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Oh, mother, are they giants bound,</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_95"></a>[95]</span>
    <div class="verse indent4">And will they growl forever?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Yes, fiery giants underground,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Daughter, little daughter.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Forever turn the wheels around,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">And rumble, grumble ever.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Why do I pick the threads all day?</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Mother, mother?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">While sunshine children are at play,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">And must I work forever?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Yes, factory-child; the live-long day,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Daughter, little daughter,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Your hands must pick the threads away,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">And feel the sunshine never.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Why do the birds sing in the sun,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Mother, mother,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">If all day long I run and run—</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Run with the wheels forever?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The birds may sing till day is done,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Daughter, little daughter,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But with the wheels your feet must run—</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Run with the wheels forever.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Why do I feel so tired each night,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Mother, Mother?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The wheels are always buzzing bright;</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Do they grow sleepy never?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Oh, baby thing, so soft and white,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Daughter, little daughter,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The big wheels grind us in their might,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">And they will grind forever.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And is the white thread never spun,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Mother, mother?</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_96"></a>[96]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">And is the white cloth never done—</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">For you and me done never?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Oh, yes, our thread will all be spun,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Daughter, little daughter,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">When we lie down out in the sun,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">And work no more forever.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And when will come that happy day,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Mother, mother?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Oh, shall we laugh and sing and play</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Out in the sun forever?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Nay, factory child, we’ll rest all day,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Daughter, little daughter,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Where green peas grow and roses gay,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">There in the sun forever.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Cotton-Mill Child</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. John Van Vorst</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “The Cry of the Children.”<a id="FNanchor_9" href="#Footnote_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a>)</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_57">See page 57</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>The first child to whom I spoke stood waiting,
without work, for the machinery to start up. He had
on a cloth cap, overalls, and a blue cotton shirt open
at the throat. His face was wan, his eyes blue,
with an intense blue streak beneath them. His mouth
was full of tobacco, which had collected in a
dingy crust about his lips. As he leaned back, one
foot crossed over the other, expectant for the
spindles to begin their whirling, he presented in his
attitude and gestures, the appearance, not of a child,
but of a gaunt man shrunk to diminutive size. Going<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_97"></a>[97]</span>
over to where he sat, I started conversation with
him about his work.</p>

<p>“How many sides do you run a day?” I asked.</p>

<p>“Three to four,” he answered.</p>

<p>“How much do you make?”</p>

<p>“About $2.40 a week.”</p>

<p>Then hastily I put the question: “How old are
you!”</p>

<p>“Goin’ on tweayulve,” he responded. “I’ve
been workin’ about four years. I come in here when
I was seayvun.”</p>

<p>“Ever been to school?”</p>

<p>He shook his head. “No, meayum. I don’t
know if I would like it. I reckon I’d as soon work
here as be in school.”</p>

<p>“How many hours do you work here a day!”</p>

<p>“From six until six.”</p>

<p>The noise of the machine was distracting, and as
I bent over him to catch his answer piped in a shrill,
nasal voice, I could not but notice how fine and delicate
his features were; the deep eyes, the high arched
nose, the slender lips were placed in the oval face as
features only can be placed by the unerring mold that
breeding casts. Observing, also, the miniature
shoulders that seemed to have been oppressed by
some iron hand, I said:</p>

<p>“Don’t you get very tired?”</p>

<p>There was a pause which made more marked the
honesty of his response.</p>

<p>“Why, I don’t never pay much attention
whether I get tired or not.”</p>

<p>“You have an hour at noon?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_98"></a>[98]</span></p>

<p>Here he brushed the cloth cap onto the back of
his head, and sent a long, wet, black line from his
mouth to the floor.</p>

<p>“Well,” he said (it was the man who spoke, his
arms akimbo, his body warped in the long tussle for
existence), “they aim to give us an hour, but we don’t
never get more’n twenty-five minutes. We all live
right up there.” He nodded toward the square of
houses clustered around the mud-puddle on the brink
of the slovenly hillside. Then the bobbins began to
revolve slowly, and the boy started back to his work.</p>

<p>“You can’t loaf much,” he explained, “when the
machine’s a runnin’.”</p>

<p>Up and down he plied on his monotonous beat—lone
little figure....</p>

<p>Evidently waiting to join in the conversation, a
small boy, I noticed, was standing beside me. His
dark eyes sparkled merrily in his colorless face; he
was dirty and covered with lint.</p>

<p>“What’s your job?”</p>

<p>“Sweepin’,” he grinned.</p>

<p>“How much do you make a day!”</p>

<p>“Twenty cents.”</p>

<p>“How old are you!”</p>

<p>“Seayvun.”</p>

<p>The boy at the machine, making bands for the
spindles, was “goin’ on tayun.” He earned twenty
cents a day. Others, I learned, were eight, nine and
ten, and occasionally there was one as old as twelve.</p>

<p>As I walked on now through the mills talking
with a twelve-year-old red-headed girl who had been
four years at work, my eyes suddenly fell upon a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_99"></a>[99]</span>
strange couple. I could not take my attention from
the tinier of the tiny pair; the boy’s hands appeared
to be made without bones, his thumb flew back almost
double as he pressed the cotton to loosen it from the
revolving roller in the spinning frame; they no longer
moved, these yellow, anemic hands, as though directed
in their different acts by a thinking intelligence; they
performed mechanically the gestures which had given
them their definite form.</p>

<p>The red-headed girl laughed and nodded in the
direction of the dwarfs.</p>

<p>“He’s most six,” she said. “He’s been here two
years. He come in when he was most four. His little
brother most four’s workin’ here now.”</p>

<p>“Yes? Where?”</p>

<p>“Oh, he works on the night shift. He comes in
’beaout half-a-past five and stays till six in the
mornin’.”</p>

<p>I went over to the other dwarf of the couple,
older, evidently, than the boy “most six.” Below
her red cotton frock hung a long apron which reached
to the ground. Her hair was short and shaggy, her
face bloated, her eyes like a depression in the flesh,
and about her mouth trailed streaks of tobacco. It
seemed absurd to question her. Oblivion was the
only thing that could have been mercifully tendered—even
the peace of death could hardly have relaxed
those tense features, cast in the dogged mould
of suffering.</p>

<p>“How old are you?” I asked.</p>

<p>She shook her head. “I don’t know.”</p>

<p>“What do you earn?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_100"></a>[100]</span></p>

<p>She shook her head again.</p>

<p>Her fingers did not for a moment stop in their
swift manipulation of the broken thread. Then, as
if she had suddenly remembered something, she
said:</p>

<p>“I’ve only been workin’ here a day.”</p>

<p>“Only one day?”</p>

<p>“I’ve been on the night shift till neow.”</p>

<p>Dwarfs? Ah, yes; dwarfs indeed. But would
that those who affirm it might catch sight of the expression
that lowered under the brows of those two
miniature victims. Like a menace, threatening, terrible,
it seemed to presage the storm that shall one day
be unchained by the spirits too long pent up in service
to the greed of man.</p>

<div class="footnotes">
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_9" href="#FNanchor_9" class="label">[9]</a> Moffett, Yard &amp; Company.</p>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Crusade of the Children</h3>

<p class="author">By Margaret Belle Houston</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Woman’s Journal.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">O’er the grind of the wheels of traffic,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Through the strident scream of the mart,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Soundeth a muffled tramping,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Like the faltering beat of a heart.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But only the ear hath heard it</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">That low on the earth is laid—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The stumbling tread of the children,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">As they go on their long crusade!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Oh, some that are rosy as blossoms</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Sing with the singing rills,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Wade through the sun-lit shadows</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_101"></a>[101]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">And clamber the violet hills.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But these are the paler children</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">That move with the sad footfalls,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And dark is the road they follow,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Tunneled through iron walls.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">They hear the song of the others</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Ring sweet in the outer air,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But they may not run in the sunlight</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">With the load their shoulders bear.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">They may not weave bright blossoms</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Though nimble their fingers be;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But the Master hath not forgotten—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">“Let the little ones come to me!”</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Well have ye planned and shaped it,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The road that the children plod,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Yet it leads, for all your delving,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Straight to the throne of God.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And there shall they lay their burdens,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And there will they loose their bands;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">They will lift up their twisted fingers,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To Him of the nail-marked hands.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">They will cry, “Like Thee, O Father,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">We come with the marks of men!”</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Nor all the gold of their toiling</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Will spare you His answer then!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Better the nether millstone</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And the depths of the darkest seas!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Ye have wounded Christ the Avenger,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Who wounded the least of these!</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_102"></a>[102]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Child Labor</h3>

<p class="author">By Ruby Archer</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_254">See page 254</a>)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Poor little children that work all day—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Far from the meadows, far from the birds,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Far from the beautiful, silent words</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The hills know how to say!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Laughter is gone from your old-young eyes—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Gone from the lips with the dimples sweet,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Gone with the song of the little feet—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">As light in winter dies.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Evening—with only the years at ten?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Where was the morning, where was the noon?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Did the day turn back to the night so soon,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Children—women—and—men?</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Parts of the monster things that turn;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Less than a lever, less than a wheel!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Pity you were not wrought of steel,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To save the pence you earn!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Add the columns, aye, foot the gain—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Ye that barter in children’s lives!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">How will the reckoning end, that strives</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To balance gold and pain?</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Need the Vote for the Children</h3>

<p class="author">By M. Carey Thomas</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_149">See page 149</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>Women need a vote for the sake of children. No
state, modern or ancient, has ever cared properly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_103"></a>[103]</span>
for its children. Children are at the present time
horribly neglected in every country, even when they
are not, as in many states of the United States,
horribly abused. All women whatever their nationality
care more than all men for the welfare of all
children. This is true even of female animals in the
animal world. It is supremely true in our human
world. Children are, and always will be, the special
interest of women. Wherever women already vote,
their influence is felt immediately and persistently in
ameliorative measures for the protection, reformation,
and education of little children. No one with
any knowledge of the facts can deny that the
political power of women is exercised on behalf of
children. We are now learning that children should
be the chief concern of our present civilization because
in them lies the hope of the future. For the
sake of children, women must vote.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Fettered Little Children</h3>

<p class="author">By Mary E. Carbutt</p>

<p class="intro">(In “The Progressive Woman.” Contemporary. Prominent
California Club Woman.)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Oh blind and cruel nation,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">In your selfish race for wealth,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">You have fettered your young children</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">With chains that drag to death.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">To the wheel of toil you’ve bound them,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">In their young and tender years;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And when they cry in anguish,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">You do not heed their tears.</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_104"></a>[104]</span>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">They drag out their days in sorrow;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">They grow old before their time;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">All the joy of their young childhood</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">You have stifled by your crime.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">The children, wan and pallid,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">With wasted frames and weary hands,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Turn in their defenseless sorrow</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">To the mothers of the land.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">You, fond and tender mothers,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Happy children at your knee,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Will you hear their silent pleading—</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Will you rise and set them free?</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Announce Her Maturity</h3>

<p class="author">By Anne Morton Barnard</p>

</div>

<p>As woman has always mothered the race she
should now refuse to be its child.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Cry of the Children</h3>

<p class="author">By Elizabeth Barrett Browning<br>
1806-1861</p>

<p class="intro">(English. Foremost among the world’s poets. Lived with
her husband, Robert Browning, for many years in Italy, championing
the cause of the Italian people toward liberty.)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Do you hear the children weeping, O my brothers,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Ere the sorrow comes with years?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">They are leaning their young heads against their mothers—</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And <i>that</i> cannot stop their tears.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The young lambs are bleating in the meadows;</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_105"></a>[105]</span>
    <div class="verse indent2">The young birds are chirping in the nest:</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The young fawns are playing in the shadows;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">The young flowers are blowing toward the west—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But the young, young children, O my brothers,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">They are weeping bitterly!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">They are weeping in the playtime of the others,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">In the country of the free.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Do you question the young children in the sorrow</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Why their tears are falling so?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The old man may weep for his to-morrow</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Which is lost in Long Ago;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The old tree is leafless in the forest,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">The old year is ending in the frost,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">The old hope is hardest to be lost:</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But the young, young children, O my brothers,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Do you ask them why they stand</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">In our happy Fatherland?</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">They look up with their pale and sunken faces,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And their looks are sad to see,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For the man’s hoary anguish draws and presses</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Down the cheeks of infancy;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">“Your old earth,” they say, “is very dreary,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Our young feet,” they say, “are very weak;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Few paces we have to ken, yet are weary—</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Our grave-rest is very far to seek.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Ask the old why they weep, and not the children,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">For the outside earth is cold,</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_106"></a>[106]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And the graves are for the old”....</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“For oh,” say the children, “we are weary,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And we cannot run or leap;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">If we cared for any meadows, it were merely</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">To drop down in them and sleep.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">We fall upon our faces, trying to go;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And, underneath our eyelids heavy drooping,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For all day long we drag our burden tiring</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Through the coal-dark, underground,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Or, all day we drive the wheels of iron</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">In the factories, round and round.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“For, all day the wheels are droning, turning;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Their wind comes in our faces,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Till our hearts turn, our head, with pulses burning,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And the walls turn in their places:</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Turns the light that drops adown the wall,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">All are turning, all the day, and we with all.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And all day, the iron wheels are droning,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And sometimes we could pray,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">‘O ye wheels,’ (breaking out in a mad moaning)</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">‘Stop! be silent for today!’”....</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">They look up, with their pale and sunken faces,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And their look is dread to see,</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_107"></a>[107]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">For they mind you of the angels in their places,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">With eyes turned on Deity.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">“How long,” they say, “how long, O cruel nation,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Will you stand, to move the world, on a child’s heart,—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And your purple shows your path!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But the child’s sob in the silence curses deeper</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Than the strong man in his wrath.”</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Children’s Ward</h3>

<p class="author">By Hortense Flexner</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Survey.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">She had been sent for—visiting hours were past—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The Lithuanian woman with the blue,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Still eyes. The child’s bed was the last</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">In the row. She stood beside it, white—she knew,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And watched! Her broad, young shoulders drooped</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Beneath the hooded gown that visitors wear;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The nurse had left her—suddenly she stooped,</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">The hood slipped back and showed her braided hair.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">There was no cry. The Russians weep and pray,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Italians beat their breasts. This mother turned,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Asked for his clothes—tearless and calm and gray—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The doctor told her they had all been burned.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">So she was gone—only her great eyes said</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">What thing is lost, when a small child is dead!</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_108"></a>[108]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Child Slavery</h3>

<p class="author">By Gertrude Breslau Fuller</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_36">See page 36</a>)</p>

<p class="intro">(There are 1,700,000 children working in the mills, mines
and factories of the United States.)</p>

</div>

<p>Generations of the past have been responsible
for certain iniquitous practises, but it remained for
the present century to shut the little ones up in factories,
stunting physical and mental growth. Because
of child labor today the future generation of men
and women will suffer. Their career will bear the
stamp of human brutality.</p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_109"></a>[109]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="BOOK_IV">BOOK IV<br>
<span class="smaller">Mother</span></h2>

</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_110"></a>[110]</span></p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_111"></a>[111]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="MOTHER">MOTHER</h2>

</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Rock Me to Sleep</h3>

<p class="author">By Elizabeth Akers Allen</p>

<p class="intro">(An old familiar poem. My mother often sang it to me
when she rocked me to sleep as a child. Taken from her scrap
book.—“Editor”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Backward, turn backward, O time in your flight,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Make me a child again just for tonight!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Mother, come back from the echoless shore,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Take me again to your heart as of yore;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I am so weary of toil and of tears—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Toil without recompense—tears all in vain—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Take them and give me my childhood again!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I have grown weary of dust and decay—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Weary of sowing for others to reap;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Many a summer the grass has grown green,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Blossomed and faded, our faces between;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Long I tonight for your presence again.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Come from the silence so long and so deep;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep!</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_112"></a>[112]</span>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Over my heart in the days that are flown,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">No love like mother-love ever has shown;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">No other worship abides and endures,—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">None like a mother can charm away pain</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">From the sick soul or the world-weary brain.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Slumber’s soft calms o’er my heavy lids creep—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Fall on your shoulders again as of old;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Let it drop over my forehead tonight,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Shading my faint eyes away from the light;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For with its sunny-edged shadows once more</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Mother, dear mother, the years have been long</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Since I last listened your lullaby song;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Womanhood’s years have been only a dream.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">With your light lashes just sweeping my face,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Never hereafter to wake or to weep;—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Mother</h3>

<p class="author">By Marion Harland</p>

<p class="intro">(Well-known magazine writer. The following is from “The
Independent.”)</p>

</div>

<p>She has never ceased out of the land. That
she seems to be more in evidence now than she was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_113"></a>[113]</span>
sixty years ago may be but one more expression
of Feminism....</p>

<p>In every well-appointed household the mother
is the controlling influence. In a large percentage
of homes her acknowledged sovereignty is a dictatorship.
If she be a woman of intelligence and refinement,
she virtually supervises her girl’s education
and molds her views of life, morals and manners.
The father is, at most, Prince Consort, playing
an insignificant part in the selection of associates
and instructors, and no part at all in the regulation
of deportment, speech and dress. “My
mother thinks,” and “My mother says,” are cast-iron
formulas that make an end of all controversy
while the girl is in short skirts and wears her unshorn
locks between her shoulders. With the
lengthened skirts, and trussed hair, comes entrance
upon the school or college world, and the beginning
of individual life.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Mother’s Influence</h3>

<p class="author">By “Ouida”</p>

<p class="intro">(Mlle. Louise de la Ramee, Author of “Under Two Flags,”
“A Dog of Flanders,” etc. Died Jan. 28, 1908. The following is
from one of a series of articles written and sold to Lippincott’s 28
years ago with the request that they be not published until after
her death. The articles appeared in the May, June, and July, 1909,
issues.)</p>

</div>

<p>When we reflect on the enormous weight which
the woman’s influence has on the growing child;
when we consider the incurable superstitions, the
unreasonable fables, the illogical deductions, the
warped and stifled judgments, which millions of
young boys learn in education and religion at their<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_114"></a>[114]</span>
mothers’ knees in infancy,—it is impossible to over-rate
the invaluable consequences of any introduction
of <i>geist</i> into the minds of women. But for the
backward pressure of woman—woman ever conservative,
ever <i>reculante</i>, ever wedded to form and precedent,
and to tradition—the world of men would
have forsaken many a <i>cultus</i> built on fable, many
a dominion of priestcraft, many a limbo of worn-out
and oppressive credulity. The evil mental influence
of women is fully as great as can be the good
moral influence of the best of their sex. Wars
hounded on; fetters freshly riveted; the withes of
dead beliefs binding down the free action of living
limbs; the pressure of narrow ties, and of egotisms
deified to virtue, forcing men aside from paths of
greatness or justice—all those, and much more, are
due to the baleful intellectual influence of women.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Fatherhood Cannot Be Motherhood</h3>

<p class="author">By Ada M. Kassimer</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From Introduction to “Representative Women.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Womanhood now as always recognizes motherhood
as its highest duty, its greatest obligation; and
the present awakened womanhood sees its mission
of motherhood—not only in the narrowed home immediately
about it, but in the large human family,
in the world of activity, it sees how the affairs of
men, women and children need the true mother instinct,
which in every phase of nature is one of unselfish
devotion, of unlimited service, of freedom
from combat for financial, social and personal<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_115"></a>[115]</span>
supremacy. The inherent attributes of motherhood
must combine with those of fatherhood to square the
balance of justice for childhood.</p>

<p>The world needs woman, her ideas, her way of
reasoning, her insight, her sense of justice, her tender
hands and her loving heart. The children of the
world need her; for a long time they have been
governed by the masculine mind which has made
laws for them, established educational plans for
them, opened juvenile courts for them, founded factories,
mills, mines, in which little hands have
hardened, little bodies have dwarfed, young minds
and hearts grown prematurely old—and this, not because
the masculine mind and the masculine heart
would intentionally be drastic, but because men are
not women, and fatherhood cannot be motherhood.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Price</h3>

<p class="author">By Winona Douglas</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Woman’s Journal.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Sleep, little dream child, in mother’s arms;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Cuddle yet closer and take your rest,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Eyelids now hiding the blue eyes since laughing,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Laughing in glee here on mother’s breast.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Dear are the moments with you I am spending;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Toil is forgotten in comfort and calm.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Together we are, wee one, in the gloaming,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Evening blessed,—my babe’s coo is a psalm.—</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">You were my dream child, and I must awaken,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">My arms are empty, sweet babe unborn,</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_116"></a>[116]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">For me the lone quiet, while night is fast darkening;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Darkening now, and there’s toil on the morn.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">The days come and go, toil is ever supreme;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Motherhood smother, the thought is vain.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Forget it, indeed, for wheels must be turning,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Turning incessantly—more wealth to gain!</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Passionate Instinct</h3>

<p class="author">By Emily Huntington Miller</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “Parents and Their Problems.”)</p>

</div>

<p>What could atone to a multitude of children for
the misfortune of having been born, but the passionate
instinct that takes no account of lack of
beauty, grace or intellectual gift, but clings to its
own with deathless devotion?</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Functions Identical</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. Alice H. Putnam</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “Parents and Their Problems.”)</p>

</div>

<p>In one respect, at least, the functions of mother
and teacher should be identical.... The teacher
and parent must take their charge “for better, for
worse.”</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Adolescent Child</h3>

<p class="author">By Julia Clark Hallam</p>

<p class="intro">(From “Studies in Child Development.” American contemporary.
Instructor in the University of Chicago.)</p>

</div>

<p>It goes without saying that every mother has
an imperative duty toward her son as he approaches<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_117"></a>[117]</span>
this important period in his development. Nature
has done her part in preparing the boy’s body, the
mother must be doing her part in preparing his mind
for all of these new experiences. There are many
things which a mother can do because she is the
mother, and because her mind is mature while the
mind of the boy is yet immature. The mother,
through her study, comes to see that the adolescent
boy is about to acquire new powers. Before, he was
simply an individual. Now he is becoming a part
of the race, because he is acquiring the power of
conserving it. To the mother who has duly prepared
herself for her child’s adolescence, its appearance
will bring the same mysterious thrill which she felt
when she first saw the child as a new-born babe. It
has been said in this connection, “When a baby is
to be born, preparations for its advent are carefully
made. But when, in future years, the most critical
time comes when the child is to be re-born, a man
or a woman, it is rare that intelligent suggestions
or wise words of counsel tell him or her of the importance
of the period.”</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Mother</h3>

<p class="author">By Laura Simmons</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In the “Boston Herald.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Oh, Mother—hands of balm and gracious healing,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And cool, soft fingers that could heal and bless!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">So sure to charm the aching and the fever</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">With magic spell and soothing tenderness.</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_118"></a>[118]</span>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Oh, Mother—feet that grew so very tired</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Treading Life’s pavements and its burning sands!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Have they found rest at last, and cooling waters</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Where they may stop to loose their earthly bands?</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Oh, Mother—eyes so keen to probe the sorrows!</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">So quick to see the hurt and understand!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Do they not shine tonight from highest Heaven</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Bright with the old-time courage, high and grand?</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Oh, Mother—heart so wise and tender—</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">That has not died, nor failed, but lived and wrought</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">In deeds and words—in daily work and action—</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">In lovely memory and blessed thought!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Oh, Mother—love that lives past death and parting!</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">That reaches still to bless and guard and guide,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To hold me from the snare undreamed and waiting—</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">To point the refuge where I yet may hide!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">And, oh—the things my heart hath yearned to utter!</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">The joys that thrilled—the pain that seared and scarred!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But I must wait—I, too—till sunset’s splendor</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Shall hold for me its shining gates unbarred.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Past joy, past sorrow, past the driving torrent</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Of tears, I see her stand and watch for me;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And clear the sweet old Mother-question cometh:</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">“Oh, child—dear child! And is all well with thee?”</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_119"></a>[119]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Wise Mothers</h3>

<p class="author">By Mona Cairo</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “The Morality of Marriage.”)</p>

</div>

<p>We shall never have really good mothers until
women cease to make motherhood the central idea of
their existence. The woman who has no interest
larger than the affairs of her children is not a fit person
to train them.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Factory Worker and Motherhood</h3>

<p class="author">By Kate Richards O’Hare</p>

<p class="intro">(American contemporary. Well-known Socialist speaker and
writer. From “The Sorrows of Cupid.”)</p>

</div>

<p>I spent six months one winter in the various
factories of New York in order to get information
by actual experience. I can truthfully and conservatively
say that not more than one out of two
girls employed in the factory trades for a year or
more are physically fitted to be wives and mothers,
not considering their fitness mentally, morally or
spiritually. There are six million women workers
in the United States. If fifty per cent., not ninety,
are made physically, mentally and morally unfit for
wife and motherhood by doing work unsuited to
their strength, then the wage-system must be weighed
and “found wanting” indeed. Economic conditions
which force women to work in unsuitable industrial
occupations are not only a fruitful cause for divorce,
but an outrage against humanity as well.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_120"></a>[120]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Mothers</h3>

<p class="author">By Charlotte Perkins Gilman</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_280">See page 280</a>)</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “The Forerunner.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">We are mothers. Through us in our bondage,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Through us with a brand in the face,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Be we fettered with gold or with iron,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Through us comes the race.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">See the people who suffer, all people!</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">All humanity wasting its powers</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">In the hand-to-hand struggle—death-dealing—</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">All children of ours!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Shall we bear it? we mothers who love them?</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Can we bear it? we mothers who feel</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Every pang of our babes and forgive them</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Every sin when they kneel?</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Dare ye sleep while your children are calling?</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Dare ye wait while they clamor unfed?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Dare ye pray in the proud-pillared churches</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">While they suffer for bread?</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Rise now in the power of the woman!</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Rise now in the power of our need!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The world cries in hunger and darkness!</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">We shall light! We shall feed!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">In the name of our ages of anguish!</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">In the name of the curse and the slain!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">By the strength of our sorrow we conquer!</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">In the power of our pain!</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_121"></a>[121]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>A Good Mother</h3>

<p class="author">By Mary Wollstonecraft<br>
1759-1797</p>

<p class="intro">(English. The mother of Mary, wife of the poet Shelley. One
of the earliest advocates of the right of woman to education, and
political rights.)</p>

</div>

<p>To be a good mother, a woman must have sense,
and that independence of mind which few women
possess who are taught to depend entirely on their
husbands. Meek wives are, in general, foolish
mothers; wanting their children to love them best,
and take their part, in secret against the father, who
is held up as a scarecrow. When chastisement is
necessary, though they have offended the mother, the
father must inflict the punishment; he must be the
judge in all disputes; ... I ... mean to insist that
unless the understanding of woman is enlarged, and
her character rendered firm, but being allowed to
govern her own conduct, she will never have sufficient
sense or command of temper to manage her children
properly.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Mother a Creator</h3>

<p class="author">By C. Josephine Barton</p>

<p class="intro">(Contemporary. Formerly associate editor and publisher “The
Life,” author of “An Interlude,” “Evangel Ahvallah,” “The
Mother of the Living,” etc.)</p>

</div>

<p>Thoughts are the blocks out of which children
are made.... Your child’s thoughts will flow in the
trenches you open for it. During the impressible
first few months it will cultivate that which you
cultivate. If you love, it will love; if you hate, it
will hate. If you have the measles, it will have it;
the child will rejoice at your rejoicing, and will weep<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_122"></a>[122]</span>
when you weep. (This is one instance wherein if
you “weep you will <i>not</i> weep alone”! Anger indulged
in by you will make the foetus helpless in
Anger’s toils! Love humanity, find and faithfully
perform your work, and your unborn child will one
day be a philanthropist....</p>

<p>Two brothers manifested the same criminality
their father had been guilty of when begetting them,
and they became even worse men, because their weak,
unresisting mother took no control over them during
the months most important, and their passions developed.
Thus the design and form of temple unwittingly
carved out in the brain of their two sons,
developed the phrenological bumps, criminal protuberances
to match the design marked out for them
by their father in his unenlightened Temple of
Thought. This condition could not have been altered
by any process known except that of the mother’s
thought-action during the period of pliability in the
atom. But being incompetent, unable to systematize
her thoughts and purify her heart, or cultivate the
philosophical and rational, the begotten shape developed
with all the qualities about it that had so
blighted the begetter....</p>

<p>It is with pleasure I turn from the above picture
and point out to you the laws leading up to the beautiful
character of Elizabeth Cady Stanton—one of
the bravest of leaders in the cause of woman’s
emancipation. Daniel Cady was a distinguished
lawyer, a New York judge, later elected to Congress.
Though a man of fine qualities, unimpeachable integrity,
he was sensitive and modest to a marked<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_123"></a>[123]</span>
degree; while her mother, Margaret Livingston, had
the military idea of government, was tall and queenly,
self-reliant and at her ease under all circumstances.
She was the daughter of Colonel Livingston, who,
at West Point, when Arnold made the attempt to
betray that stronghold into the enemy’s hands, in
the absence of his superior officer, took the responsibility
of firing into the Vulture, a suspicious looking
British vessel that lay at anchor on the opposite side
of the river, leaving Andre, the British spy, with his
papers to be captured.</p>

<p>The foregoing shows the result of the influence
of two united energies in the production of a powerful
woman. To modify the effect of her begetter’s
modesty, the mother’s military ideas stood in good
place; and to supplement his embarrassment, she was
full of courage; so that even if her father had implanted
the foundation for the cultivation of an over-modest
child, the mother made up the happy balance
during her supervision, and it resulted in the freedom
of individuality in the beautiful woman who has
blessed the race with light, in the dispelling of many
clouds. The loving and faithful mother of seven
children, she found time to fill a noble sphere in public,
one in which they could rise up to call her blessed.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Collective Motherhood</h3>

<p class="author">By Rheta Childe Dorr</p>

<p class="intro">(American contemporary. Author of “What Eight Million
Women Want.” From an article in “Good Housekeeping.”)</p>

</div>

<p>We have the ideal of collective motherhood expressing
itself through the women’s clubs, through<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_124"></a>[124]</span>
consumer’s leagues, through mothers’ congresses,
through a dozen like agencies. We have the ideal
for a collective fatherhood also, but this is waiting
to express itself through organizations, which can
be formed only by men. Of the details of children’s
lives the average man knows infinitely less than do
women. Of the interrelationship of children and the
whole structure of society most men know nothing at
all.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Woman and Mother</h3>

<p class="author">By C. Gasquoine Hartley<br>
(Mrs. Walter M. Gallichan)</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_154">See page 154</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>Any stigma attached to women is really a stigma
attached to their potentiality as mothers, and we
can only remove it by beginning with the emancipation
of the actual mother.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Companion Mother</h3>

<p class="author">By Ida Tarbell</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “The Business of Being a Woman.”)</p>

</div>

<p>A woman never lived who did all she might have
done to open the mind of her child for its great adventure.
It is an exhaustless task. The woman who
sees it knows she has need of all the education the
college can give, all the experience and culture she
can gather. She knows that the fuller her individual
life, the broader her interests, the better for the child.
She should be a better person in their eyes. The real
service of the “higher education,”—the freedom to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_125"></a>[125]</span>
take part in whatever interests or stimulates her—lies
in the fact that it fits her intellectually to be a companion
worthy of a child.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Parental Respect for Right of Children</h3>

<p class="author">By Ellen Key</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “The Century of the Child.”)</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_143">See page 143</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>A mother happy in the friendship of her own
daughter, said not long ago that she desired to erect
an asylum for tormented daughters. Such an asylum
would be as necessary as a protection against pampering
parents as against those who are overbearing.
Both alike torture their children though in different
ways, by not understanding the child’s right to have
his own point of view, his own ideal of happiness, his
own proper tastes and occupations. They do not
see that children exist as little for their parents’ sake
as parents do for their children’s sake.... Family
life would have an intelligent character if each one
lived fully and entirely his own life and allowed the
others to do the same. None should tyrannize over,
none should suffer tyranny from, the other. Parents
who give their homes this character can justly demand
that children shall accommodate themselves to
the habits of the household as long as they live in it.
Children on their part can ask that their own life
of thought and feeling shall be left in peace at home,
or that they shall be treated with the same consideration
that would be accorded to a stranger. When the
parents do not meet these conditions they themselves
are the greater sufferers.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_126"></a>[126]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Ancient and Modern Mother</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. Alec Tweedie</p>

<p class="intro">(English contemporary. Author of “America As I Saw It,”
“Mexico As I Saw It,” “Sunny Sicily,” etc. From “Women the
World Over.”)</p>

</div>

<p>The ancient mother and the modern mother are
two very different beings. The very ancient mother
fought for her child like the tigress for her young
cubs. The mother of past generations gave her entire
life to her children to the absolute neglect of her
husband. The modern mother, although she sometimes
neglects her children for her fads and frivolities
is really a much more sane person, for she lives three
lives; one part she gives to her husband, one part to
her children, and a third part to herself. Instead of
entirely obliterating herself, as the ancient mother
did, she believes in self-culture, self-advancement,
and is a thinking, human being; she is therefore more
of a companion to her husband, and more capable of
educating her offspring.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Mother</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. Emmaline Pethick-Lawrence</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “Votes for Women.”)</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_180">See page 180</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>In a small room, dimly lighted, sat a woman
making collars. Above the humming of her sewing
machine the clock of a neighboring church struck
ten. The woman lifted her head, and, gathering up
her work, folded it together. She crossed the room
and looked down upon the faces of two boys sleeping.
“Christmas Eve!” she sighed.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_127"></a>[127]</span></p>

<p>She went back to cover up the machine. Sitting
wearily, she leant her weight upon it and her head
sank upon her arms. Last year it had all been so
different! She had to be both father and mother
now, since the bread-winner had been cut down by
the hand of death falling with an awful suddenness.
And within her body there slept, soon to waken to
life, a child. “Pray God it be a boy,” she moaned.
“If not, pray God it may die! It is too terrible to
be a woman.”</p>

<p>She thought of the girl on the second floor who
had been taken that day to the workhouse infirmary;
she knew her story. The girl had been a waitress in
a tea shop. She earned her food and five shillings
a week. She could not live alone in the world on
that wage. She had accepted the “protection” of a
man more than twice her age. When her trouble
came he had tired of her. He had left her. She did
not know where he was now. Would that child who
was to be born in the workhouse be a girl, too? She
hoped not. She prayed that it might be a boy.</p>

<p>She remembered the old woman who had tried
to drown herself last week. The old woman’s husband
had died; that was a year ago. The widow had
taken in work for an army clothing establishment.
But the money she earned had hardly paid the rent.
The case had made something of a sensation in the
police court. The papers had taken it up for a day
or two. The employer said it was the Government
that was to blame. The Government would not allow
its contracts to be carried out by the sweated labor<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_128"></a>[128]</span>
of men, but the sweating of women did not matter.
Women did not seem to matter to anybody. When
her husband was alive she had not realized it. She
realized it now. She remembered, though, that even
in these days—</p>

<p>Suddenly her room seemed full of light. Afar
off she heard a burst of song. It came nearer. Never
had she listened to such music. The woman lifted
her head. The window was gone, the whole of the
outside wall had fallen noiselessly away, and the
sky was filled with a glory that was not of the sun
nor of the moon. The light seemed to come from a
cloud, and the singing, too. No, it was not a cloud,
it was a host of radiant forms, for, as she looked,
those shining ones came nearer to her, and she could
hear their voices: “Good tidings of great joy!”</p>

<p>So that was what they were singing! Where had
she heard it before? The words seemed so familiar
to her that, though she wondered, she was not overwhelmed
with surprise. Then came a rapturous outburst:
“They that dwell in the land of the shadow
of death—upon them hath the light shined.” The
light! How wonderful it was! How amazing! It
seemed to the woman like a glorious sea upon which
her spirit floated—a flood which drowned her senses,
so that for a moment or two she lost consciousness of
all else. Then once again her attention was arrested
by the singing, because she heard these words: “For
unto us a child is born.” “Pray God it is a boy,”
she murmured.</p>

<p>She wanted to hear more, and listened breathlessly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_129"></a>[129]</span>
now. Nearer and nearer to her came the voices,
and she heard a new refrain that seemed to fill both
heaven and earth with ringing joy: “To set at
liberty—them that are bruised.”</p>

<p>Suddenly that triumphant chanting became a
lament. “No room! No room!” wailed that multitude
of voices. “The door of the mother’s heart is
shut. She prays that the child may die!” Then the
woman knew that it was the child who stirred within
her, whose coming the angels had heralded. The
woman child! Yes, for she had prayed that it might
die, and her heart stood still with fear.</p>

<p>And it seemed to the woman that the wall had
been built up and the room was dark again, save for
the light of one small lamp. But in her heart she
heard still the echo of the song: “They that dwell
in the land of the shadow of death”—that was the
girl in the workhouse infirmary; that was the old
woman in the police court charged with attempted
suicide; that was herself—upon them “hath the light
shined.” “For unto us a child is born, a Saviour,
which”—Then she understood. It was her own child.
The child that moved under her heart. What was it
came next? Ah! It came back to her now; she
seemed to hear again that burst of joy that filled the
sky with song: “To set at liberty them that are
bruised.”</p>

<p>Who were the bruised? Some one had told her
a story a few hours ago. It was about the poor creature
at the corner of the street; her husband had come
back last Saturday and demanded money; had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_130"></a>[130]</span>
knocked her down and kicked her; the magistrate
had made a joke about it in court, and everybody
had laughed except the woman. She had wept bitterly.
But nobody seemed to care. “To set at liberty
them that are bruised.” The poor thing was
horribly bruised, they said. But was she not “at
liberty?” No, she was in bondage—cruel bondage.
Were all women in bondage? If so, some of the fetters
were made of gold. Were fetters of gold light?
Some one was going to break the fetters. And that
some one was—her own child. “No! No!” she
cried, in agony. “It is she—my child—who will
be broken! Rather let her die now, before she has
become acquainted with grief.”</p>

<p>Then the woman felt herself folded in a purple
mantle, so that she could not see, but she was not
afraid, rather comforted, as if with a sense of deep
security. “I am destiny,” she heard; “your child
will be safe with me. I will cover her with my arm. I
will hide her in the secret place of the Most High.
She shall break in pieces the fetters of those who are
in bondage.”</p>

<p>“Then she shall not herself be broken?” faltered
the mother.</p>

<p>“She shall be broken,” answered Destiny, “yet
not her spirit. That shall return victorious to God,
who sends it forth.”</p>

<p>“Tell me one thing,” pleaded the mother, “Shall
the joy of my child outweigh her sorrow?”</p>

<p>“The angels sang at the birth of One who was
destined to be crucified for the world. Did the joy
of the crucified outweigh the sorrow?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_131"></a>[131]</span></p>

<p>“I do not know,” she answered.</p>

<p>“According to her strength her joy shall be like
unto His joy, and her sorrow like unto His sorrow.”</p>

<p>And the mother said, “God’s will be done.”</p>

<p>And when the veil was removed it seemed as
though the little room was full of those shining
presences who had drawn near to her from the singing
hosts of heaven.</p>

<p>“I am Wisdom,” said one, and laid a hand upon
the woman’s head. “I give to your child what is
mine.” “I am Vision,” cried another, kissing her
eyes, saying, “For the child’s sake.” And Love was
revealed, as Love reverently touched the child where
she lay beneath the mother’s heart, saying: “It is
I who give to women the courage that amazes strong
men.” “Take from me for the child that shall be
born, my double-edged sword, the spirit and the
word,” said one: “My name is Inspiration.”</p>

<p>Then once more there was wafted upon the air
the singing of the heavenly host—and the outside wall
had disappeared again, and the garret was open to
the sky. And the heart of the woman sang with the
joy of the angels: “For unto us a child is born.” ...</p>

<p>A peal of bells rang out from the church. One
of the boys stirred, sat up, and cried out, “Mother!”
She lifted her head. “Hush!” she said, “Hush,
the angels are singing.” She rose and walked to the
window, drawing aside the curtain. A star shone
brilliantly; it seemed to shoot a shaft of light into
the room. The Christmas chimes clamored their tidings.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_132"></a>[132]</span>
She went back and knelt by the startled child.
“Kiss mother,” she said, as she put her arms about
him. “It is Christmas morning.”</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>I Am the Mother-Heart</h3>

<p class="author">By Grace D. Brewer</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Progressive Woman.”)</p>

</div>

<p>I am the Mother-heart of this nation.</p>

<p>I have loved and nourished its little ones in age-long
mother fashion; have swelled with pride when
the nation has protected them from disease; come
nearly to bursting with unuttered gratitude when
happiness has come to the youth of the land.</p>

<p>I have spent many long, sleepless nights weeping
over the fate of millions of my babies, forced
from home, school and mother, to the factories and
shops of the cities, and all night have wondered
“why” and “how long?”</p>

<p>I am haunted by the childish protestations, desirous
glances from faded, childish eyes, and bleed
anew when I see my children marching from the
factory door, their bent and bony figures clad in
rags.</p>

<p>I, the Mother-heart of the nation have been deceived,
tricked and defrauded.</p>

<p>I believed that modern industry, with all the
improvements, could provide for my infants; believed
the mighty labor-saving machines would not
require the help of my babies to feed the world; believed
the children would be given plenty of time in
which to grow healthy bodies.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_133"></a>[133]</span></p>

<p>I have, however, awakened to existing conditions.
No longer will I be submissive.</p>

<p>I have ever been a power for good, but seldom
rebellious.</p>

<p>I am now pulsing red blood. I will temper my
mother-love with human justice and stand only for
right.</p>

<p>I will help restore to my babies the privileges of
their years.</p>

<p>I can labor for justice and hover my young flock.</p>

<p>I no longer send out purely love throbs, but send
warnings to those who have been blinded by gold.</p>

<p>I beat in harmony with the masses struggling for
freedom, feeling confident of results. I beat with will
and determination, a glorious future before me.</p>

<p>I know the day will come when the Mother-heart
of all nations will be content because of the reign of
justice.</p>

<p>I realize my responsibility and beat the faster.</p>

<p>I am the Mother-heart of this nation.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3 class="x-ebookmaker-important">By Mrs. C. E. Porter</h3>

<p class="intro-c">(Vice President National Congress of Mothers.)</p>

</div>

<p>Let no one fear the loss of womanliness so long
as woman is a willing slave to her mother instinct.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_134"></a>[134]</span></p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_135"></a>[135]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="BOOK_V">BOOK V<br>
<span class="smaller">Love and Marriage</span></h2>

</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_136"></a>[136]</span></p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_137"></a>[137]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="LOVE_AND_MARRIAGE">LOVE AND MARRIAGE</h2>

</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>To Love on Feeling Its Approach</h3>

<p class="author">By Helen Hoyt</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Masses.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Love is a burden, a chain,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Love is a trammel and tie;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Love is disquiet and pain</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">That slowly go by.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">O why should I bind my heart</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And bind my sight?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Love is only a part</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Of all delight.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Let me have room for the rest,—</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">To find and explore!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Love is greatest and best?</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">But love closes the door.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">And closes us off so long from the ways</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And concernments of men;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And owns us, and hinders our days.</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">O love, come not again!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">I have walked with you all my mile,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Now let me be free, be free!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">O now a little while</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Love, come not back to me!</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_138"></a>[138]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Ashes of Life</h3>

<p class="author">By Edna St. Vincent Millay</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Forum.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Love has gone and left me, and the days are all alike;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Eat I must and sleep I will,—and would that night were here!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But ah!—to lie awake and hear the slow hours strike!</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Would that it were day again!—with twilight near!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Love has gone and left me and I don’t know what to do;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">This or that or what you will is all the same to me;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But all the things that I begin I leave before I’m through—</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">There’s little use in anything as far as I can see.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Love has gone and left me, and the neighbors knock and borrow,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse,—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">There’s this little street and this little house.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Greatest Love</h3>

<p class="author">By Rahel Varnhagen</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “Life and Letters of Rahel Varnhagen.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Only one in the whole world recognizes my claim
to the personality, and does not wish merely to use
and swallow up some part or other of me; loves me
as nature created me, and fate distorted me; understands<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_139"></a>[139]</span>
this fate; is willing to leave me the remainder
of my life, and to gladden it and draw it nearer to
heaven; and, for the happiness of being my friend,
will be, do, and leave all for me. This is the man
who is called my bridegroom.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Love-Songs</h3>

<p class="author">By Mary Carolyn Davies</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">What is love?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Love is when you touch me;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Love is a noise of stars singing as they march;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Love is a voice of worlds glad to be together;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">What is love?</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">There is a strong wall about me to protect me:</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">It is built of the words you have said to me.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">There are swords about me to keep me safe:</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">They are the kisses of your lips.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Before me goes a shield to guard me from harm:</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">It is the shadow of your arms between me and danger.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">All the wishes of my mind know your name,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And the white desires of my heart</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">They are acquainted with you.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The cry of my body for completeness,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">That is a cry to you.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">My blood beats out your name to me, unceasing, pitiless—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Your name, your name.</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_140"></a>[140]</span>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">My body talks about you in the night,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">My hand says soft, “His hand is like a shield.”</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">My cheek grows warm, remembering your lips.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">My arms reach blindly out into the dark;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">My pulses say, “We cannot beat without him;”</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And my eyes do not speak at all, for what they know is beyond being said.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">My body talks about you all night long.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I cannot sleep, my body talks so loud.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">See, I lead you to my heart,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">It is a winding way, the way to my heart;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">It is thorn-beset and very long;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">It is walled and buttressed; it is sentineled,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And none could ever find the way alone.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">So take my hand,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And I will lead you to my heart.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Our hearts lie so close</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">That when your heart trembles,</div>
    <div class="verse indent8">Mine will be afraid.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Our hearts beat so near</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">That when your heart stirs,</div>
    <div class="verse indent8">Mine will hear it.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Our hearts speak so loud</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">That all the world must know.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">I have lost track of what world I am living in</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Or what day I am seeing;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I only know that there is blue about—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The blue of your eyes;</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_141"></a>[141]</span>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">I only know that there is music somewhere—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Words quick and broken that you have said.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Your parted lips hard on mine,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Your sudden arms crushing heaven into my heart,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Your broken words that tell me nothing and everything—</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">When God is thundering the last world into oblivion,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And quenching the farthest star,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And putting blackness around,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">We two will cling to each other.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>A Man Never Gets Over It</h3>

<p class="author">By Cornelia A. P. Comer</p>

<p class="intro">(From “The Wealth of Timmy Zimmerman,” in the “Atlantic
Monthly.”)</p>

</div>

<p>“I mean to have a swell home, if I am a
bachelor,” boasted Timmy. “I feel like I wanted it.
It’s just another game, I guess. But I’ll play a lone
hand—I don’t reckon a man can be ready for matrimony
when it sends cold shivers down his spine just
to think of it, do you?”</p>

<p>Kid lowered his voice.</p>

<p>“Timmy, listen a minute. I’ll tell you something—<i>a
man never gets over feelin’ that way about
it</i>. He just has to kind of chloroform them feelings
and hurry along with it. Because there ain’t no
doubt it’s the thing to do.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_142"></a>[142]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Marriage, a Partnership</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. Newell Dwight Hillis</p>

<p class="intro">(American contemporary. From “The American Woman and
Her Home.”)</p>

</div>

<p>There is a sense in which marriage is a contract,
at the same time business, moral and social....</p>

<p>Marriage is looked upon often as the consummation
of the romance of life, whereas, it is simply its
beginning. It is called a matter of the heart, which
it should be, but it should also be an affair of the
intellect. It is fortunate that the day of early marriage
has passed, since the early marriage implied a
choice guided almost wholly by the emotions, as the
intellect is slower in its development than the heart.
But marriage should involve both heart and brain
and fulfill the chief desire of both.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>One of the Best Things</h3>

<p class="author">By Charlotte Perkins Gilman</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “The Duty of Surplus Women,” in “The Independent.”)</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_280">See page 280</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>If marriage laws are wrong, mend them. If marriage
customs offend, change them. If other people’s
marriages do not please, improve on them. But marriage
itself remains a good thing—one of the best
things in the world.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>What Is Love?</h3>

<p class="author">By Elizabeth Philip</p>

<p class="intro-c">(English contemporary. Quoted from “Women the World
Over.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">What is Love, that all the world</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Should talk so much about it?</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_143"></a>[143]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">What is Love, that neither you</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Nor I can do without it?</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">What is Love that it should be</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">As changeful as the weather?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Is it joy or is it pain</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Or is it both together?</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Love’s a tyrant and a slave,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">A torment and a treasure.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Having it, you know no peace,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Lacking it, no pleasure.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Would I shun it if I could?</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Faith, I almost doubt it.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">No, I’d rather bear its sting,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Than live my life without it.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Art of Loving</h3>

<p class="author">By Ellen Key</p>

<p class="intro-c">(Contemporary Norwegian writer. From “Love and Marriage.”<a id="FNanchor_10" href="#Footnote_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>Every developed modern woman wishes to be
loved not <i>enmale</i>, but <i>en artiste</i>. Only a man whom
she feels to possess an artist’s joy in her, and who
shows this joy in discreet and delicate contact with
her soul as with her body, can retain the love of the
modern woman.</p>

<div class="footnotes">
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_10" href="#FNanchor_10" class="label">[10]</a> J. G. Stokes Co., Pub.</p>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_144"></a>[144]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>A New Stimulus to Marriage</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. St. Clair Stobart</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_55">See page 55</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>As concerns marriage, if it should indeed be true
that women, who can find practical work in life outside
marriage, would no longer be so eager to marry,
this would not necessarily be an evil, for it would
probably act as an additional incentive to man to
desire marriage. Marriage has been regarded for
women as a profession in which failure involves, as
in other professions, humiliation. Women are
trained, therefore, under the present régime, to employ
all the arts at their disposal to ensure success in
their profession.... If women were absorbed in
professions and occupations, such as farming, architecture,
territorial service, and the like, and only desired
marriage when and because they loved, we
would have the loss in the woman of the wiles and
artificialities which formerly stimulated the man, and
marriage would be counterbalanced by a more healthy
emulation on the part of the man, who would be desirous
to obtain something of value which was difficult
to get.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Old Suffragist</h3>

<p class="author">By Margaret Widdemer</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_156">See page 156</a>)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">She could have loved—her woman passions beat</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Deeper than theirs, or else she had not known</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">How to have dropped her heart beneath their feet</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">A living stepping-stone.</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_145"></a>[145]</span>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">The little hands—did they not clutch her heart?</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">The guarding arms—was she not very tired?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Was it an easy thing to walk apart,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Unresting, undesired?</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">She gave away her crown of woman-praise,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Her gentleness and silent girlhood grace</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To be a merriment for idle days,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Scorn for the market-place:</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">She strove for an unvisioned, far-off good,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">For one far hope she knew she would not see:</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">These—not <i>her</i> daughters—crowned with motherhood,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And love and beauty—free.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Postponing Marriage</h3>

<p class="author">By Ethel Maud Colquhoun</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_172">See page 172</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>A very important question in this connection is
whether, in promising fidelity to one woman, a lover
is really undertaking more than he can perform.
When he postpones marriage to the latest possible
moment man is certainly not offering to his bride
that gift of a life-long devotion which is part of the
ideal of true love.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_146"></a>[146]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Marriage of the “Friends”</h3>

<p class="author">By Lucretia Mott</p>

<p class="intro">(One of the early leaders in the Woman Suffrage, Anti-Slavery,
and other progressive movements of her time. A member of the
Society of Friends—a Quaker. The following is from a letter
written in 1869 to Josephine Butler, of England.)</p>

</div>

<p>In the Marriage union, no ministerial or other
official aid is required to consecrate or legalize the
bond. After due care in making known their intentions,
the parties, in presence of their friends, announce
their covenant, with pledge of fidelity and
affection, invoking Divine aid for its faithful fulfilment.
There is no assumed authority or admitted
inferiority, no <i>promise</i> of obedience. Their independence
is equal, their dependence mutual, and their
obligations reciprocal. This of course has had its influence
on married life and the welfare of families.
The permanence and happiness of the conjugal relation
among us have ever borne a favorable comparison
with those of other denominations.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Love That Pales</h3>

<p class="author">By Mary Wollstonecraft<br>
1759-1797</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_121">See page 121</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>Youth is the season for love in both sexes; but
in those days of thoughtless enjoyment provision
should be made for the more important years of life,
when reflection takes place of sensation. But Rousseau,
and most of the male writers who have followed
his steps, have warmly inculcated that the whole<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_147"></a>[147]</span>
tendency of female education ought to be directed to
one point—to render them pleasing.</p>

<p>Let me reason with the supporters of this opinion
who have any knowledge of human nature. Do
they imagine that marriage can eradicate the habitude
of life? The woman who has only been taught to
please will soon find that her charms are oblique sunbeams,
and that they cannot have much effect on her
husband’s heart when they are seen every day, when
the summer is past and gone. Will she then have
sufficient native energy to look into herself for comfort,
and cultivate her dormant faculties? Or is it
not more rational to expect that she will try to please
other men, and, in the emotions raised by the expectations
of new conquests, endeavor to forget the mortification
her love or pride has received? When the husband
ceases to be a lover, and the time will inevitably
come, her desire of pleasing will then grow languid,
or become a spring of bitterness; and love, perhaps
the most evanescent of all passions, gives place to
jealousy or vanity.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>When Marriage Meant Bondage</h3>

<p class="author">By Lucy Stone</p>

<p class="intro">(Probably the most brilliant and effective of the early woman
suffrage orators. Is said to have possessed a beautiful speaking
voice, and great personal charm. The founder, with her husband,
Henry Blackwell, of “The Woman’s Journal.” From “Susan B.
Anthony, Her Life and Work.”)</p>

</div>

<p>The common law, which regulates the relation of
husband and wife, and is modified only in a few instances
by the statutes, gives the “custody” of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_148"></a>[148]</span>
wife’s person to the husband, so that he has a right
to her even against herself. It gives him her earnings,
no matter with what weariness they have been acquired,
or how greatly she may need them for herself
or her children. It gives him a right to her personal
property which he may will away from her, also the
use of her real estate, and in some of the states, married
women, insane persons and idiots are ranked together
as not fit to make a will; so that she is left with
only one right, which she enjoys in common with the
pauper, the right of maintenance. Indeed, when she
has taken the sacred marriage vows, her legal existence
ceases.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>A Possible Utopia</h3>

<p class="author">By Josephine Pitcairn Knowles</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “The Upholstered Cage.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Nothing is permanent, there is going on always a
continual shuffling of the cards of public opinion;
trends of thought, standards of conduct come and go;
and so when the day comes that women are more
economically independent, then they will go on strike
and sweep away all the unworthy suitors and declare
that they will only mate with the physically and
mentally sound, and then all considerations but love
and respect will go by the board. This will appear
but a distant and unrealizable Utopia to many who
read this; nevertheless it will happen; all changes
seem incredible from the distance, but when they
crystallize themselves in fact nothing appears more
natural or suitable. Every prophecy since the commencement<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_149"></a>[149]</span>
of history has been scouted in its first inception,
but when in time it has fulfilled itself it is
seen to be the very thing awaited, natural and obvious,
and a direct result of the past sequence of
events.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Marriage and the Labor Market</h3>

<p class="author">By M. Carey Thomas</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_10">See page 10</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>Recent investigations of the after lives of college
women and of their sisters who have not been to
college have shown us that only about one-half of
the daughters of men of the professional business
classes who do not inherit independent fortunes can
look forward to marriage. Statistics seem to prove
that only fifty per cent. of the women of these classes
marry. What are the other fifty per cent. to do except
work or starve? Most women of independent
means marry because their inherited fortunes enable
them to contribute to the support of the family.
Women of the working classes marry because they
too, can help by their labor to support the family. It
is only the dowerless women who are prevented by social
usage from engaging in paid work outside the
home, or in manual labor inside the home, after marriage,
who remain unmarried. All other women are
married and at work.</p>

<p>Is it well for the great middle classes of our civilized
nations that is, for the classes that are not very
poor or very rich, to contain these ever increasing
number of celibate men and women? To such a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_150"></a>[150]</span>
question there can be only one reply. If it is ill, as
we all admit, why do we not encourage the women of
these middle classes to work and marry like the
women of the poorer classes who are practically all
married? Why in England and Germany and the
United States are there these thousands upon thousands
of unmarried women teachers, a celibate class
like the monks and nuns of the Middle Ages, and
like them an ever present menace to the welfare of the
state? Why in Italy, on the other hand, are so many
of the women public school teachers married? Because
in Germany and England and the United States
women teachers lose their positions when they marry,
and marry and starve they cannot. Because in Italy
women teachers are allowed to marry and teach. Is it
inconceivable that the state of the future in which
women as well as men will vote will deprive women of
bread because they wish to marry?</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Marriage Laws in 1850</h3>

<p class="author">By Clarina Howard Nichols</p>

<p class="intro">(From speech at Woman’s Suffrage Convention in 1852.
Quoted from “Life of Susan B. Anthony.”)</p>

</div>

<p>If a wife is compelled to get a divorce on account
of the infidelity of the husband, she forfeits all right
to the property which they have earned together,
while the husband, who is the offender still remains
the sole possession and control of the estate. She, the
innocent party, goes out childless and portionless by
decree of law, and he, the criminal, retains the home
and children by favor of the same law. A drunkard<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_151"></a>[151]</span>
takes his wife’s clothing to pay his rum bills, and the
court declares that the action is legal because the
wife belongs to the husband.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>A Preventive of Divorce</h3>

<p class="author">By Margaret O. B. Wilkinson</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “Parents and Their Problems.”)</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_173">See page 173</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>And here we come to the most potent of all
causes of divorce—the conventionally enforced idleness
of many married women—parasitism, Mrs.
Schreiner calls it—and the overwork of many of our
men.... The rush of our present life comes to bear
most heavily on our most chivalrous. It wears them
out physically and mentally and discourages them
spiritually before they are fifty years of age. It gives
them only time enough to nourish a vague doubt of
the womanhood that is content to fatten their toil,
instead of laboring staunchly with them as healthy
women should do. They find their usefulness limited,
their powers exhausted, and wonder why. And then,
sometimes in utter weariness they throw off the yoke
and try to begin again. But the women are not always
wholly to blame for this condition. Sometimes
with a perfectly unreasoning “I can support a wife”
pride, a man will insist that a woman give up once
and forever the only work in which she takes an interest,
and leaves her a choice between idleness and
housework in his home (which always, with or without
fitness, a man will permit a woman to do)! But
if a woman should say to her husband before, or<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_152"></a>[152]</span>
soon after marriage, “John, it does not please me that
you should be a lawyer—you must become a stock
broker,” or “James, when you marry me you must
give up the art you love and become a carpenter,”
would we not be quick to decry her injustice? Yet
there are men who still say to their wives, “The work
you love you must give up. You may do the work I
provide or none at all.”</p>

<p>Of course, motherhood brings to women certain
limitations, but the thing we do not recognize is that
these limitations are temporary. And, if, in the ages
past, women were able to combine with motherhood
the most arduous physical labors, it seems probable,
that, in the present and future when the demands of
maternity are less rigorous, women should be able,
with gain to the race, to enter new fields of labor and
accomplish laudable results.</p>

<p>Surely there is no greater safeguard for man and
woman than the work in which mind and body can delight.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Overheard in the Marriage Congress</h3>

<p class="author">By Adella M. Parker</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From the Suffrage Edition of the “Daily News,” Tacoma,
Wash.)</p>

</div>

<p>Once upon a time all the men in the world gathered
together to make the laws of marriage. And the
women, learning of this, gathered also, protesting and
saying:</p>

<p>“A woman is one of the parties to every contract
of marriage. Why do we also not make the laws of
marriage?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_153"></a>[153]</span></p>

<p>“Woman’s place is at home,” said the men.</p>

<p>“But,” said the women, “the marriage agreement
is the very basis of the home.”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said the men, “but woman’s place is at
home. It is not her place to create the conditions that
make the home.”</p>

<p>“For how long is the marriage contract?” asked
the women.</p>

<p>“Forever,” said the men. Then the women said:</p>

<p>“Suppose we should insist upon helping to make
the contracts we enter into?”</p>

<p>“It wouldn’t be lawful,” said the men.</p>

<p>“Who makes the laws?” said the women.</p>

<p>“We do,” said the men.</p>

<p>“And do the men make the laws concerning the
rights of children?” asked a woman with a babe in
her arms, and another at her heels.</p>

<p>“Oh yes,” said the men.</p>

<p>“And the laws concerning a woman’s rights with
respect to her own child?”</p>

<p>“Yes,” said the men, “the women bear the
children, but the men determine their legal control.”</p>

<p>“Can the marriage contract ever be broken?”
asked the bravest one of the women.</p>

<p>“No,” said the men, “it can’t be broken except
upon facts that can’t be proved.”</p>

<p>“Do the men keep the marriage vows?” softly
asked a woman ’way at the rear.</p>

<p>“Hush,” said a portly landlord who owned a
“restricted district;” “no respectable woman would
ask such a question.” Then a thoughtful woman
earnestly asked:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_154"></a>[154]</span></p>

<p>“Will there not be more murders, and more suicides
and more insanity if the women have not part
in settling the terms of marriage?”</p>

<p>But the Lombrosos and the Allen McLane Hamiltons
and all the other criminologists and insanity experts
paid no heed to this question. Finally the women
said:</p>

<p>“But suppose we don’t enter into these contracts
that you make?”</p>

<p>“Oh, but you will,” said the men.</p>

<p>And they did. But some of the women got even.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Cry of Man to Woman</h3>

<p class="author">By C. Gasquoine Hartley</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “The Truth About Woman.”)</p>

</div>

<p>The cry of man to woman under the patriarchal
system has been, and still for the most part is, “Your
value in our eyes is your sexuality; for your work we
care not.” But mark this! The penalty of this false
adjustment has fallen upon men. For women, in
their turn, have come to value men first in their capacity
as providers for them, caring as little for man’s
sex value as men for women’s work-value. From
the moment when women had to place the economic
considerations in love first, her faculties of discrimination
were no more of service for the selection of the
fittest man. Here we may find the explanation of the
kind of men girls have been willing to marry—old
men, the unfit fathers, the diseased.... And it is the
race that has suffered.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_155"></a>[155]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>When Love Went By</h3>

<p class="author">By Theodosia Garrison</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Woman’s Home Companion.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">When Love went by I scarcely bent</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">My eyes to see the way he went.</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Life had so many joys to show,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">What time I had to watch him go,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Or bid him in, whom folly sent.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">But when the day was well nigh spent,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">From out the casement long I leant,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Ah, would I had been watching so</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">When Love went by!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Gray day with dismal nights are blent,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Lonely and sad and discontent;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">I would his feet had been more slow.</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Oh, heart of mine, how could we know</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Or realize what passing meant</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">When Love went by?</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Flirt</h3>

<p class="author">By Amelia Josephine Burr</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “The Century Magazine.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Beautiful Boy, lend me your youth to play with;</div>
    <div class="verse indent6">My heart is old.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Lend me your fire to make my twilight gay with,</div>
    <div class="verse indent6">To warm my cold;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Prove that the power my look has not forsaken,</div>
    <div class="verse indent6">That at my will</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">My touch can quicken pulses and awaken</div>
    <div class="verse indent6">Man’s passion still.</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_156"></a>[156]</span>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">The moment that I ask do not begrudge me.</div>
    <div class="verse indent6">I shall not stay.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I shall have gone, e’er you have time to judge me,</div>
    <div class="verse indent6">My empty way.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I am not worth remembrance, little brother,</div>
    <div class="verse indent6">Even to damn.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">One kiss—O God! if I were only other</div>
    <div class="verse indent6">Than what I am!</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>I Can Go to Love Again</h3>

<p class="author">By Margaret Widdemer</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “The Century Magazine.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Now that you are gone, loving hands, loving lips,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Now I can go back to love,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I can free my soul, that was kissed to eclipse,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I can fling my thoughts above.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I can run and stand in the wind, on the hill,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Now that I am lone and free,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Whistle through the dusk and the cleansing chill,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">All my red-winged dreams to me.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">I had dreamed of love like a wind, like a flame,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I had watched for love, a star;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">That was never love that you brought when you came....</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Silver cord and golden bar!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I was swathed with love like a veil, like a cloak;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I was bound with love a shroud,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">All my red-winged dreams flew afar when you spoke....</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Dreams I dared not call aloud.</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_157"></a>[157]</span>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">They are waiting still in the hush, in the light,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Morning wind and leaves and dew,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Whisper of the grass, of the waves, of the night,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Things I gave away for you.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I can speed my soul to its old wonderlands,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Free my wild heart’s wings from chain,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Now that you are gone, loving lips, loving hands,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I can go to love again.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Marriage the Sole Means of Maintenance</h3>

<p class="author">By Josephine Butler</p>

<p class="intro">(English. Editor of “Woman’s Work and Woman’s Culture,”
published in 1869. From the Introduction.)</p>

</div>

<p>What dignity can there be in the attitude of
women in general, and toward men, in particular,
when marriage is held (and often necessarily so, being
the sole means of maintenance) to be the one end
of a woman’s life, when it is degraded to the level of
a feminine profession, when those who are soliciting
a place in this profession resemble those flaccid Brazilian
creepers which cannot exist without support,
and which sprawl out their limp tendrils in every direction
to find something—no matter what—to hang
upon; when the insipidity or the material necessities
of so many women’s lives make them ready to accept
almost any man who may offer himself? There has
been a pretense of admiring this pretty helplessness of
women. But let me explain that I am not deprecating
the condition of dependence in which God has placed
every human being, man or woman,—the sweet interchange
of services, the give and take of true affection,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_158"></a>[158]</span>
the mutual support and aid of friends or lovers, who
have each something to give and to receive. That is
a wholly different thing from the abject dependence
of one entire class of persons on another and a
stronger class. In the present case such a dependence
is liable to peculiar dangers by its complication with
sexual emotions and motives, and with relations which
ought, in an advanced and Christian community, to
rest upon a free and deliberate choice,—a decision
of the judgment and of the heart, and into which the
admission of a necessity, moral or material, introduces
a degrading element.... Cordelia ... declared, “Love
is not love when it is mingled with respects that
stand aloof from the entire point.” Truly, the present
condition of society ... leaves little room for the
heart’s choice.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Confidante</h3>

<p class="author">By Nora Elizabeth Barnhart</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Independent.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">I let him in and shut the door,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And when the key was turned,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">There leapt a look into his face—</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">A look I had not learned!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Within the four walls of my heart</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">He sudden stalked a lord,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Possessed of all he did survey,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">To hold by might of sword!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Ah! Then how gray and small the room</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">That I had deemed so fair!</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_159"></a>[159]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">How paltry were its furnishings,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Its wealth of book and chair!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">The wide-flung windows seemed to shrink,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">That long my stars had framed!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The stretch of daisy fields and hills</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Lay startled and ashamed!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">And all my little world was his,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Which once had stretched so wide!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">He holds the key upon his palm,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And jingles it with pride!</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Mirandy on the Monotony of Domesticity</h3>

<p class="author">By Dorothy Dix</p>

<p class="intro">(Foremost among American humorous writers. In “Good
Housekeeping.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Dere ain’t nothin’ dull in bein’ married, and dere
ain’t no sameness ’bout havin’, a husband which I reckon
is de main reason dat most of us wants one. Hits
de ole maids an’ de ole bachelors what ain’t got nobody
to boss ’em an’ dispute ’em, an’ rile ’em, an’ fight wid
’em, dat gets dull an’ lonesome lak. Not married
folks.... Life in one of dese ole bachelor clubs, or
spinsters’ retreats makes me think of my batter puddin’s.
Hit sets well on a weak stomach, but hit aint
got no flavor to hit. Matrimony, hits lak one of de
fruit cakes what I bakes at Christmas. Hits full of
ginger an’ spice, an’ plums, an’ raisins, an’ hits
mighty apt to give dem a night mare what partakes
of hit, but hit sho has got taste to hit.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_160"></a>[160]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Marriage Not an Assurance of Support</h3>

<p class="author">By Alice Henry</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “The Trade Union Woman.”<a id="FNanchor_11" href="#Footnote_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>It often happens that marriage in course of time
proves to be anything but an assurance of support.
Early widowed, the young mother herself may have
to earn her children’s bread. Or the husband may become
crippled, or an invalid, or he may turn out a
drunkard or spendthrift. In any of these circumstances,
the responsibility and burden of supporting
the family usually falls upon the wife. Is it strange
that the group so often drifts into undeserved pauperism,
sickness and misery, perhaps later on even into
those depths of social maladjustment that bring about
crime?</p>

<div class="footnotes">
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_11" href="#FNanchor_11" class="label">[11]</a> Henry Holt Publishing Co.</p>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Price of Love</h3>

<p class="author">By Mary Austin</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “Love and the Soul Maker.”<a id="FNanchor_12" href="#Footnote_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>“But love,” Valda insisted, ... “should be free.”</p>

<p>“If it is, Nature didn’t make it so. Automatically
the end of loving ties up with it those who love
and the unborn.</p>

<p>“No sooner do we begin upon it than we enter
upon certainties of effecting the happiness of the one
who loves with us, and the potential third. It is so little
free, that we can neither go out of it nor into it on the
mere invitation, nor abate by saying so one of the
widening circles of its disaster. Whether for better
or worse, love is irrevocably tied to its consequences.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_161"></a>[161]</span></p>

<p class="author">By Mme. de Girardin</p>

<p>It is not easy to be a widow; one must resume
all the modesty of girlhood without being allowed
even to feign ignorance.</p>

<p class="author">By Comtesse d’ Houdetot</p>

<p>I have seen more than one woman drown her
honor in the clear water of diamonds.</p>

<p class="author">By De Maintenon</p>

<p>Before marriage woman is a queen; after marriage,
a subject.</p>

<p class="author">By de l’Enclos</p>

<p>The resistance of a woman is not always a proof
of her virtue, but more frequently of her experience.</p>

<p class="author">By Anne Morton Barnard</p>

<p>A prison, plus “love”, is tyranny with its crown
carefully hidden.</p>

<p class="author">Mrs. W. K. Clifford</p>

<p>Why should man, who is strong, always get the
best of it, and be forgiven so much; and woman who is
weak, get the worst, and be forgiven so little?</p>

<p class="author">By George Eliot</p>

<p>The vainest woman is never thoroughly conscious
of her own beauty till she is loved by the man who
sets her own passion vibrating in return.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_162"></a>[162]</span></p>

<p class="author">By Marguerite de Valois</p>

<p>There are few husbands whom the wife cannot
win in the long run by patience and love, unless they
are harder than the rocks which the soft water penetrates
in time.</p>

<p class="author">By Countess Natahlie</p>

<p>Love is the association of two beings for the benefit
of one.</p>

<p class="author">George Eliot</p>

<p>We look at one little woman’s face we love, as
we look at the face of our mother earth, and see all
sorts of answers to our yearnings.</p>

<p class="author">By “Ouida”</p>

<p>What is it that love does to woman? Without it,
she only sleeps; with it alone, she lives.</p>

<p class="author">By Mme. de Lambert</p>

<p>It is only the coward who reproaches as a dishonor
the love a woman has cherished for him.</p>

<p class="author">By Amelia E. Barr</p>

<p>The truth is, women are lost because they do not
deliberate.</p>

<p class="author">By Mrs. Alec Tweedie</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_126">See page 126</a>)</p>

<p>There will be more marriages, and happier marriages,
when women are on an equal footing with men
in education and income.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_163"></a>[163]</span></p>

<p class="author">By Mme. du Bocage</p>

<p>The coquette comprises her reputation, and sometimes
even her virtue; the prude, on the contrary,
often sacrifices her honor in private, and preserves it
in public.</p>

<p class="author">By George Sand</p>

<p>A woman cannot guarantee her heart, even
though her husband be the greatest and most perfect
of men.</p>

<p class="author">By Mme. de Rieux</p>

<p>In all ill-mated marriages, the fault is less the
woman’s than the man’s, as the choice depended on
her the least.</p>

<p class="author">By Marguerite de Valois</p>

<p>There are women so hard to please that it seems
as if nothing less than an angel will suit them; hence
it comes that they often meet with devils.</p>

<p class="author">By Mme. Bachi</p>

<p>Men bestow compliments only on women who deserve
none.</p>

<p class="author">By Mme. de Rieux</p>

<p>Marriage is a lottery in which men stake their
liberty, and women their happiness.</p>

<p class="author">By Mme. de Flahaut</p>

<p>Manners, morals, customs change; the passions
are always the same.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_164"></a>[164]</span></p>

<p class="author">By Mme. Necker</p>

<p>The quarrels of lovers are like summer showers
that leave the country more verdant and beautiful.</p>

<p class="author">By Mme. Reyband</p>

<p>To continue love in marriage is a science.</p>

<p class="author">By Anna Jameson</p>

<p>How many women since the days of Echo and
Narcissus have pined themselves into air for the love
of men who were in love only with themselves.</p>

<p class="author">By Amelia E. Barr</p>

<p>Cruelly tempted, perplexed and bewildered,
when passion is stronger than reason, women do not
think of consequences, but go blindfolded, headlong
to their ruin.</p>

<p class="author">By Louise Colet</p>

<p>Better to have never loved, than to have loved
unhappily, or to have <i>half</i> loved.</p>

<p class="author">By De Pompadour</p>

<p>Love is the passion of great souls; it makes them
merit glory, when it does not turn their heads.</p>

<p class="author">Mme. de Stael</p>

<p>I am glad I am not a man, as I should be obliged
to marry a woman.</p>

<p class="author">By Mme. de Motteville</p>

<p>A woman can be held by no stronger tie than the
knowledge that she is loved.</p>

<div class="footnotes">
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_12" href="#FNanchor_12" class="label">[12]</a> Doubleday, Page and Co.</p>
</div>
</div>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_165"></a>[165]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="BOOK_VI">BOOK VI<br>
<span class="smaller">Woman and Labor</span></h2>

</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_166"></a>[166]</span></p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_167"></a>[167]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="WOMAN_AND_LABOR">WOMAN AND LABOR</h2>

</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Housewife</h3>

<p class="author">By Angela Morgan</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Woman’s Journal.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">It is she who makes ready the army when day is at hand,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">When the bugle of labor is blowing its mighty command,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Oh, fierce are the feet of the workers who answer the call,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But swifter and fiercer the toil that hath weaponed them all.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Do we boast of their brawn? Do we trumpet the cause of the fighter</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Who marches at rise of sun?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Lo! Look at the woman! The heat of her labor is whiter;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Ere the work of the world has begun</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">She is up, and her banners are flying from yard and from alley,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The roofs are a-flutter with eloquent streamers of snow.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Oh, not for a moment her passionate fingers may dally,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Till the soldier is shod and is fed and made ready to go.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Oh, weary the heart of the host when the battle is done,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But the woman is laboring still with the set of the sun!</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_168"></a>[168]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">Does the worker return? She is able and eager with bread.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Does he faint? There is cheer for his soul and delight for his head.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Do we trumpet our gain? Do we sing of our land and its thunder</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Of factory, query and mill?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Lo! look to the woman! Her love, her love, it hath compassed the wonder,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And the army swings on at her will.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For hers is the whip, and her spur is the fighter’s salvation—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">In the strength of Jehovah she comes.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Her faith is the sword and her thrift is the shield of the nation,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And her courage is greater than drums.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">March, march, march, to your victories, O man!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Fight, fight, fight, as you’ve fought since time began.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For she who hath wed you, and fed you and sped you,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Fulfilling Eternity’s laws,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Is she who hath soldiered the Cause!</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Woman in the Home</h3>

<p class="author">By Carrie W. Allen</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Progressive Woman.”)</p>

</div>

<p>It is generally conceded that woman lives in a
state of subordination to man, and nowhere is this
more apparent than in that sphere which is said to
be distinctly her own, the home.</p>

<p>The woman in the home renders service which
the male wage-earner could not buy. She is the family<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_169"></a>[169]</span>
economist. She mends and makes the garments,
buys the food and clothing, and by her intelligence
and thrift maintains the head of the house in a state
of physical efficiency which enables him to go out
and sell his labor power. The service she renders is
priceless. But, because she brings in no actual
money, she is considered an economic dependent, and
treated as a subordinate because of this dependence.</p>

<p>The lot of this woman is desolately pitiable,
much worse in many cases than that of the woman
who has gone out into industry.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Morality and Woman in Industry</h3>

<p class="author">By Clara E. Laughlin</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_68">See page 68</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>There seemed to be a widely prevailing idea that
modern industrial conditions, which take women and
girls out of the home are responsible for a great increase
in criminality and immorality. The Government
investigation shows that exactly the reverse is
true. The traditional pursuits of women—housework,
sewing, laundry work, nursing, and the keeping of
boarders furnish more than four-fifths of all the
feminine criminals, compared with only about one-tenth
furnished by all the newer pursuits, including
mills, factories, shops, offices, and the professions; and
the number of criminals who have never been wage-earners
in any pursuit, but who come directly from
their own homes into the courts and penal institutions,
is more than twice as large as that coming from all the
newer industrial pursuits together.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_170"></a>[170]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Wasted Energy and Talent</h3>

<p class="author">By M. Olivia (Mrs. Russell) Sage</p>

<p class="intro">(American contemporary. Millionaire philanthropist. From
“The North American Review.”)</p>

</div>

<p>There is an immense amount of feminine talent and energy
wasted in the world every day. This is not due
to the indifference or the laziness of woman, for she
is eager to do, to accomplish, to go out into the field
of life and achieve for herself and her kind. But she
simply does not know how. One of the most important
movements of the day, therefore, is the reawakening
of woman, the building her up on a new basis
of self-help and work for others. That movement will
set loose an amount of talent that will revolutionize
our social life.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Sisterhood in Labor</h3>

<p class="author">By Ida C. Hultin</p>

<p class="intro">(American contemporary. From speech delivered at the 80th
anniversary of Susan B. Anthony.)</p>

</div>

<p>Women have failed to see that the work of every
woman touched that of every other woman. The woman
who works with the hand helps her who works with
the brain. Today we know there could be no choice of
work until there was freedom of choice to work.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Women Are Going to Work</h3>

<p class="author">By Elsie Clews Parsons</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “Penalizing Marriage.” In “The Independent.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Women are going to work, and they are not going
to limit their work to house service. Let us cease<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_171"></a>[171]</span>
to attempt to make marriage and childbearing a check
upon their work, thereby strengthening their tendencies
toward celibacy and race suicide.... Let us rather
adjust work and marriage and childbearing to a
minimum of incompatibility by lifting inherited taboos
on education in sex facts.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Development Through Choice of Work</h3>

<p class="author">By Florence Kiper</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Forum.”)</p>

</div>

<p>More and more must we demand that woman be
freed from unmeaning drudgery—and from the enervating
influences of support in return for sex, in
marriage or out of it. Only by self-assertion and by
self-development through the work which she may
elect, will woman come into her own.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Woman’s Place</h3>

<p class="author">By Gertrude Breslau Fuller</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_36">See page 36</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>A woman’s place is like a man’s place. It is
where her work is, wherever she can do the most good;
wherever she serves herself best without invading any
one else.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Woman’s Demand for Work</h3>

<p class="author">By Josephine Butler</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “Woman’s Work and Woman’s Culture.”)</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_157">See page 157</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>The demand of the women of the humbler classes
for bread may be more pressing, but it is not more sincere<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_172"></a>[172]</span>
than that of the women of the leisure classes for
work. And these two demands coming together, it
seems to me, point to an end so plainly to be discerned,
that I marvel that any should remain blind
to it. The latter demand is the attestation of the
collective human conscience that God does not permit
any to live as cumberers of the earth, and that the
very conditions of their moral existence is, that efforts
and pains taken by them should answer to some part
of the needs of the community.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Left-Over Women</h3>

<p class="author">By Ethel Maud Colquhoun</p>

<p class="intro">(English contemporary. Author “The Vocation of Women,”
“Two on Their Travels,” etc. From “The Vocation of Women.”)</p>

</div>

<p>It is practically certain that every discussion on
the vocation of woman, whether among feminists or
their opponents, will ultimately lead to the following
problem: woman was obviously intended by nature to
become a mother; modern social requirements make it
obligatory that she should be legally married before
doing so; there are not enough husbands to go round.
What do you propose to do with the women who are
left over?</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Sex-Parasitism</h3>

<p class="author">By Olive Schreiner</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “Woman and Labor.”)</p>

</div>

<p>The position of the unemployed modern female
is one wholly different. The choice before her, as her
ancient fields of domestic labor slip from her, is not
generally or often at the present day the choice between<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_173"></a>[173]</span>
finding new fields of labor, or death; but one
far more serious in its ultimate reaction on humanity
as a whole—it is the choice between finding new
forms of labor or sinking slowly into a condition of
more or less complete and passive <i>sex parasitism</i>!</p>

<p>Again and again in the history of the past, when
among human creatures a certain stage of material
civilization has been reached, a curious tendency has
manifested itself for the human female to become
more or less parasitic; social conditions tend to rob
her of all forms of active conscious social labor, and
to reduce her, like the field-bug, to the passive exercise
of her sex functions alone. And the result of this
parasitism has invariably been the decay in vitality
and intelligence of the female, followed by a longer
or shorter period by that of her male descendants and
her entire society.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Changed Conditions of Tomorrow</h3>

<p class="author">By Margaret O. B. Wilkinson</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “Parents and Their Problems.”)</p>

</div>

<p>We must accustom ourselves to another new idea
that as marriage is no longer a duty, for all
women, so it is no longer a trade or profession,
requiring all the time and labor of all married women.
Some confusion has arisen on this point because certain
labors have been associated with marriage in the
popular mind. But these labors may, in the near future,
come to be considered as trades in themselves,
not inseparably connected with marriage, and the
wives of the days to come may be found performing
diverse tasks. For we know that in our own times<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_174"></a>[174]</span>
women may be the best of wives and good mothers,
but with small knowledge of spinning, weaving, basket-making,
pottery-making, agriculture or even baking,
although all of these trades used to be inseparably
connected with the lives of married women. And tomorrow,
owing to changed conditions, the woman doctor
or lawyer may seem to be as desirable of a mate as
the cook or seamstress today. So much is possible!</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Woman’s Work in Woman’s Way</h3>

<p class="author">By Lida Parce</p>

<p class="intro">(American contemporary. Educator. Author of “Economic
Determinism,” etc. From “The Progressive Woman.”)</p>

</div>

<p>If the economic interest is the important one,
then woman’s work has always been the important
work. The loom and the hand mill were strictly feminine
implements, so long as their product was used
only to supply the wants of the people. Only when
the products of the loom and the mill became useful
in competition did man take them up; and then for
purposes of exploitation. For thousands of years
man has devastated the earth and drenched it in blood
to further that exploitation. Now he is beginning to
find out that, after all, the only safe and proper use
that can be made of goods is in supplying the needs of
the people. Man has not yet begun to learn humility,
but he will learn it.</p>

<p>Isn’t it time for women to begin to defend their
work, and their way of doing it? And to make a
sober and critical estimate of the part that man has
played in history? I think that women may well take
pride in doing their work in a woman’s way.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_175"></a>[175]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Women Workers in New England</h3>

<p class="author">By Annie Marion MacLean, Ph. D.</p>

<p class="intro">(Professor of Sociology in Adelphi College. From “Wage-Earning
Women.”)</p>

</div>

<p>It was in New England that women and girls
first went out in large numbers to work with their
husbands and fathers and brothers in the mill. They
followed the industries from the fireside to the factory.
It was a natural movement stimulated in many
cases by necessity. At that time public opinion
frowned on the idle girl, and work was considered a
crowning virtue; so the factory girl was not commiserated
but commended. Things have changed in the
last century, and now we find most people of humanitarian
instincts looking with regret at the spectacle
of young girls marching to the mills. The procession
is a long one in the old New England towns, and it is
growing longer with the years....</p>

<p>When Charles Dickens came to America, it was
to Lowell he went to see the cotton-mills in operation,
and it was of those mills he wrote his glowing picture
of factory life for women. “They look like human
beings,” he said, “not like beasts of burden.” If he
were to come to us to-day to see the cotton workers,
he would, in all probability, be taken to Fall River
first and asked to behold the product of the evolution
of two generations. He would see no beautiful window
boxes, no smiling girls making poetry as they
worked, or moving about with songs on their lips.
Life is grim in the Fall River mills, and the women
come perilously near having the mien of “beasts of
burden.” The semi-idyllic conditions of the early<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_176"></a>[176]</span>
New England cotton-mill have given way to a system
brutalized by greed and the exigencies of modern industry.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Women Who Sit at Ease</h3>

<p class="author">By Grace Fallow Norton</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Woman’s Journal.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">I know a lady in this land</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Who carries a Chinese fan in her hand;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But in her heart does she carry a thought</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Of her Chinese sister who carefully wrought</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The dainty, delicate, silken toy</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For her to admire and enjoy?</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">To shield my lady from chilling draught</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Is a Japanese screen of curious craft.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">She takes the comfort its presence gives,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But in her heart not one thought lives,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Not even one little thought—ahem!—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For her Japanese sister from over the sea!</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>One-Fifth of the Women Population at Work</h3>

<p class="author">By M. Carey Thomas</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_10">See page 10</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>Unheralded, with no blare of trumpets, reluctantly
emerging into the light, are millions of women
wage-earners thronging every trade and profession,
multiplying themselves beyond all calculation from
census to census in every country of the civilized
world. Even in the United States where fewer women
are at work than in any other country about five millions
of women, or about one-fifth of all women of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_177"></a>[177]</span>
working age, are supporting themselves outside the
home. It is because this industrial revolution has
taken place in our own lifetime that we do not as yet
realize it. Women of my own age, however, need
only refer to their own experience. I can remember
when no women at all were employed in business
offices, when the business streets of New York and
Philadelphia and Baltimore were practically deserted
by women. Now all the great office buildings are like
rabbit hutches swarming with women typewriters,
women bookkeepers, women secretaries, and business
women of every sort, kind and description. Already
everyone who studies the subject is compelled to recognize
that whether we wish it or not the economic independence
of women is taking place before our eyes.
Men of the poorer classes have long been unable to
care for their families without the assistance of women,
and men of the classes which formerly supported
their wives and daughters in comfort are now unable
to do so and are becoming increasingly unwilling to
marry and assume responsibility which they cannot
meet....</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Woman’s Awakening</h3>

<p class="author">By Josephine Conger</p>

<p class="intro">(Editor “Home Life Magazine.” Formerly editor and publisher
“The Progressive Woman.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">She wrought, and the world wore on its back the cloth her nimble fingers wove.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And as she wrought her mind lay blank beneath the thick-coiled tresses of her hair,</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_178"></a>[178]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">For man had relegated to her that one task of weaving.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And while her mind lay blank, the rulers of the earth reached forth, and (clad in cloth she wove)</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Built for them cities, kingdoms, empires, laws,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And ruled within them to their hearts’ content.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And Woman dreamed and wove, and dreamed and wove,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Monotonously for ages dreamed and wove, apparently content.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Then took the rulers of the earth from out her hands her weaving;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Left the Woman empty-handed in her home;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Gave her universal task to vast machines, to mills, to factories;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Took the dignity of social service from her hearth;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">No longer in her handiwork was clad the world.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Then Woman sat in brooding silence, or she served,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Growing dark-browed in rebellion, the wheels that spun the cloth she erstwhile wove.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Served machines in mills and factories.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Then saw her children serve; the girl-child, tender, soft;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And the small boy who should have played in freedom with his kind.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">And when she saw herself who once had clothed the world in dignity</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Turned slave to whirring wheels, to harsh, unsympathetic steel and iron,</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_179"></a>[179]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">When the soft children of her mortal agony were murdered inch by inch and year by year</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Before her eyes—when the Woman, bereft, defeated,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Or brooding at her task saw this,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">No longer lay her mind asleep. No longer dreamed she</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">As when she sat beside her ancient tasks at home,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Her children playing near her in the sun.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Awaked the Woman then in every land where slavery to the harsh machine had come.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Awaked and brushed the cobwebs of tradition from her brain.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Spoke of the unfairness of the rulers in the busy marts.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Asked for place beside them in the making of the laws;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">In their execution. Asked for justice for the race,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Including women and the children which they bear.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Awaked the Woman when the pressure of the system</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Grew too heavy on her heart, and cried: “We must</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Abolish this, O Brother Man;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Together you and I must build a better day, a universal humanhood, a superworld.”</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Awaked the Woman, and the passion of her cry envelopes all the world today,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">As once enveloped human kind the cloth she wove.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_180"></a>[180]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Simple Right to Live</h3>

<p class="author">By Margaret Dreier Robins</p>

<p class="intro">(American contemporary. Writer and speaker on labor problems,
especially those concerning the woman and child. President
of the National Women’s Trade Union League. In “Life and
Labor.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Why must young girls pay the price of their
youth and forfeit their right of motherhood at the
machine—why must thousands of men and women
endure hardships and sufferings to secure the primitive
demands of a living wage and the right to
self-government, to which we as a people stand
pledged? What power makes necessary these terrible
struggles for the simple right to live?</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Woman’s Wages</h3>

<p class="author">By Emmaline Pethick-Lawrence</p>

<p class="intro-c">(Editor of “Votes for Women,” London. In “Life and
Labor.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Woman’s industrial life is inseparable from her
civic and social status. The only way to earn equal
pay for equal work is to win equal political rights,
equal influence with the legislature.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Song of the Working Girls</h3>

<p class="author">By Harriet Monroe</p>

<p class="intro-c">(American contemporary. Editor “Poetry.” In “Life and
Labor.”<a id="FNanchor_13" href="#Footnote_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a>)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Sisters of the whirling wheel</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Are we all day;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Builders of a house of steel</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">On Time’s highway,</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_181"></a>[181]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">Giving bravely, hour by hour,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">All we have of youth and power.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Oh, lords of the house we rear,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Hear us, hear!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Green are the fields in May-time,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Grant us our love-time, play-time.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Short is the day and dear.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Fingers fly and engines boom</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">The livelong day,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Through far fields when roses bloom</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">The soft winds play.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Vast the work is—sound and true</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Be the tower we build for you!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Oh, lords of the house we rear,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Hear us, hear!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Green are the fields in May-time,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Grant us our love-time, play-time.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Short is the day and dear.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Ours the future is—we face</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">The whole world’s needs.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">In our hearts the coming race</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">For life’s joy pleads.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">As you make us—slaves or free—</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Oh, lords of the house we rear,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Hear us, hear!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Green are the fields in May-time,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Grant us our love-time, play-time.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Short is the day and dear.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="footnotes">
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_13" href="#FNanchor_13" class="label">[13]</a> Copyright by the “Poetry Publishing Co.”</p>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_182"></a>[182]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Economics and the Home</h3>

<p class="author">By Ethel Maud Colquhoun</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_172">See page 172</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>If woman is to be normally the economic partner
of man in the home, it is a question of first importance
that she should be his economic equal.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>How Is She Housed?</h3>

<p class="author">By Mary Higgs</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From her book, “Practical Housekeeping.”)</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_65">See page 65</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>Upon how the woman worker of today is housed,
depends, very largely, the efficiency and productiveness
of her work. But, more impelling still, upon how
she is housed depends the efficiency and productiveness
of the future generation. For we must not forget
that we have many married and widowed industrial
women, and that large numbers of our working
girls will rear the children of the coming race.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Orchards</h3>

<p class="author">By Theodosia Garrison</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “Everybody’s Magazine.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Orchards in the Spring-time! Oh, I think and think of them—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Filmy mists of pink and white above the fresh, young green,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Lifting and drifting—how my eyes could drink of them!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0"><i>I’m staring at a dirty wall behind a big machine.</i></div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_183"></a>[183]</span>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Orchards in the Spring-time! Deep in soft, cool shadows,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Moving all together when the west wind blows</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Fragrance upon fragrance over road and meadows—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0"><i>I’m smelling heat and oil and sweat, and thick, black clothes.</i></div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Orchards in the Spring-time! The clean white and pink of them</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Lifting and drifting with all the winds that blow.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Orchards in the Spring-time! Thank God I can think of them!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0"><i>You’re not docked for thinking—if the foreman doesn’t know.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Exploitation of Workingwomen</h3>

<p class="author">By Kate Richards O’Hare</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_119">See page 119</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>Woman labor in itself is not bad; it is good. It
is woman wage-labor which is the curse. It is not
labor, but exploited labor that is a menace to the
womankind of the race.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Success Through Work</h3>

<p class="author">By Madame Nordica<br>
(Lillian Norton)</p>

</div>

<p>If you work five minutes, you succeed five minutes’
worth; if you work five hours, you succeed five
hours’ worth. Plenty have natural voices equal to
mine, <i>but I have worked</i>.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_184"></a>[184]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Woman and Social Betterment</h3>

<p class="author">By Ellen H. Richards, A. M.</p>

<p class="intro">(Author of “The Cost of Living.” From Introduction to
“The Woman Who Spends.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Social economics is preeminently a woman’s problem,
especially if Münsterberg’s assertion is widely
true that in America it is the women who have the
leisure and the cultivation to direct the development
of social conditions. With this opportunity comes
corresponding responsibilities.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Woman and the Dinner Pail</h3>

<p class="author">By Eva Gore-Booth</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “The Case for Woman Suffrage.”)</p>

</div>

<p>The rich may say that women should stay at
home and cook the dinner; the poor know that if women
did stay at home there would often be no dinner
to cook.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Lady</h3>

<p class="author">By Emily James Putnam</p>

<p class="intro">(American contemporary. The following is from her book,
whose title is self-explanatory—“The Lady.”)</p>

</div>

<p>The typical lady everywhere tends to the feudal
habit of mind.... She can renounce the world more
easily than she can identify herself with it. A lady
may become a nun in the strictest and poorest order
without the moral convulsion, the destruction of false
ideas, the birth of character that would be the preliminary
steps toward becoming an effective stenographer.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_185"></a>[185]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Unequal Distribution of Labor</h3>

<p class="author">By Honnor Morton</p>

</div>

<p>Obviously, if all women did their share of the
world’s work, there would be no need for the seamstress
to slave sixteen hours at a stretch; there would
be no starvation among the poor, and no hysteria
among the rich.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Working Woman Speaks</h3>

<p class="author">By Emily Taplin Royle</p>

<p class="intro">(In “The Woman’s Journal.” Mrs. John Martin, speaking at
an anti-suffrage meeting in New York, says that women normally need
a great deal of solitude, quiet and sleep and they suffer physically,
mentally and morally, if they do not get it.)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“Solitude, quiet and sleep!”</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">I stand by the roaring loom</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And watch the growth of the silken threads,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">That glow in the bare, gray room.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I hurry through darkling streets</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">In the chill of the wintry day,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">That women who talk from their cloistered ease</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">May rustle in colors gay.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“Solitude, quiet and sleep!”</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">In the dripping, humid air</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I whiten the flimsy laces</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">That women may be fair;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I clothe my orphan children</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">With the price my bare hands yield,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">That the idle women may walk as fair</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">As the lilies of the field.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“Solitude, quiet and sleep!”</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Is it given to me today,</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_186"></a>[186]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">When I march in the ranks with those who fight</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">To keep the wolf at bay?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Do my daughters rest in peace</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Where a myriad needles yield</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Their bitter bread or a sheet of flame,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And the rest of the Potter’s Field?</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“Solitude, quiet and sleep!”</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">To factory, shop and mill,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The feet of the working women go,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">While their leisure sisters still</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Boast of the home they have never earned,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Of the ease we can never share,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And bid us go back to the depths again,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Like Lazarus to his lair.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Bondwomen</h3>

<p class="author">By Dora Marsden</p>

<p class="intro">(English contemporary. Editor “The Freewoman,” a brilliant,
radical feminist journal. In “The Freewoman.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Feminists would hold that it is neither desirable
nor necessary for women, when they become mothers,
to leave their chosen, money-earning work for any
length of time. The fact that they do so, largely rests
on tradition which has to be worn down. In wearing
it down vast changes must take place in social conditions
in housing, nursing, kindergarten—in the industrial
world and in the professional.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3 class="x-ebookmaker-important">By Belle Lindner Israels</h3>

<p class="intro-c">(From Introduction to “The Upholstered Cage.”)</p>

</div>

<p>We know now that the girl without occupation
is the girl without mental growth.</p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_187"></a>[187]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="BOOK_VII">BOOK VII<br>
<span class="smaller">Education</span></h2>

</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_188"></a>[188]</span></p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_189"></a>[189]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="EDUCATION">EDUCATION</h2>

</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Soul Murder in the Schools</h3>

<p class="author">By Ellen Key</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “The Century of the Child.”<a id="FNanchor_14" href="#Footnote_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a>)</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_143">See page 143</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>Any one who would attempt the task of felling
a virgin forest with a penknife would probably feel the
same paralysis of despair that the reformer feels when
confronted with existing school systems. The latter
finds an impassable thicket of folly, prejudice, and
mistakes, where each point is open to attack, but
where each attack fails because of the inadequate
means at the reformer’s command.</p>

<div class="footnotes">
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_14" href="#FNanchor_14" class="label">[14]</a> J. G. Stokes Co., Pub.</p>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Old and New Schools</h3>

<p class="author">By Florence Elberta Barns</p>

<p class="intro">(From “Social Aspects of Industrial Education” in “Education”—a
monthly school magazine.)</p>

</div>

<p>The master of the old school looked askance at
the master of the new school, and the following conversation
is recorded:</p>

<p>“Young man, in my day, in your day, in the
present day, and in the future day, the three R’s
were, are, and will be, the necessary and most efficient
training for our school children. Can you deny the
evidence of generations trained in this way?”</p>

<p>“Nay, my master, I do not dispute that the three
R’s are a necessity to the mental development of the
race, but my contention is that besides this literary
culture, and theoretical knowledge, a training for the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_190"></a>[190]</span>
hands, and practical ability should be fostered, and
included within the curriculum of our schools. Can
you deny the evidence of the present day, testifying
to the need of efficient training in all branches of
industry and business, as well as in the professions
and arts? How, dear sir, are we to meet this pressing
need, and prepare our people for a life of useful labor,
if we do not begin to train them from the primary
class?”</p>

<p>“And so, sir, you would join the ranks of those
who are commercializing all the fine arts, who are forgetting
all else but money in capital letters?”</p>

<p>“You do not understand, my master. Under the
great economic pressure of the times, waste-labor must
be avoided, and training is the only means of
avoidance. Think of the mass of immigrants that
flock to our cities, to be amalgamated with our race.
It is a laboring class, and self-preservation demands
that we provide suitable living and working centers
for it and its posterity. And our own people demand
the same consideration in view of the fact that the
great majority, poor, middle-class, and rich, are employed
in some art, industrial or fine. All fine arts,
they, if we provide efficient training for skill and
fine workmanship.”</p>

<p>“I am grieved that one of my former pupils
should so forget the ideals of education. If you must,
build schools for those who wish industrial training,
but keep our cultural schools undisturbed.”</p>

<p>“Ah, that would not be democratic, my master,
and neither would it be effective. Our idea is to
develop both the brain and the hand—in this way<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_191"></a>[191]</span>
opening the door to the life work which appeals most
to each individual.”</p>

<p>And the master of the old school answered,
“Well.”</p>

<p>In the above we find the prevailing controversy
between the old and the new, a controversy which
must cease with the progression of thought, and
understanding of the times.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Essentials in Education</h3>

<p class="author">By Mary Snow</p>

<p class="intro">(Supervisor, Household Arts and Science, Board of Education,
Chicago. From “The Child in the City.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Certainly some essential is missing. Children are
not dull about significant truths. They wish to know
how to read and to write and to manipulate number
processes. They have wholesome and often keen interest
in the movements and experiences of people
and the great figures in history; they work hard and
cheerfully to know somewhat of the countries of the
earth. Musical expression satisfies and delights them.
Art entices them up to the point where they find that
it misses practical application, and then interest dies
and with it expression. Then they begin to reach
after further reality with passionate earnestness.
They long to express themselves in tangible ways.
They have a right consciously to experience the sensations
of knowing that they know and knowing that
they can do. If opportunity for “doing” has been
opened to them, they will have gained in strength of
character through their authoritative wills commanding
their powers, and the purposive and co-ordinate<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_192"></a>[192]</span>
work of the motor phases of education will have furnished
a kind of test of progress, a mental verification
of accomplishment that can never come through
any academic work. They have many measuring rods
in the evaluation of the finished task—the eye, the
muscular tension, judgment, comparison, trial. There
is necessary integrity since no amount of vanity will
make the tangible result reveal anything but truth.
William James, with ever brilliant insight, said that
manual training did more for the moral strength of
youth than any other subject in the curriculum.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Greatness of Froebel</h3>

<p class="author">By Marion Gertrude Haines</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “Home Government.”)</p>

</div>

<p>No one before him so ably demonstrated the civic
and spiritual wisdom of Christ’s teachings as did
Froebel, in discovering—not devising—the ways and
means of developing man into a self-governed being,
obeying the inner voice of conscience in the face of
every temptation to which flesh is heir, and becoming
a voluntary, law-abiding citizen of both the individual
and the national home.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Mothers’ Library</h3>

<p class="author">By Elizabeth Cherrill Birney</p>

<p class="intro">(First chairman of literature in the National Congress of
Mothers. From “Parents and their Problems.”)</p>

</div>

<p>It seems a rather hard condition that though the
years when a mother feels most deeply her need for
more knowledge of children she should usually have
least time for reading and study. This would not be<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_193"></a>[193]</span>
so disastrous if school and college curricula were not
framed to embrace even the slightest preparation for
home life. That profession which demands a knowledge
of sanitation, dietetics, and chemistry of cooking,
careful and economic purchasing, artistic and
hygienic furnishing, to say nothing of the care of
children, is surely of sufficient dignity to deserve some
preparation.... We can learn no science or art entirely
from books, but when good trails have been
blazed by those who have gone before us, it is foolish
to attempt our own untried paths. Every mother can
hang a little book-shelf in her busiest corner, and put
on it from time to time a few books, which will be to
her what his Blackstone is to a lawyer, his Baedeker
to a traveler.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Aim and End of Education</h3>

<p class="author">By Lola Ridge</p>

<p class="intro">(Former organiser of the Modern School in New York. In
“Everyman.”)</p>

</div>

<p>What do we imagine to be the end and aim of
education? Most people will say, the acquisition of
knowledge. Knowledge of what? Of oneself, of
humanity, of life? If this was the ideal, as conceived
by the builders of the present system, it has not been
attained; or perhaps the system, like a Frankenstein
creation, has grown beyond all intent of its sponsors,
exhibiting a diabolic and independent will....</p>

<p>Let us examine the effect of public school education
upon the psychology of the child; then we shall
see if we are “wasting our energies.”</p>

<p>In the first place, no gardener would think of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_194"></a>[194]</span>
giving each plant the same amount of air and sun,
and the same quality of soil. Yet this is exactly what
you are doing to your children, and there are as many
different kinds of children as there are different kinds
of flowers. Why pay more attention to the cultivation
of a vegetable than to the development of a
human being? Each child requires individual attention,
individual understanding, and individual mental
food.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Standards Raised by Women Teachers</h3>

<p class="author">By Anne Bigoney Stewart</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Educational Review.”)</p>

</div>

<p>It is due to the perseverance of the women in
their poorly paid duty that teaching is gradually
emerging into a regular profession with a proper
stipend and respectable standing, and now when such
is the result, we have men crowding back into the profession
grumblingly, complaining of the poor pay,
and throwing up their hands in “holy horror” at the
“woman peril.”</p>

<p>And after all, of what does “the woman peril”
consist? That boys are being feminized; that is, that
boys are being trained to decenter standards of living?
That they do not so much drink, or smoke, or,
we hope, “sow wild oats,” that they do not so much
regard these acts as manly, or a necessary part of
their upbringing? That war is not a regular occupation;
that peace is desirable and to be sought after?</p>

<p>“That abnormal families in which the mother’s
influence is too long continued and not sufficiently<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_195"></a>[195]</span>
counteracted by masculine control are notoriously productive
of decadence and degeneracy.”</p>

<p>That is certainly a grave charge! “A mother’s
influence”! that which has been the theme of poets,
artists, scholars, essayists, the clergy, for centuries,
“productive of decadence and degeneracy.”</p>

<p>It would appear that logically as the masculine
mind may think, its logic is not unassailable.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Educating Children</h3>

<p class="author">By Maria Montessori</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From speech delivered in California.)</p>

</div>

<p>What shall we say, then, when the question before
us is that of educating children?</p>

<p>We know only too well the sorry spectacle of the
teacher, who, in the ordinary school room, must pour
certain cut and dried facts into the heads of the
scholars. In order to succeed in this barren path she
finds it necessary to discipline her pupils into immobility
and to force their attention. Prizes and punishments
are ever ready and efficient aids to the master
who must force into a given attitude of mind and
body those who are condemned to be his listeners.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Mother’s Task</h3>

<p class="author">By Ida Tarbell</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_266">See page 266</a>)</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “The Business of Being a Woman.”)</p>

</div>

<p>A woman never lived who did all she might have
done to open the mind of her child for its great adventure.
It is an exhaustless task. The woman who
sees it knows she has need of all the education the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_196"></a>[196]</span>
college can give, all the experience and culture she can
gather. She knows that the fuller her individual life,
the broader her interests, the better for the child.
She should be a person in their eyes. The real service
of the “higher education,” the freedom to take part
in whatever interests or stimulates her—lies in the
fact that it fits her intellectually to be a companion
worthy of a child.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>A Plan for Improving Female Education</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. Emma Willard</p>

<p class="intro">(From a paper read by Mrs. Willard before the members of
the New York Legislature, in behalf of a girl’s seminary, in 1819.
Reproduced in “Woman and the Higher Education,” Distaff Series.)</p>

</div>

<p>The object of this address is to convince the
public that a reform with respect to female education
is necessary; that it cannot be effected by individual
exertion, but that it requires the aid of the Legislature;
and, further, by showing the justice, the policy
and the magnanimity of such an undertaking, to persuade
that body to endow a seminary for females as
the commencement of such reformation.</p>

<p>The idea of a college for males will naturally be
associated with that of a seminary, instituted and
endowed by the public; and the absurdity of sending
ladies to college may, at first thought, strike every
one to whom this subject shall be proposed. I therefore
hasten to observe that the seminary here recommended
will be as different from those appropriated
to the other sex as the female character and duties are
from the male. The business of the husbandman is
not to waste his endeavors in seeking to make his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_197"></a>[197]</span>
orchard attain the strength and majesty of his forest,
but to rear each to the perfection of its nature....</p>

<p>1. Females, by having their understandings
cultivated, their reasoning powers developed and
strengthened, may be expected to act more from the
dictates of reason, and less from those of fashion and
caprice.</p>

<p>2. With minds thus strengthened, they would be
taught systems of morality enforced by the sanctions
of religion; and they might be expected to acquire
juster and more enlightened views of their duty, and
stronger and higher motives in its performance.</p>

<p>3. This plan of education offers all that can be
done to preserve female youth from a contempt of
useful labor. The pupils would become accustomed
to it, in conjunction with the high objects of literature
and the elegant pursuits of the fine arts; and it
is to be hoped that both from habit and association
they might in future life regard it as respectable.</p>

<p>To this it may be added that if housekeeping
could be raised to a regular art, and taught from
philosophical principles, it would become a higher
and more interesting occupation; and ladies of fortune,
like wealthy agriculturists, might find that to
regulate their business was an agreeable employment.</p>

<p>4. The pupils might be expected to acquire a
taste for moral and intellectual pleasures which would
buoy them above a passion for show and parade, and
which would make them seek to gratify the natural
love of superiority by endeavoring to excel others in
intrinsic merit rather than in the extrinsic frivolities
of dress, furniture, and equipage.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_198"></a>[198]</span></p>

<p>By being enlightened in moral philosophy, and in
that which teaches the operation of the mind, females
would be enabled to perceive the nature and extent
of that influence which they possess over their children,
and the obligation which this lays them under
to watch the formation of their characters with unceasing
vigilance, to become their instructors, to devise
plans for their improvement, to weed out the
vices of their minds, and to implant and foster the
virtues. And surely there is that in the maternal
bosom which, when its pleadings shall be aided by
education, will overcome the seductions of wealth and
fashion, and will lead the mother to seek her happiness
in communing with her children, and promoting
their welfare, rather than in a heartless intercourse
with the votaries of fashion, especially when with
an expanded mind she extends her views to futurity,
and sees her care to her offspring rewarded by peace
of conscience, the blessing of her family, the prosperity
of her country, and, finally, with everlasting
pleasure to herself and them....</p>

<p>In calling on my patriotic countrymen to effect
so noble an object, the consideration of national glory
should not be overlooked. Ages have rolled away;
barbarians have trodden the weaker sex beneath their
feet; tyrants have robbed us of the present light of
heaven, and fain would take its future. Nations calling
themselves polite have made us the fancied idols
of a ridiculous worship, and we have repaid them with
ruin for their folly. But where is that wise and heroic
country which has considered that our rights are
sacred, though we cannot defend them? that, though<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_199"></a>[199]</span>
a weaker, we are an essential part of the body politic,
whose corruption or improvement must affect the
whole? and which, having thus considered, has sought
to give us by education that rank in the scale of being
to which our importance entitles us? History shows
not that country. It shows many whose legislatures
have sought to improve their various vegetable productions
and their breeds of useful brutes, but none
whose public councils have made it an object of their
deliberations to improve the character of their women.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>A Moral Crusade</h3>

<p class="author">By Elizabeth Blackwell</p>

<p class="intro">(One of the brilliant Blackwell family, to which progress in
our country owes so much. Henry Blackwell married Lucy Stone,
and with her became a pioneer advocate of woman suffrage. Elizabeth
took up the study of medicine, forcing the medical colleges to
open their doors to women. From her letters.)</p>

</div>

<p>In the summer of 1847, with my carefully
hoarded earnings, I resolved to seek an entrance into
a medical school. Philadelphia was then considered
the chief seat of medical learning in America, so to
Philadelphia I went; taking passage in a sailing vessel
from Charleston for the sake of economy....</p>

<p>Applications were cautiously but persistently
made to the four medical colleges of Philadelphia for
admission as a regular student. The interviews with
their various professors were by turns hopeful and
disappointing....</p>

<p>The fear of successful rivalry which at that time
often existed in the medical mind was expressed by
the dean of one of the smaller schools, who frankly
replied to the application, “You cannot expect us to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_200"></a>[200]</span>
furnish you with a stick to break our heads with;”
so revolutionary seemed the attempt of a woman to
leave a subordinate position and seek to obtain a complete
medical education. A similarly mistaken notion
of the rapid practical success which would attend
a lady doctor was shown later by one of the
professors of my medical college, who was desirous of
entering into partnership with me on condition of
sharing profits over $5,000 on my first year’s practice.</p>

<p>During those fruitless efforts my kindly Quaker
adviser, whose private lectures I attended, said to me:
“Elizabeth, it is no use trying. Thee cannot gain
admission to these schools. Thee must go to Paris and
don masculine attire to gain the necessary knowledge.”
Curiously enough, this suggestion of disguise made
by good Dr. Warrington was also given me by Dr.
Pankhurst, the Professor of Surgery, in the largest
college in Philadelphia. He thoroughly approved of
a woman’s gaining complete medical knowledge; told
me that although my public entrance into the classes
was out of question, yet if I would assume masculine
attire and enter the college he could entirely rely on
two or three of his students to whom he should communicate
my disguise, who would watch the class and
give me timely notice to withdraw should my disguise
be suspected.</p>

<p>But neither the advice to go to Paris nor the suggestion
of disguise tempted me for the moment. It
was to my mind a moral crusade on which I had entered,
a course of justice and common sense, and it
might be pursued in the light of day, and with public
sanction, in order to accomplish its end.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_201"></a>[201]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Intellectual Women of Rome</h3>

<p class="author">By Lady Morgan</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_17">See page 17</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>Female amanuenses, or secretaries, or “writers
out of books,” were by no means unusual in Rome.
Vespasian had a female amanuesis, Antonio, whom he
greatly esteemed and confided in. Even the Christian
fathers adopted this fashion; and Eusebius asserts
that Origen had not only young men, but young
women to transcribe his books, which “they did with
peculiar neatness.” Among the accusations brought
against the Roman women of his own time by Juvenal,
is that of their learning; he bitterly attacks their presumption
in studying Greek, their interlarding even
their most familiar conversations with its elegant
idioms and phrases; and, among their other crimes
of acquirement, he further accuses them of encroaching
on the exclusive male prerogative of mind, by
discussing philosophical subjects, quoting favorite
authors and scholiasts, their <i>purism</i> in affected exactness
of grammar, and by their antiquarian researches
in language. On the word antiquarian, an ancient
commentator observes:—“Antiquaria, one that does
refine or preserve ancient books from corruption, one
studious of the old poets and historians, one that
studies ancient coins, statues, and inscribed stones:
lastly, such as use obsolete and antiquated words.
All which, though they might be counted an overplus
and curiosity in a woman, yet only the last is absolutely
a fault.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_202"></a>[202]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Power of Education</h3>

<p class="author">By “Ouida”</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_113">See page 113</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>That women should, however tardily, awaken to
a desire for greater intellectual light is of the utmost
promise. Education cannot confer genius, but it can
do an infinite work in the refinement, the strengthening,
and the enlightening of the mind; in the banishment
of prejudice, and in the correction of illogical
judgment. In view of the manifold superstitions, intolerances
and ignorances that prevail in the feminine
intelligence, and of the fearful influence which these
in turn bring to bear upon the children committed
in such numbers to their charge, no crusade that can
find favor with them, towards a New Jerusalem of
Culture, can be too early encouraged.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Vision Realized</h3>

<p class="author">By Bertha June Richardson, A. B.</p>

<p class="intro">(Holder of the Mary Lowell Stone Fellowship 1903. From
“The Woman Who Spends.”)</p>

</div>

<p>When the sweet faced New England woman,
living her quiet life in the old town of Halfield,
stretched out her strong, helpful hands to all the
generations of girls to come, by making a woman’s
college a possibility, she was called a dreamer, a
visionary woman, who had better be looked after by
some strong-minded man who could put her money to
some practical use. That vision realized has given
to hundreds of women ideals and standards which
have made life full and rich.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_203"></a>[203]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Vocational Training for Girls</h3>

<p class="author">By Alice Henry</p>

<p class="intro">(Of Australian birth. For a number of years editor of “Life
and Labor,” the official organ of the “Woman’s Trade Union
League.” Well-known speaker on suffrage and labor problems.
Author of “The Trade Union Woman,”<a id="FNanchor_15" href="#Footnote_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a> from which the following
is taken.)</p>

</div>

<p>Harvard was opened in 1636. Two hundred
years elapsed before there was any institution offering
corresponding advantages to girls....</p>

<p>If these women have always lagged in the rear
as increasing educational advantages of a literary or
professional character have been provided or procured
for boys, it is not strange, when, in reading
over the records of work on the few lines of industrial,
educational trade training and apprenticeship
we detect the same influences at work, sigh before the
same difficulties, and recognize the old, weary,
threadbare arguments too, which one would surely
think had been sufficiently disproved before to be at
least in this connection....</p>

<p>In such an age of transition as ours, any plan
of vocational training intended to include girls must
be a compromise with warring facts, and will therefore
have to face objections from both sides, from
those forward looking ones who feel that the domestic
side of woman’s activities is over emphasized,
and from those who still look back, who will fain refuse
to believe that the majority of women have to be
wage-earners for at least a part of their lives. These
latter argue that by affording to girls all the advantages
of industrial training, granted, or which may<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_204"></a>[204]</span>
be granted to boys, we are “taking them out of the
home.” As if they were not out of the home already!</p>

<div class="footnotes">
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_15" href="#FNanchor_15" class="label">[15]</a> Copyright by Henry Holt Publishing Co.</p>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Traditions Upset</h3>

<p class="author">By Emily J. Hutchins</p>

<p class="intro">(American contemporary. Instructor in Economics, Barnard
College, New York. From “The Annals of the American Academy.”)</p>

</div>

<p>The reaction that women show today to their
educational freedom upsets a lot of the notions we
have inherited about the atmosphere of seclusion in
which womanly natures have been supposed to
thrive.... Whatever fault may be found with our
educational system, it has at least provided a belated
opportunity for women to share in the social stimulus
that men have found and prized in academic institutions.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The History of Women’s Education</h3>

<p class="author">By Mary Ritter Beard</p>

<p class="intro-c">(Quoted from “Woman’s Work in Municipalities.”)</p>

</div>

<p>The history of the education of women from the
early days, when to educate “shes” was viewed with
horror as an immoral proposition, to the present time
when more “shes” graduate from the high schools
than “hes”, is an interesting record in itself. Even
more significant, however, is the fact that both
“hes” and “shes” are educated largely by women in
the secondary schools which are the schools of “the
people.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_205"></a>[205]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Professions Educational</h3>

<p class="author">By The Hon. Mrs. Arthur Lyttleton</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “Women and Their Work.”)</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_51">See page 51</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>The habits of application, of concentration and
of regularity which professional training requires
will never be out of place in any kind of life, and
women will be the more capable of doing, not only
their own particular kind of work, but all work, better
for the experience they have passed through. It
is simply a continuation of their education, which
now very unreasonably ends at eighteen.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Woman’s Struggle for Educational Rights</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. H. M. Swanwick</p>

<p class="intro">(English contemporary. Author of “The Future of the
Woman’s Movement,” from which the following is taken.)</p>

</div>

<p>All the world knows of the foundation of the
great modern career of sick-nursing; of the more bitter
and prolonged struggle of women to study medicine
and surgery and qualify as practitioners therein....
All these changes had, to a greater or less degree,
to be fought for by those who desired them....
People resisted them with more or less tenacity, and
used against the reformers the sort of arguments they
are still using against further emancipation....
There are, of course, some Orientalists, even in England,
who think in their hearts that it was a great
mistake to teach women to read. But most people
now accept the principle that women should have the
best education available, and only differ as to what
that education should be.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_206"></a>[206]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Equal Advantages of Education</h3>

<p class="author">By Elizabeth Cady Stanton</p>

<p class="intro">(Famous leader, with Susan B. Anthony, of the early woman
suffrage movement. From a letter quoted in “Life and Work of
Susan B. Anthony.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Should not all women, living in states where they
have the right to hold property, refuse to pay taxes
so long as they are unrepresented in the governments?...</p>

<p>Man has pre-empted the most profitable branches
of industry, and we demand a place at his side; to
this end we need the same advantages of education,
and we therefore claim that the best colleges of the
country be opened to us.... In her present ignorance,
woman’s religion, instead of making her noble and
free, by the wrong application of great principles of
right and justice, has made her bondage but more
certain and lasting; her degradation more helpless
and complete.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Intellect Wins</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. Alec Tweedie</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_126">See page 126</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>A pretty woman has the first innings, but an
intelligent woman gets the most runs. A clever
woman catches out her opponents.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Education and Votes for Women</h3>

<p class="author">By Elizabeth Cooper</p>

<p class="intro">(Author of “My Lady of the Chinese Court Yard,” “Women
of Egypt,” “Market for Souls,” “The Harem and the Purdah,”
“Living Up to Billy,” etc. From “Woman and Education” in
“Educational Foundations.”)</p>

</div>

<p>That this enlargement of the educational horizon
of women in Britain means necessarily “Votes for<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_207"></a>[207]</span>
Women” may or may not be inferred. Certain it
is that the advancing social and economic arrangements
of modern society will add continually to the
allotment to women of tasks and responsibilities unknown
to them in the past. Women will accept such
responsibilities in accordance with their ability and
training in competition with men, and their trained
intelligence will become year by year a more widely
recognized fact in the minds of University authorities
and in the adjustment and enlargement of curriculum
and University life.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Democratization of Learning</h3>

<p class="author">By Charlotte J. Cipriani</p>

<p class="intro">(American contemporary. Teacher, writer on educational
problems. From “Elimination of Waste in Elementary Education,”
in “Education”—a monthly magazine.)</p>

</div>

<p>Two processes of “democratization” are conceivable
in the educational system of a nation; one
consists in lowering educational standards and aims
to the level that makes them readily acceptable and
accessible to the masses; the other consists in gradually
raising the intellectual level of the masses to
the level of high and efficient educational standards.
The admission of too early specialized “vocational
training” in a public school system has a dangerous
leaning towards the first process of democratization,
which is apt ultimately to defeat its own end. That
the second is of necessity a far lower and more
laborious one, does not invalidate its superiority.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_208"></a>[208]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Educating the Daughter</h3>

<p class="author">By Josephine Pitcairn Knowles</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “The Upholstered Cage.”)</p>

</div>

<p>The day has now arrived when nature and fairness
are proclaiming that the same expenditure of
time and money must be bestowed on the girl as on
the boy, and she should be regarded as an investment
in the same way as the boy now is. It has always
been realized that unless he is given a good education
and then started properly in life, that is, given a
“shove off,” as it were, he won’t do much, and so all
efforts in a family of small means are concentrated
toward helping launch the boy in life. The idea,
of course, being that he must support himself, and
very likely keep a wife and children, therefore it is
more important for him to get on well than for the
girl, who has her parents to keep her until she marries.
There would be nothing against this theory if it were
sound; but where the theory breaks down is that girls
and women now <i>do</i> have to earn their own living,
and this necessity is on the increase, and the point
is that the women have often to do it on inadequate
material; the girl earns <i>her</i> living <i>without</i> the previous
training, <i>without</i> the school or college training,
<i>without</i> any capital having been spent on her as a
premium, <i>without</i> all the advantages the boy started
with.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The World of Scholarship a Man’s World</h3>

<p class="author">By M. Carey Thomas</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_10">See page 10</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>Fifty years ago the world of scholarship was a
man’s world in which women had no share. Now<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_209"></a>[209]</span>
although only one woman in one thousand goes to
college, even in the United States, where there are
more college women than in any other country, the
position of every individual woman in every part of
the civilized world has been changed because this one-tenth
of one percent. has proved beyond possibility
of question that in intellect there is no sex. Unwillingly
at first but inevitably and irresistably men have
admitted women into intellectual comradeship. The
opinions of educated women can no longer be ignored
by educated men.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Social Education Important</h3>

<p class="author">By Helen Keller</p>

<p class="intro">(Helen Keller, having been born blind, deaf and dumb, is not
only remarkable in that she has mastered many things, including
articulate speech, but also that out of her reading and observations of
life, she is able to construct a philosophy obviously superior to that
of the average human being with normal faculties. The following
is from “The Modern Woman” in “The Metropolitan Magazine,”
October, 1912.)</p>

</div>

<p>Social ignorance is at the bottom of our miseries,
and if the function of education is to correct
ignorance, social education is at this hour the most
important kind of education.</p>

<p>The educated woman, then, is she who knows
the social basis of her life, and of the lives of those
whom she would help, her children, her employers,
her employees, the beggar at her door, and her congressman
at Washington....</p>

<p>It is for the American woman to know why
millions are shut out from the full benefits of such
education, art, and science as the race has thus far<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_210"></a>[210]</span>
achieved. We women have to face questions that men
alone have evidently not been able to solve....</p>

<p>We must educate ourselves and that without
delay. We cannot wait longer for political economists
to solve such vital problems as clean streets, decent
houses, warm clothes, wholesome food, living wages,
safeguarded mines and factories, honest public
schools. These are our questions. Already women are
speaking and speaking nobly, and men are speaking
with us. To be sure, some men and some women are
speaking against us; but their contest is with the
spirit of life. Lot’s wife turned back; but she is an exception.
It is proverbial that women get what they
are bent on getting, and circumstances are driving
them toward education.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>To Reach the Divine</h3>

<p class="author">By Emma Marwedel</p>

</div>

<p>Froebel learned to recognize in each child a new
educational problem, to be solved according to its
nature.... He therefore demands a methodical
unification in education, in order to reach the divine
through a unification of action.</p>

<div class="section">

<p class="author">By Mrs. Macy</p>

<p class="intro-c">(The teacher of Helen Keller.)</p>

</div>

<p>There is no education except self-education, no
government but self-government.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_211"></a>[211]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<p class="author">By C. Gasquoine Hartley<br>
(Mrs. Walter M. Gallichan)</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “The Truth About Women.”)</p>

</div>

<p>To assume, as Schopenhauer and so many others
have done ... that woman, on account of her womanhood
is incapable of intellectual and social development,
paying her sole debt of Nature in bearing and
caring for children, is really to state a belief in decay
for mankind.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_212"></a>[212]</span></p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_213"></a>[213]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="BOOK_VIII">BOOK VIII<br>
<span class="smaller">War and Peace</span></h2>

</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_214"></a>[214]</span></p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_215"></a>[215]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="WAR_AND_PEACE">WAR AND PEACE</h2>

</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>These Latter Days</h3>

<p class="author">By Olive Tilford Dargan</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “Path Flower.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Take down thy stars, O God! We look not up.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">In vain thou hangest there thy changeless sign.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">We lift our eyes to power’s glowing cup,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Nor care if blood make strong that wizard wine,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">So we but drink and feel the sorcery</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Of conquest in our veins, of wits grown keen</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">In strain and strife for flesh-sweet sovereignty,—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The fatal thrill of kingship over men.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">What though the soul be from the body shrunk,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And we array the temple, but no god?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">What though the cup of golden greed once drunk,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Our dust be laid in a dishonored sod,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">While thy loud hosts proclaim the end of wars?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">We read no sign. O, God, take down thy stars!</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Breeding Machines</h3>

<p class="author">By Marion Craig Wentworth</p>

<p class="intro">(From “War Brides,” a drama of protest, popularized by the
Russian actress, Nazimova.)</p>

</div>

<p>HOFFMAN: When we are gone—the best of
us,—what will the country do if it has no children?</p>

<p>HEDWIG: Why didn’t you think of that before?—before
you started this wicked war?</p>

<p>HOFFMAN—I tell you it is a glory to be a war
bride. There!</p>

<p>HEDWIG (with a shrug): A breeding machine!<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_216"></a>[216]</span>
(They all draw back). Why not call it what it is?
Speak the naked truth for once?</p>

<p class="center">...</p>

<p>HOFFMAN: That isn’t the question now. We
are going away—the best of us—to be shot, most
likely. Don’t you suppose we want to send some
part of ourselves into the future, since we can’t live
ourselves? There, that’s straight; and right, too.</p>

<p>HEDWIG: What I said—to breed a soldier for
the empire; to restock the land. (Fiercely). And
for what? For food for the next generation’s cannon.
Oh, it is an insult to our womanhood! You violate
all that makes marriage sacred! (Agitated, she walks
about the room). Are we women never to get up out
of the dust? You never asked us if we wanted this
war, yet you ask us to gather in the crops, cut the
wood, keep the world going, drudge and slave, and
wait, and agonize, lose our all, and go on bearing more
men—and more—to be shot down! If we breed the
men for you, why don’t you let us say what is to become
of them? Do we want them shot—the very
breath of our life?</p>

<p>HOFFMAN: It is for the fatherland.</p>

<p>HEDWIG: You use us, and use us,—dolls,
beasts of burden, and you expect us to bear it forever
dumbly; but I won’t! I shall cry out till I die.
And now you say it almost out loud, “Go and breed
for the empire.” War brides! Pah!</p>

<p>HOFFMAN: I never would dream of speaking
to Amelia like that. She is the sweetest girl I have
seen for many a day.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_217"></a>[217]</span></p>

<p>HEDWIG: What will happen to Amelia? Have
you thought of that? No; I warrant you haven’t.
Well, look. A few kisses and sweet words, the excitement
of the ceremony, the cheers of the crowd, some
days of living together,—I won’t call it marriage,
for Franz and I are the ones who know what real
marriage is, and how sacred it is,—then what? Before
you know it, an order to march. No husband to
wait with her, to watch over her. Think of her
anxiety if she learns to love you. What kind of a
child will it be? Look at me. What kind of a child
would I have, do you think? I can hardly breathe
for thinking of my Franz, waiting, never knowing
from minute to minute. From the way I feel, I
should think my child would be born mad, I’m that
wild with worrying. And then for Amelia to go
through the agony alone! No husband to help her
through the terrible hour. What solace can the state
give then? And after that, if you don’t come back,
who is going to earn the bread for her child? Struggle
and struggle to feed herself and her child; and
the fine-sounding name you trick us with—war-bride!
Humph! That will all be forgotten then. Only one
thing can make it worth while, and do you know what
that is? Love! Well struggle through fire and
water for that, but without it....</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Babies Bred for War</h3>

<p class="author">By Mary Field</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “Everyman.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Said Prince Bismarck with a shrug of his shoulder
to a comment on the great number of men killed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_218"></a>[218]</span>
in one of the Franco-Prussian battles, “Oh, well, we
will have another crop in twenty years!”</p>

<p>It is crops of men that governments depend upon.
At the outbreak of the war the military nations of
Europe took immediate steps to provide for the next
crop of soldiers. Before the ranks mobilized the seed
of warriors was sown. In Germany all soldiers were
urged to marry before leaving for the front. In many
churches hundreds of couples were married simultaneously
that no time might be lost. One of the
Emperor’s own sons set the example which thousands
of marriageable men immediately followed. In some
villages “holy matrimony” was recognized as the
equivalent of an engagement. Everywhere throughout
the fatherland distinctions between legitimate and
illegitimate have become indistinct. An illegitimate
son receives the support of the government. To bear
children for the fatherland is of greater virtue than
that they shall be born of wedlock, for thrones are
greater than altars and exigencies greater than ceremonies.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>War Cripples</h3>

<p class="author">By Madeline Z. Doty</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The New Republic.”)</p>

</div>

<p>France says little and does much. She is proud;
she is heroic; she fights on. But the heart and life
of France is being crushed. It is impossible to see
this and do nothing. I offer my services as assistant
nurse at the American ambulance and am accepted....</p>

<p>On the second morning as I hurry down a long<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_219"></a>[219]</span>
hospital corridor I see a familiar face. A short, dark-haired,
dark-eyed young man is coming toward me.
He is one of the wounded and his right arm is gone.
His eye catches mine. He stops bewildered. Then
comes recognition. It is Zeni Peshkoff—Maxim
Gorki’s adopted son. Eight years ago when this man
was a boy I had known him in America. I grasp the
left hand, and my eyes drop before the empty right
sleeve. But Zeni Peshkoff is still gay, laughing Zeni.
He makes light of his trouble. Not until later do I
understand the terrible suffering there is from the
missing arm or realize how he struggles to use what
is not. Peshkoff had been in the trenches for months.
He had been through battles and bayonet charges and
escaped unhurt, but at last his day had come. A
bursting shell destroyed the right arm. He knew the
danger, and struggling to his feet, walked from the
battlefield. With the left hand he supported the
bleeding, broken right arm. As he stumbled back
past trenches full of German prisoners his plight was
so pitiful, his pluck so great, that instinctively these
men saluted. At the Place de Secours eight hundred
wounded had been brought in. There were accommodations
for one hundred and fifty.</p>

<p>All night young Peshkoff lay unattended, for
there were others worse hurt. Gangrene developed,
and he watched it spread from fingers to hand and
from hand to arm. In the morning a friendly lieutenant
noticed him. “There’s one chance,” he said,
“and that’s a hospital. If you can walk, come with
me.” Slowly young Peshkoff arose. Half fainting<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_220"></a>[220]</span>
he dressed and went with the lieutenant—first by taxi
to the train and then twelve torturing hours to Paris.
As the hours passed the gangrene crept higher and
higher. The sick man grew giddy with fever. At
each station his carriage companions, fearing death,
wished to leave him upon the platform. But the
lieutenant was firm. The one chance for life was the
hospital. Finally, Paris was reached; a waiting ambulance
rushed him to the hospital. Immediately he
was taken to the operating room and the arm amputated.
A half hour more and his arm could not
have been saved. But this dramatic incident is only
one of many. The pluck of the average soldier is
unbelievable. Operations are accepted without question.
There are no protests—only the murmured
“<i>C’est la guerre, que voulez-vous</i>.”</p>

<p>I asked Zeni Peshkoff, Socialist, what his sensations
were when he went out to kill. “It didn’t seem
real, it doesn’t now. Before my last charge the lieutenant
and I were filled with the beauty of the night.
We sat gazing at the stars. Then the command came,
and we rushed forward. It did not seem possible I
was killing human beings.” It is this unreality that
sustains men. Germans are not human beings—only
the enemy. For the wounded French soldier will tell
you he loathes war and longs for peace. He fights for
one object—a permanent peace. He fights to save his
children from fighting.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_221"></a>[221]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Devonshire Mother</h3>

<p class="author">By Marjorie Wilson</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Westminster Gazette.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">The king have called the Devon lads and they be answering fine—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But shadows seem to hide this way, for all the sun do shine,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For there’s Squire’s son have gone for one, and Parson’s son—and mine.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">I mind the day mine went from me—the skies were all aglow—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The cows deep in our little lanes was comin’ home so slow—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">“And don’t ’ee never grieve yourself,” he said, “because I go.”</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">His arms were strong around me, then he turned and went away—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I heard the little childer dear a’ singin’ at their play;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The meanin’ of an achin’ heart is hid from such as they.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">And scarce a day goes by now but I set my door ajar,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And watch the road that Jan went up, the time he went to war,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">That when he’ll come again to me, I’ll see him from afar.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">And in my chimney seat o’ nights, when quiet grows the farm,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I pray the Lord he be not cold, while I have fire to warm—</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_222"></a>[222]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">And give the mothers humble hearts whose boys are kept from harm.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">And then I take the Book and read before I seek my rest,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Of how that other Son went forth (them parts I like the best),</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And left his mother lone for him she’d cuddled on her breast.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">I like to think when nights were dark, and Him at prayer, maybe,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Upon the gurt dark mountain side, or in His boat at sea,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">He worried just a bit for her, who’d learnt Him at her knee.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">And maybe when He minds her ways, He will not let Jan fall—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I’m thinkin’ He will know my boy, with his dear ways an’ all—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">With his tanned face, his eyes of blue, and he so strappin’ tall.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Last Racial War</h3>

<p class="author">By Clara Zetkin</p>

<p class="intro">(Well-known Socialist leader of Germany. Many times imprisoned
for her denunciation of the present war. The following is
from “Die Gleichheit,” a woman’s paper, edited by herself.)</p>

</div>

<p>Above the horror of this dark hour do we not see
the light of certainty that the longing of the poor and
weak for free humanity must again unite the peoples<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_223"></a>[223]</span>
in one ideal and effort? We women hear the voices
which in this time of blood and iron speak low and
painfully, but nobly, of and for the future. Let us
interpret them for our children. Let us guard against
the hollow din which fills our streets today, when
cheap racial pride defeats humanity. In our children
we must have a pledge that this most fearful of all
wars is the last racial struggle. The blood of dead
and wounded must have become a stream to divide
what present need and future hope unite. It must be
a chain to bind eternally.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Early Morning Funeral</h3>

<p class="author">By Edna Elliott-Carr</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Living Age.”)</p>

</div>

<p>One of the sad sights is the early morning funeral
to be met almost daily in the streets of Paris—the
lonely journey of a dead hero from his bed of suffering
to the Garden of Sleep.</p>

<p>One sunny morning as I turned from the wide
Champs Elysees into a side street, I found waiting
near the back entrance of a large hotel hospital a
small company of gendarmes with bowed heads, their
banner bearing the crêpe ribbons of mourning. Near
them a few passers-by were standing reverently looking
on. I waited. The hearse drove closer to the
door, and later bore away the coffin. No military
pomp or display! A splendid hero had given his life
for his country, and this was his simple funeral.
Above, on the window balconies, some maids stood
looking down, crying, and wiping their tears away<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_224"></a>[224]</span>
with their aprons. This “colonel” had lain only four
days in the house of suffering, but in so short a time
had been beloved enough to be missed. The gendarmes
followed slowly, and in the rear a motor car bore a
military official. That was all!</p>

<p>The sun seemed to cease shining, and the world
looked cold and gray. A taxi cab hovered in sight.
I hailed it, and, entering, bade the driver accompany
the solemn cortage slowly. I had a sudden wish to
follow this soldier to his last resting place, and as I
did so, my thoughts were sad ones. How many thousands
of such deaths could this war already account
for, and how many thousands of hearts had it broken?</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Russian Women in Time of War</h3>

<p class="author">By Sarah Kropotkin-Lebedeff</p>

<p class="intro">(In “The Outlook” for October 21, 1914. Madame Lebedeff
is the daughter of the Russian Prince, Peter Kropotkin, known the
world over for his brilliant books, and his revolutionary ideas.)</p>

</div>

<p>It is not for nothing that the Russian peasant
woman is respected by her men and counted as their
equal in all labor. She plows and sows and reaps
with them, rising before the sun and ceasing work
only when the day fades. And the work she has to
undertake when her men have gone to war is no light
one. Each family has at least five or six acres to
cultivate. The pasture land the village holds is common.
It is usually the custom in time of stress for
the workers to do all the field work in common. At
three in the morning the women, and even the children,
turn out to work; at eleven they have a meal<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_225"></a>[225]</span>
of dry black bread and perhaps a small cucumber.
Then, while the sun is high, they sleep; and from
four o’clock they work again, till sunset.... There
is other work for the women to do—shoeing horses,
mending plows, scythes, wheels, and so on. The
blacksmith has gone to the war, the wheelwright also;
so the peasant woman wields the hammer and sends
the chips flying with the ax. In the summer she fells
the trees and shears the sheep. And all the winter
she spins and weaves, waiting for her men to come
back, hoping always, and teaching her children to
love their country and their father, who has gone to
defend them against a strange foe.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Red Easter</h3>

<p class="author">By Marion Brown</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “Femina.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">This is a spring that has no Easter Day.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Even the little children must be told</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">That all the beauty of the world is sold;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And in the grim, gray ranks of war’s array</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Christ’s carols turn to knells of loud dismay.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Nor women’s tears nor kingly power nor gold</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Can resurrect the forms the trenches hold.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Ah, children murmur softly at your play</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Lest your sweet mirth like poisoned darts be sped</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Swift to the widowed mother hearts reviled</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Twice over as they clasp their still-born dead.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Pray, children, for the world’s unreconciled!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Ye are our only lilies undefiled—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The others are incarnadined too red.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_226"></a>[226]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Rising Value of a Baby</h3>

<p class="author">By Mabel Potter Daggett</p>

<p class="intro">(From “What the War Really Means to Women” in “Pictorial
Review.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Thus is explained quite simply over the world
to-day the rising value of a baby. Civilization is running
short in the supply of men. We don’t know
exactly how short. There are Red Cross returns that
say in the first six months alone of the war there were
2,146,000 men killed in battle and 1,150,000 more
seriously wounded. Figures, however, of cold statistics,
as always, may be challenged. There is a living
figure that may not be. See the woman in black all
over Europe, and to-morrow we shall meet her in
Broadway. There are so many of her in every belligerent
land over there that her crêpe veil flutters
across her country’s flag like the smoke that dims the
landscape in a factory town. It is the mourning
emblem of her grief, unmistakably symbolizing the
dark catastrophe of civilization that has signaled Parliaments
to assemble in important session. Population
is being killed off at such an appalling rate at the
front that the means for replacing it behind the lines
must be speeded up without delay. To-day registrar-generals
in every land, in white-faced panic, are scanning
the figures of the birth-rates that continue to
show steadily diminishing returns. And in every
house of government in the world, above all the debates
on aeroplanes and submarines and shipping and
shells, there is the rising alarm of another demand.
Fill the cradles! In the defense of the State, men
bear arms. It is women who must bear the armies.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_227"></a>[227]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Wars Will Cease</h3>

<p class="author">By Anna A. Maley</p>

<p class="intro">(Prominent Socialist speaker and writer. Socialist nominee
for Governor of Washington in 1912.)</p>

</div>

<p>Wars will cease when the conditions which cause
them are abolished. The present war is no more of
an “accident” than have been the wars of the past.
But it is terrible and far-reaching enough in its effects
to warrant a reconstruction of our political and
industrial systems.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Prussians in Poland</h3>

<p class="author">By Laura de Turczynowicz<br>
(Nee Blackwell)</p>

<p class="intro">(The story of an American woman, the wife of a Polish
nobleman, caught in her home by the floodtide of German invasion
of the ancient Kingdom of Poland. From “When the Prussians
Came to Poland.”<a id="FNanchor_16" href="#Footnote_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>“Manya did not come when I rang—for Jacob....
A long time afterward my cook came. She had
difficulty in controlling herself, but finally made me
understand. The doctor had taken Manya—not yet
seventeen! God help her!...</p>

<p>“Four days after Manya’s disappearance, news
was brought that she was in the house of an old Jewess,
a cigarette maker. Leaving the cook with the
children, and hardly able to drag myself along, I
went with Jacob to find her.... After many difficulties
we finally found the place, and paying no attention
to the soldiers about, pushed our way into the
room where Manya was—what <i>had</i> been Manya.
When she, poor creature, saw us, she threw herself<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_228"></a>[228]</span>
on the floor sobbing. An officer came in to ask our
business with the girl.</p>

<p>“She is my maid—stolen! This is her father.
I have come to take her home.</p>

<p>“‘I am very sorry, but you are not allowed to
take her, she belongs to the soldiers.’</p>

<p>“Don’t you see, Herr Officer, the girl is dying?</p>

<p>“‘Ill she is, and shall have the best of care. We
have doctors to attend just such cases.’ And I had
to leave her! Jacob’s face was without expression,
he seemed to have lost the power to think or feel—his
little girl—!”</p>

<div class="footnotes">
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_16" href="#FNanchor_16" class="label">[16]</a> Grosset &amp; Dunlap.</p>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Deserter</h3>

<p class="author">By Ellen N. LaMotte</p>

<p class="intro">(The story of the human wreckage of the battlefield, as witnessed
by an American hospital nurse a few miles behind the
French lines. From “The Backwash of War.”<a id="FNanchor_17" href="#Footnote_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>When he could stand it no longer, he fired a
revolver up through the roof of his mouth, but he
made a mess of it. The ball tore out his left eye, and
then lodged somewhere under his skull, so they
bundled him into an ambulance and carried him,
cursing and screaming, to the nearest field hospital.
The journey was made in double quick time, over
rough Belgian roads. To save his life, he must reach
the hospital without delay, and if he was bounced to
death jolting along at break-neck speed, it did not
matter. That was understood. He was a deserter,
and discipline must be maintained. Since he had
failed on the job, his life must be saved, he must be
nursed back to health, until he was well enough to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_229"></a>[229]</span>
be stood up against a wall and shot. This is War.
Things like this also happen in peace time, but not so
obviously.</p>

<p>At the hospital he behaved abominably. The
ambulance men declared that he had tried to throw
himself out of the back of the ambulance, that he
had yelled and hurled himself about, and spat blood
all over the floor and blankets—in short, he was
very disagreeable. Upon the operating table he was
no more reasonable. He shouted and screamed and
threw himself from side to side, and it took a dozen
leather straps and four or five orderlies to hold him
in position, so that the surgeon could examine him.
During this commotion his left eye rolled about loosely
upon his cheek, and from his bleeding mouth he
shot great clots of stagnant blood, caring not where
they fell. One fell upon the immaculate white uniform
of the <i>Directrice</i>, and stained her from breast
to shoes. It was disgusting. They told him it was
<i>La Directrice</i>, and that he must be careful. For an
instant he stopped his raving, and regarded her
fixedly with his remaining eye, then took aim afresh,
and again covered her with his cowardly blood.
Truly it was disgusting.</p>

<p>To the <i>Medecin Major</i> it was incomprehensible,
and he said so. To attempt to kill oneself, when, in
these days, it was so easy to die in honour upon
the battlefield, was something he could not understand.
So the <i>Medecin Major</i> stood patiently aside,
his arms crossed, his supple fingers pulling the long
black hairs on his bare arms, waiting. He had long
to wait, for it was difficult to get the man under the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_230"></a>[230]</span>
anesthetic. Many cans of ether were used, which
went to prove that the patient was a drinking man.
Whether he had acquired the habit of hard drink before
or since the war could not be ascertained; the
war had lasted a year now, and in that time many
habits may be formed. As the <i>Medecin Major</i> stood
there, patiently fingering the hairs on his hairy arms,
he calculated the amount of ether that was expended—five
cans of ether, at so many francs a can—however,
the ether was a donation from America, so it
did not matter. Even so, it was wasteful.</p>

<p>At last they said he was ready. He was quiet.
During his struggles he had broken out two big teeth
with the mouth gag, and that added a little more
blood to the blood already choking him. Then the
<i>Medecin Major</i> did a very skillful operation. He
trephined the skull, extracted the bullet that had
lodged beneath it, and bound back in place that erratic
eye. After which the man was sent back to the
ward, while the surgeon returned hungrily to his
dinner, long overdue. In the ward, he was a bad
patient. He insisted upon tearing off his bandages,
although they told him that this meant bleeding to
death. His mind seemed fixed on death. He seemed
to want to die, and was thoroughly unreasonable, although
quite conscious. All of which meant that he
required constant watching and was a perfect nuisance.
He was so different from the other patients,
who wanted to live. It was a joy to nurse them. By
expert surgery, by expert nursing, some of these were
to be returned to their homes again, <i>reformes</i>, mutilated
for life, a burden to themselves and to society;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_231"></a>[231]</span>
others were to be nursed back to health, to a point at
which they could again shoulder eighty pounds of
marching kit, and be torn to pieces again on the firing
lines. It was a pleasure to nurse such as these.
It called forth all one’s skill, all one’s humanity.
But to nurse back to health a man who was to be
court-martialled and shot, truly that was a dead-end
occupation....</p>

<p>Dawn filtered in through the little square windows
of the ward. Two of the patients rolled on
their sides, that they might talk to one another. In
the silence of early morning their voices rang clear.</p>

<p>“Dost thou know, <i>mon ami</i>, that when we captured
that German battery a few days ago, we found
gunners chained to their guns?”</p>

<div class="footnotes">
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_17" href="#FNanchor_17" class="label">[17]</a> Putnam Sons.</p>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Prayer of the Toilers</h3>

<p class="author">By Rose Mills Powers</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Survey.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Lord of the peaceful Toilers, hark to the toiler’s plea:</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The kings of the earth assemble, pawns in their hands are we.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Now as the battle thickens, out of the blood and flame,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Lord of the Toilers, hear us; forgive us who play the game.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Lord of the cheerful reapers, the harvest was fair and good.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Hard by our quiet hearth stones, the yellowing wheat fields stood,</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_232"></a>[232]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">But the scythe has become a sabre in meadow and glebe and glen.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Lord of the Toilers, hear us; forgive as we cut down men!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Lord of the cunning craftsmen: The vision of Thee a lad,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Working with plane and measure, kept us content and glad;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Now, as we charge, red-handed, wielding the tools that kill,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Lord of the Toilers, hear us: Forgive us the blood we spill.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Lord of the visioning learners: out of our cloistered halls,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Parchment and tomb abandoned, we march when the bugle calls,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Death and destruction hurling, havoc to babes and wives,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Lord of the Toilers, hear us: Forgive us these broken lives.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Lord of the keen-eyed traders: our vessels went up and down,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Our shores were alive with traffic in village and mart and town,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But our harbors are red with slaughter, the markets in ruins lie,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Lord of the Toilers, hear us; forgive as we strike and die!</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_233"></a>[233]</span>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Lord of the peaceful Toilers, husbandman, craftsman, clerk,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Student and sage and trader, torn from the world’s good work,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Dead in the King’s arena, pawns who were not to blame,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Lord of the Toilers, hear us: end now the awful game!</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Righteous Wars</h3>

<p class="author">By Beulah Marie Dix</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From the drama, “Across the Border.”)</p>

</div>

<p><span class="smcap">The Junior Lieutenant</span>: Children crying—hungry,
freezing, tortured. Hundreds of ’em. Poor
little devils! Old women—starving, stumbling,
driven, mumbling their prayers that nobody minds.
Mothers crying over the smashed-up things that were
their kids. Ah-h! That’s the horses screeching.
Don’t you hear them? When a shell rips them up
they look at you beseeching. But you can’t waste
shot on them.... That’s the chaps in the hospital
now—drying up with typhoid, rotting with dysentery—chaps
on the battlefield, torn and smashed and
mangled, two days of it, three days of it, and the
wheels of the big guns grinding them to pulp. Ah-h!
That’s some chaps caught in the granary. It’s burning.
The flames are at them. That’s a train load of
wounded, smashing through a bridge, stifling, drowning,
helpless, rats in a trap. Men and women and
children,—hundreds of ’em, thousands of ’em, millions<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_234"></a>[234]</span>
of ’em—O my God! My God! Why don’t you
stop it? Why don’t you stop it?</p>

<p><span class="smcap">The Master of the House</span>: Did you do anything
to stop it? It’s drifted through here, that wail
of the world, for a long time now. Years. Centuries.
Ages. God hears it. It repented Him that He made
the world. Always the crying comes up to us. Always
misery and to spare. But it’s worse when you
are making your righteous wars. For they’re all
righteous. There’s never a man comes here but says,
as you said, that his cause is just and God is on his
side. It’s wonderful how many ages through, as you
reckon time, you men have fought your righteous
wars to advance civilization, and you’re advancing
it today just the same way you did when Attilia was
king.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3 class="x-ebookmaker-important">By Ellen Key</h3>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_143">See page 143</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>If war should stand as an eternal phantom
against the horizon of the world, then all social work
for the elevating and purifying of humanity might
as well be laid down forever.</p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_235"></a>[235]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="BOOK_IX">BOOK IX<br>
<span class="smaller">Classes</span></h2>

</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_236"></a>[236]</span></p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_237"></a>[237]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="CLASSES">CLASSES</h2>

</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Poet’s Task</h3>

<p class="author">By Margaret Hoblitt</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “Charities and Commons.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Wouldst thou be a poet of these latter days?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Turn then thine eye from joy, thine ear from praise!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Go where the city’s pallid millions throng,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And of their sorrows fashion thee a song.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Sing of unending toil,—of childhood’s blight—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Of weary day that dawns on weary night.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Sing, if thou canst, of womanhood in shame,—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Of manhood bartered for a place and name.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Sing of a flower that never knew the sun;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Sing of a virtue dead ere ’twas begun!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Then, lest our hearts break and our faith grow cold,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Sing better things to be, ere time is old.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Sing ’midst the tears, and touch men’s souls with fire,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Till God fulfill through thee His Great Desire.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Out of the Darkness</h3>

<p class="author">By Voltairine de Cleyre</p>

<p class="intro-c">(Poet and essayist. Died 1912.)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Who am I? Only one of the commonest common people,</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_238"></a>[238]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">Only a worked-out body, a shriveled and withered soul;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">What right have I to sing, then? None; and I do not, I cannot.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Why ruin the rhythm and rhyme of the great world’s songs with moaning?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I know not—nor why whistles must shriek, wheels ceaselessly mutter;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Nor why all I touch turns to clashing and clanging and discord;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I know not; I know only this,—I was born to this, live in it hourly,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Go ’round with it, hum with it, curse with it, would laugh with it, had it laughter;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">It is my breath—and that breath goes outward from me in moaning.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">O you, up there, I have heard you; I am “God’s image defaced”,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">“In heaven reward awaits me,” “hereafter I shall be perfect”;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Ages you’ve sung that song, but what is it to me, think you?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">If you heard down here in the smoke and the smut, in the smear and the offal,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">In the dust, in the mire, in the grime and in the slime, in the hideous darkness,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">How the wheels turn your song into sounds of horror and loathing and cursing,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The offer of lust, the sneer of contempt and acceptance, thieves’ whispers,</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_239"></a>[239]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">The laugh of the gambler, the suicide’s gasp, the yell of the drunkard,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">If you heard them down here you would cry, “The reward of such is damnation,”</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">If you heard them, I say, your song of “rewarded hereafter” would fail....</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Oh, is there no one to find or to speak a meaning to <i>me</i></div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To me as I am,—the hard, the ignorant, withered-souled worker?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To me upon whom God and science alike have stamped “failure”,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To me who know nothing but labor, nothing but sweat, dirt and sorrows?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To me whom you scorn and despise, you up there who sing while I moan?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To me as I am—for me as I am—not dying but living;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0"><i>Not</i> my future—my present! my body, my needs, my desires! Is there no one?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">In the midst of this rushing of phantoms—of Gods, of Science, of Logic,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Of Philosophy, Morals, Religion, Economy,—all this that helps not,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">All these ghosts at whose altars you worship, these ponderous, marrowless Fictions,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Is there no one who thinks, is there nothing to help this dull moaning <i>Me</i>?</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_240"></a>[240]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Two Sides of the Shield</h3>

<p class="author">By Princess Lazarovick-Hrebelianovich</p>

<p class="intro">(Nee, Eleanor Calhoun—Actress of American birth. From
an article in “Century Magazine.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Nowhere more than in London does the blazing
shield show a dark reverse. For, along with the
splendors of life, that ancient city brought me, too,
the first overwhelming sense of the world’s misery.
For sometime my life took me daily through a large
stretch of London. It seemed to me that I was
wandering through vast tides of woe. Age-long
tyrannies of ignorance and vice and suffering have
welded a fixity of type in the flesh, binding enormous
segregations into more or less uniform kinds of
peoples. The misery-sodden “lower classes,” as I
heard them called, seemed narrowed and fixed and
starved and warped forever. The “lower middle
classes” gave the impression of being jammed in
between walls from above and below, as if all broad
or wholesome feeling, or generous enjoyment of
beauty were kept from penetrating to them or
issuing from them. The “upper middle classes” and
the “higher classes” appeared to look with horror
upon any real contact with the others, while intermarrying
with them was impossible.... It was the
vast crowds of the others, “the wholesale lot”, that
reflected their discouragement in my mind.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_241"></a>[241]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Women and the Oppressed</h3>

<p class="author">By Elizabeth Barrett Browning</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “Aurora Leigh.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">I call you hard</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To a general suffering. Here’s the world half blind</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">With intellectual light, half brutalized</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">With civilization, having caught the plague</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">In silks from Tarsus, shrieking East and West</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Along a thousand railroads, mad with pain</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And sin too!.... does one woman of you all,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">(You who weep easily) grow pale to see</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">This tiger shake his cage?—does one of you</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Stand still from dancing, stop from stringing pearls,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And pine and die because of the great sum</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Of universal anguish?—Show me a tear</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Wet as Cordelia’s, in eyes bright as yours,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Because the world is mad. You cannot count,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">That you should weep for this account, not you!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">You weep for what you know. A red-haired child</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Sick in a fever, if you touch him once,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Though but so little as with a finger-tip,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Will set you weeping; but a million sick—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">You could as soon weep for the rule of three</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Or compound fractions. Therefore, this same world,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Uncomprehended by you.—Women as you are,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Mere women, personal and passionate,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">You give us doting mothers, and perfect wives,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Sublime Madonnas, and enduring saints!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">We get no Christ from you,—and verily</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">We shall not get a poet, in my mind.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_242"></a>[242]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>God and the Strong Ones</h3>

<p class="author">By Margaret Widdemer</p>

<p class="intro-c">(Contemporary American poet.)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“We have made them fools and weak!” said the Strong Ones:</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">“We have crushed them, they are dumb and deaf and blind;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">We have crushed them in our hands like a heap of crumbling sands,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">We have left them naught to seek or find:</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">They are quiet at our feet,” said the Strong Ones;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">“We have made them one with wood and stone and clod;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Serf and laborer and woman, they are less than wise or human!—”</div>
    <div class="verse indent2"><i>“I shall raise the weak!” saith God.</i></div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“They are stirring in the dark,” said the Strong Ones,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">“They are struggling, who were moveless like the dead;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">We can hear them cry and strain hand and foot against the chain,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">We can hear their heavy upward tread....</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">What if they are restless?” said the Strong Ones;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">“What if they have stirred beneath the rod?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Fools and weak and blinded men, we can tread them down again—”</div>
    <div class="verse indent2"><i>“Shall ye conquer Me?” saith God.</i></div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_243"></a>[243]</span>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“They will trample us and bind!” said the Strong Ones;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">“We are crushed beneath the blackened feet and hands;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">All the strong and fair and great they will crush from out the state;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">They will whelm it with the weight of pressing sands—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">They are maddened and are blind,” said the Strong Ones;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">“Black decay has come where they have trod;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">They will break the world in twain if their hands are on the rein—”</div>
    <div class="verse indent2"><i>“What is that to me?” saith God.</i></div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0"><i>“Ye have made them in their strength, who were Strong Ones,</i></div>
    <div class="verse indent2"><i>Ye have only taught the blackness ye have known:</i></div>
    <div class="verse indent0"><i>These are evil men and blind—Ay, but molded to your Mind!</i></div>
    <div class="verse indent2"><i>How shall ye cry out against your own?</i></div>
    <div class="verse indent0"><i>Ye have held the light and beauty I have given</i></div>
    <div class="verse indent2"><i>For above the muddied ways where they must plod:</i></div>
    <div class="verse indent0"><i>Ye have builded this your lord with the lash and with the sword—</i></div>
    <div class="verse indent2"><i>Reap what ye have sown!” saith God.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>My Sister’s Heritage</h3>

<p class="author">By Mary S. Edgar</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Survey.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent4">Budding tree and singing bird,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Joy of springtime seen and heard;</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_244"></a>[244]</span>
    <div class="verse indent4">All the wealth of all the year,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Scattered by the wayside here.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But oh, little sister of mine in the shadowy places,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Where the wheel turns and the small young fingers ply,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I cannot forget that this is yours, too, to inherit—</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">The open fields and the streams, and the clear blue sky.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent4">Stirring sap and quickening sod—</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Miracles revealing God:</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Prophets of the fatherhood,</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">Speaking from the field and wood.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But oh, little sister of mine in the shadowy places,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Where shoulders droop, eyes dim, and cheeks grow wan,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I yearn for your hand, and a road that leads to the open,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">To the commonwealth of the fields, ere the light be gone.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Socialist Prayer</h3>

<p class="author">By Margaret Haile</p>

<p class="intro-c">(Contemporary American poet. In “The Vanguard.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Give us this day our daily bread, O God!</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Not for <i>my</i> bread alone I selfish pray.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Such prayer would never reach Thy loving ear;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Such prayer my human lips refuse to say.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">I pray for those whom Thou hast given me here—</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">All men and women to be one with me,—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To soothe, sustain, and comfort, love and cheer,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And draw in loving service nearer Thee.</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_245"></a>[245]</span>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">My sister suffers in a garret bare,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">My brothers labor and grow faint and pine;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">My baby wails—for food! I cannot bear it God,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">For all the babies in the world are mine!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Father, and they are Thine! I claim Thine aid;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Thou needs must help us in our righteous cause!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Make strong our hands to tear Oppression down,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And build a world according to Thy laws!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">I cannot eat my daily bread alone,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Give none to me if these cannot be fed.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">With them I stand or fall, for we are one.</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Father, give <i>all</i> of us our daily bread.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Outcasts</h3>

<p class="author">By Eleanor Wentworth</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The International Socialist Review.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Outside the Rotunda of the Fine Arts Building
of the Panama-Pacific International Exposition is
hunched a gripping, sorrowful figure—a figure that
crouches back amidst the foliage as if humbly
seeking to escape the eye of the passer. Meekly it
bears the name of <i>Outcast</i>. About it, fountains
ripple; beyond, the sun joyfully sets agleam the
somber greens of olive; chuckling, sprightly Pans,
with uptilted pipes, laugh to scorn the chill atmosphere
of the sorrowful one, set so far into the
shadows that the sun never reaches it, leaving its
marble surface ghastly.</p>

<p>The figure, with arms clenched and head bowed,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_246"></a>[246]</span>
in its shadow seclusion indomitably symbolizes the
disowned of the ages—the iron-collared slave, the
branded thief, the wandering disbeliever, the woman
scorned, the helpless debtor. It symbolizes those
passive sufferers, who, after tilling and sowing the
fields of life, so that they grow green and cool,
wander begrimed and thirsty in the waste desert
stretches. Pitifully it speaks of those who confidently
threw their heart’s sweetest flowers in the
world they loved, receiving no return, living forevermore
with barren hopes. It whispers of those
who flung their cries of joy to the winds, and heard
them wafted back as taunts. It speaks of builders,
of whose dream houses no cornerstone or cornice
has been realized. Voicelessly it proclaims the
<i>Slave of the Past</i>.</p>

<p>And as I looked at it, so hopelessly resigned, I
hated it, for all its powerful symbolism.</p>

<p>Did the world know no other Outcast than this
shrinking, unreproachful figure? Was this symbolism
the whole truth? Were there no Outcasts who
dared accuse?—who dared fight for their inheritance?
None to cry dauntlessly, “We will not be
cast aside, we who have builded and tilled and
dreamed!” Were there no outcasts with hope—with
fighting blood?</p>

<p>In the far recesses of the Japanese Section,
where only a few errant footfalls echo solemnly
through the spacious silence, I found that for which
I searched. There I found the symbol of the Outcast
I dared hope to see. A truly courageous figure it is,
with Hope and the Spirit to be Free stamped large<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_247"></a>[247]</span>
upon it. It is the very antithesis of that bowed
figure out among the green vines and laughing Pans,
which seem to beg forgiveness for its very existence.
This other figure is called “Strike”, and proudly it
bears its insignia of rebellion. The gaunt outlines
and the eyes overshadowed with a terrible fatigue
brand this figure of a man, as the other, with the
marks of the Outcast. A woman leans upon him,
and in turn, a brood of young cling to her skirts.
But this Outcast is no craven. He neither cringes
nor sorrows. He stands erect, and through the
shadows of fatigue, his eyes flash defiance out upon
the world of the Self-Satisfied. He seems to cry
aloud:</p>

<p>“I suffer, my mate suffers, and our young; but
you shall pay—pay in full! You who stand between
us and our inheritance, your time is drawing near—prepare!
For we declare that we, too, shall live, we,
the sufferers!”</p>

<p>This Outcast, springing from the depths, flings
a challenge where others have only wept; dares
where others have cowered in self-debasement.
This man of courage, standing erect under the
scourges of suffering and deprivation, gazing so
steadfastly into the Beyond through overshadowed
eyes—he dares aspire to walk in the green fields of
his making; already he treads them in his imagination.
He has sent a barely whispered hope of joy
out upon the winds and it is rushing back to him a
mighty symphony of realization. He dreams of a
beautiful world, and builds it as he dreams.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_248"></a>[248]</span></p>

<p>He heralds the day when there will be no Outcasts,
but all will be Well-Beloved.</p>

<p>He is the <i>Master of the Future</i>.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The New Sense of Justice</h3>

<p class="author">By Elizabeth Cady Stanton</p>

<p class="intro">(From a letter to Susan B. Anthony on “Woman and War,”
written just prior to our war with Spain.)</p>

</div>

<p>The co-operative will remodel codes and constitutions,
creeds and catechisms, social customs and
conventionalism, the curriculum of schools and
colleges. It will give a new sense of justice, liberty
and equality in all the relations of life....</p>

<p>The few have no right to the luxuries of life while
the many are denied its necessities.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Break Down the Wall</h3>

<p class="author">By Ellen Key</p>

</div>

<p>Men and women, upper and lower classes, are
walking on different sides of a wall. They can
stretch their hands over it; the important thing to
be done is to break the wall down.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Class Intolerance Passing</h3>

<p class="author">By Elsie Clews Parsons</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_170">See page 170</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>Age-class, caste group, family, and race, each
has its own closed circle—but each of these vicious
circles the modern spirit has begun to invade and
break down. In the spirit of our time fear of the
unlike is waning and <i>pari passu</i> intolerance.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_249"></a>[249]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Servitude</h3>

<p class="author">By Maria Montessori</p>

<p class="intro-c">(Quoted from “The Larger Aspect of Socialism,” by Walling.)</p>

</div>

<p>Any nation that accepts the idea of servitude
and believes that it is an advantage for man to be
served by man admits servility as an instinct, and
indeed we all too easily lend ourselves to obsequious
service, giving to it such complimentary names as
courtesy, politeness, charity.</p>

<p>In reality, he who is served is limited in his
independence. This concept will be the foundation
of the dignity of the man of the future; “I do not
wish to be served because I am not impotent.”
And this idea must be gained before men can feel
themselves to be really free.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Factories Instead of Homes</h3>

<p class="author">By Mary E. McDowell</p>

<p class="intro">(Head of University Settlement House, Chicago. Writer and
speaker for suffrage, organized labor, etc.)</p>

</div>

<p>However earnestly we may deplore the fact
that women are in factories instead of homes, we
must squarely face conditions as they exist. There
are hundreds of thousands of helpless, untrained,
unorganized women without the power of legislating
for themselves, who are forced by the stress of circumstances
to earn their livelihood, and it is of
vital importance that they be given the chance to be
decently self-supporting under conditions which will
unfit them for wifehood and motherhood and the
care of the homes.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_250"></a>[250]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Voteless Sex</h3>

<p class="author">By Meta L. Stern</p>

<p class="intro">(American contemporary journalist and speaker. From a leaflet
on Suffrage.)</p>

</div>

<p>Thousands of women today are working under
conditions unfit for human beings. At unguarded
machinery they are risking their nimble fingers, the
only source of income they possess. In firetrap
buildings they are risking their lives. Badly ventilated
workrooms, filled with particles of flying dust,
weaken their lungs and make them susceptible to
tuberculosis. Long working hours sap their strength
and vitality. Dangerous occupations make them
physical wrecks in a few years and render them unfit
for wifehood and motherhood. In the case of
married women workers an appalling infant mortality
is a concomitant of women’s labor. But with all
these sacrifices even the woman who performs a
man’s work does not get a man’s wages. Everywhere
we find unequal pay for equal work. The
voteless sex is cheap.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Glad Day of Universal Brotherhood</h3>

<p class="author">By Frances E. Willard</p>

<p class="intro">(Great temperance worker; the only woman whose statue is in
the Hall of Fame. From an address at the National W. C. T. U.
Convention at Buffalo, in 1897.)</p>

</div>

<p>Look about you; the products of labor are on
every hand; you could not maintain for a moment a
well-ordered life without them; every object in
your room has in it, for discerning eyes, the mark of
ingenious tools and the pressure of labor’s hands.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_251"></a>[251]</span>
But is it not the cruelest injustice for the wealthy,
whose lives are surrounded and embellished by
labor’s work, to have a superabundance of the
money which represents the aggregate of labor in
any country, while the laborer himself is kept so
steadily at work that he has no time to acquire the
education and refinements of life that would make
him and his family agreeable companions to the
rich and cultured?...</p>

<p>I believe that competition is doomed. The trust,
whose single object is to abolish competition, has
proved that we are better without it, than with it, and
the moment corporations control the supply of any
product, they combine. What the Socialist desires is
that the corporation of humanity should control all
production. Beloved comrades, this is the frictionless
way; it is the higher way; it eliminates the motives
for a selfish life; it enacts into our every-day living
the ethics of Christ’s gospel. Nothing else will do it;
nothing else can bring the glad day of universal
brotherhood.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Working Girls Must Cooperate</h3>

<p class="author">By Pauline M. Newman</p>

<p class="intro">(Organizer of working women. Former organizer for the International
Garment Workers’ Union. In “Life and Labor.”)</p>

</div>

<p>All those who work are aware of the fact that
conditions today—insofar as the working girl is concerned—are
not what they should be....</p>

<p>Now, what is wrong? To begin with, the work
day is too long, the wages are too low. Good sanitary
conditions are a rarity. Laws to protect the lives<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_252"></a>[252]</span>
of women and children workers are scarce—in reality....
There are enough laws on the statute books, but
very few are enforced. Labor laws intended to protect
women are constantly being violated. Why?
Simply because the women have, thus far, failed to
cooperate with one another in order to enforce them.</p>

<p>Nearly eight million working women are subjected
to the conditions described above. According
to investigators—the writer of these lines having been
one of these—the average wage of these women does
not exceed seven dollars a week. A wage <i>proven</i> insufficient
to live on. Such wages shape the lives of
the women, and those dependent upon them. What
kind of a life, then, can they lead? A life which is
a mere existence, that is all. Because they are compelled
to do so, they substitute cheap amusement for
something more refined. They live on a five-cent
breakfast, ten-cent lunch, and a twenty-cent dinner;
live in a dingy room without air and without comfort;
wear clothes of cheap material, trying hard to imitate
those who are more fortunate than they. Their whole
life is cheap from beginning to end. Deprived of sunshine
and fresh air, no time for recreation, no time
for rest, they have only time for <i>work</i>.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Organized Woman Labor</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. George Bass</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_38">See page 38</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>Almost every constructive statute of the past two
decades that touches the protection and prevents the
exploitation of women and children, owes its initiation
and passage largely to the organized women.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_253"></a>[253]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Enslaved</h3>

<p class="author">By The Countess of Warwick</p>

<p class="intro">(English contemporary. Once said to be the most beautiful
woman in England. Socialist, writer and speaker on labor and
other modern problems. From “Why I Became a Socialist.” In
“Hearst’s Magazine.”)</p>

</div>

<p>At present women are the most enslaved part of
the human race. They are paid lower wages even
than the average working man. When they are not
in the wage market as industrial workers, or clerks
or civil servants, then they are usually in the unsatisfactory
position of being a wife who is, economically
speaking, a dependent on the wishes and purse of her
father or husband. They may work all day at the
management of the children and the home—much
harder often, than the worker in the factory—but in
return these wives and mothers do not get, in the
ordinary case, a fixed salary or wage which they can
call their own. Neither are the working hours of the
wife and mother fixed, as even in the case of factory
workers. There is in the life of the housewife of the
manual laboring class scarcely an hour a day when
she is entirely free to go where she pleases or do what
she pleases. The woman who has not a private income
of her own is, in the general case, the economic dependent
of the man, and in that class is the large
majority of my sex.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Inequality for Women</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. Arthur Lyttleton</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “Women and Their Work.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Here and there throughout history occur
instances of women who have been received as equals<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_254"></a>[254]</span>
by men, but for the mass of women equality could
only be procured by civilization.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Lore of the Woods</h3>

<p class="author">By Ruby Archer</p>

<p class="intro-c">(Contemporary. Poet and journalist.)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Go not into the woods for rioting.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But sit thee down alone; lean on a tree,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And read the greatest volume of the world,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Writ in the letters of the leaves and birds.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Mark how the branches draw their fluid life</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">From the one stem deep nourished in the earth,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And on those boughs how individual leaves</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Find neighbor kindness, yielding each to each.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">They share the common good, yet with no loss;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">What grace there is, unique, in every one!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And the glad birds! Only their nests have they,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And the great heritage of light and love</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Which none has need of hoarding, yet not one</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But greets the morning with the song, “I live,”</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And warbles low at twilight, “Life is sweet.”</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Study the helpful ants; the social bees;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The hovering, unbound insects of the air,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Swaying in cities light as gossamer</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Along one sunbeam on one fragrant breeze;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And never dream that man may dare presume</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To name himself the king of things create,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Till he shall learn the lessons of the leaves,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The birds, the ants, the bees, the winged dust:</div>
    <div class="verse indent0"><i>That life is born of brotherhood</i>.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_255"></a>[255]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Moses, the Strike Leader</h3>

<p class="author">By Frances Squire Potter</p>

<p class="intro">(American contemporary. Professor of English in the University
of Minnesota. Writer and speaker on labor and political
problems. Corresponding Secretary of the National American
Woman’s Suffrage Association, author “The Ballingtons,” etc. Died
March, 1914. In “Life and Labor.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Out of the waters of the Nile, Pharaoh’s
daughter drew a Hebrew babe, condemned to die.
As her adopted son, he was taught at court all the
wisdom of the Egyptians. As an Egyptian prince he
might have lived and died in splendor, and his gold-cased
mummy might have been on some museum
shelf today, a dead curiosity. An aristocrat, a
lawyer, a capitalist—these are what he was brought
up to be.</p>

<p>Egypt was in the full afternoon of her grandeur.
A Pharoah was on the throne whose soul was filled
with the ambition to build palaces and temples and
cities such as the world had never seen. His heavy
hand fell upon the free Hebrews in his kingdom, and
sent them to the quarries and the brick-yards to toil
with slaves under the lash of merciless foreman. And
as his cities and monuments grew, he became drunk
with his own glory, and the slaves were flogged to ever
more inhuman exertions in the quarries.</p>

<p>“And it came to pass in those days, when Moses
was grown up, that he went out to his brethren, and
looked on their burdens; and he saw an Egyptian
smiting an Hebrew. And he looked this way, and
that way, and when he saw that there was no man,
he smote the Egyptian and hid him in the sand.”</p>

<p>I do not believe this was the first time he had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_256"></a>[256]</span>
walked abroad to view his brother slaves toiling.
His wrath had been long smouldering in him. You
notice he did not attack the Egyptian with blind
rage. “He looked this way and that”, and when he
saw he was unobserved he deliberately slew the
oppressor and buried the body in the desert sands.</p>

<p>Thus the greatest law-giver in history began his
career by committing the greatest crime known to
the law. He was not young. He was forty years of
age. He became a law-breaker only because the laws
of Egypt no longer protected the man who worked
from the tyrant who confiscated his labor. His soul
was in rebellion against “the system”.</p>

<p>How did the workers take this “direct action”?
Just as the workers of today would. When he went
back the next day, instead of being greeted as a deliverer,
he was repudiated by the Hebrews. They
were justly suspicious of a member of the system
who eased his conscience for a living in the royal
family by killing a brutal foreman. “Who made thee
a prince and a judge over us?” was a very pertinent
question. Who, indeed, but Pharoah himself?</p>

<p>But Pharoah on his part was deeply incensed at
this rebel in his own family and Moses fled for his
life into the deserts of Arabia, carrying with him the
consciousness of having made his brethren’s lot
worse by his blundering attempt to mend it....</p>

<p>At last, amid the frowning precipices and lonely
crags of Mount Sinai, the cry of his race became too
strong for him to resist.... And so Moses turns his
face once more toward the Nile country, and the
great moment of his life is upon him.... From now<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_257"></a>[257]</span>
on the magnificent story represents the struggle of
the enslaved Hebrews for freedom as a duel between
two men—Pharoah on the throne, and Moses, the
desert wanderer. The one stands for entrenched
tyranny, the other is a strike leader. Behind Pharoah
is all the power of Egypt, upheld by the armies of the
empire. Behind Moses is the mysterious pillar of
cloud and of fire—the destiny of the race. Between
these two colossi cower the race of slaves whose destiny
is at hand....</p>

<p>Just as the Pharoahs of the Colorado coal fields
are doing today, Pharoah of Egypt hardened his
heart, until the climax of the struggle came in his
cry of rage, “Get thee from me, take heed to thyself,
see my face no more: for in the day thou seest
my face, thou shalt die!” And Moses said, “Thou
hast spoken well, I will see thy face no more.” ...</p>

<p>So Moses leads his people out into the wilderness
of freedom....</p>

<p>Years passed, and the wilderness was whitened
with the bones of the slaves, whose free-born children
grew up to higher manhood under their aged
leader’s constant counsels and warnings. At last
the time came when they were fit to take a place
among the nations of the earth, and the pillar of fire
and of cloud turns and drifts toward Canaan.</p>

<p>With what longing the old man’s heart looked
toward the land of promise, the first fixed abiding
place life seemed to offer, we can gather from his
own confession. But it was not to be. His course
was run. He was a strike leader, a nation-molder,
a law-giver, not a military conqueror. When the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_258"></a>[258]</span>
tribes reach the desert and look down into the green
valley of the Jordan, they are called together to
hear his parting words. On the slopes of Mount
Nebo in the land of Moab, after the antiphonal
chanting of the blessings and curses, and the sounding
of the trumpets of the Levites, the dying leader
stands for the last time before his people, delivers
the matchless farewell address recorded in Deuteronomy,
blesses them, and passes from their sight
forever, up into the solitude of the mountain
peaks....</p>

<p>“And the children of Israel wept for Moses in
the plains of Moab, but no man knoweth of his sepulchre
unto this day. And there hath not arisen a
prophet since in Israel like unto Moses....”</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Dear God! The desert wandering is done,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">A fixed abode has come to all—but one!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Command the muses of the sacred well</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Say paeans for the sons of Israel!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But turn, oh, turn their silent lips away,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">While he ascends the solitudes to pray!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Deep valley murmurings rise into peace,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">At that still height his mission wins surcease,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And God in mercy lets his eyes undim,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Gaze long on glories that are not for him.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>After the Fight</h3>

<p class="author">By Mary O’Reilly</p>

<p class="intro">(Chicago school teacher. Writer and speaker on labor questions.
The following poem was written for “Life and Labor.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">A lull in the struggle,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">A truce in the fight,</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_259"></a>[259]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">The whirr of machines</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And the dearly-bought right</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Just to labor for bread,—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Just to work and be fed.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">For this we have marched</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Through the snow-covered street;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Have borne our dead comrades</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">While muffled drums beat.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">It is thus we have fought</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For this boon dearly bought.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">We measure our gain</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">By the price we have paid.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Call the victory great</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">As the struggle we made.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For we struggled to grow,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And we won. And we know....</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Together we suffered</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">The weary weeks past;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Together we won,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And together at last</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">As we learn our own might,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">We shall win the <i>great</i> fight.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">A lull in the struggle,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">A truce in the fight,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The whirr of machines</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And the dearly-bought right</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Just to labor for bread,—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Just to work and be fed!</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_260"></a>[260]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Fool’s Christmas</h3>

<p class="author">By Florence May</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">On Christmas eve, the king, disconsolate,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Weary with all the round of pomp and state,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Gave whisper to his Fool: “A merry way</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Have I bethought to spend our holiday.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Thou shalt be king, and I the fool will be—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And thou shalt rule the court in drollery</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For one short day!” With caper, nod, and grin,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Full saucy replied the harlequin;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">“A merry play; and sire, amazing strange</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For one of us to suffer such a change!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But thou? Why all the kings of earth” said he,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">“Have played the fool and played it skillfully!”</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Then the king’s laugh stirred all the arras dim,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Till courtiers wondered at his humor grim.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">And so it chanced when wintry sunbeams shone</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">From Christmas skies, lo! perched upon the throne</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Sat Lionel the Fool, in purple drest,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The royal jewels blazing on his breast.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">On Christmas morning too, the king arose,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And donned with sense of ease, the silken hose</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Of blue and scarlet; then the doublet red</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">With azure slashed; upon his kingly head</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">That wearied oft beneath a jeweled crown,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">He drew the jingling hood, and tied it down.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">All day he crouched among the chill and gloom</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">None seeking him—within the turret room.</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_261"></a>[261]</span>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">But when calm night with starry lamps came down</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Her purple stairs—he crept forth to the town</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">His scanty cape about his shoulders blew,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Close to his face the screening hood he drew.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">He knocked first at a cottage of the poor,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And lo! flew open wide the door—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">“We have not much to give, dear fool,” they said,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">“But thou art cold; come share our fire and bread!”</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">With willing hands they freed his cape from snow</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And warmed and cheered him ere they let him go.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">And so’t was ever: By the firelight dim</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Of many a hearth stone poor they welcomed him;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And children who would shun the king in awe,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Would scamper to the door way if they saw</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The scarlet peak of Lionel’s red hood.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">“Dear fool” they called him loudly, “thou wert good</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To bring the frosted cake! Come in and see</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Our little Lishelk—hark! she calls for thee!”</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">And so’t was ever. On his way the king</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">With softened heart saw many a grievous thing:</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But love he found and charity. And when</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">He crept at dawn through palace gates again,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">He knew that he who rules by fear alone</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">May sit securely on his throne;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But he who rules by love shall find it true</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">That love, the milder power, is mightier, too.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">“Dear fool”, he said, “thou art the king of hearts insooth;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The king of hearts! Today no farce but truth!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For I have seen that thou, beneath my rule,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Hast often played the king,—and I the fool!”</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_262"></a>[262]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Class Legislation</h3>

<p class="author">By M. Carey Thomas</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_10">See page 10</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>In the past we have no single instance of any
class of men with the ballot legislating fairly for any
other class of men without the ballot. How then can
the men of the world all working and all voting protect
the special interests of the voteless women of the
world who are emerging as workers millions strong
on the surface of our human bee-hive? They cannot.
If they have in the past done injustice to the disfranchised
classes of their fellow men, they will do far
more terrible injustice in the future to disfranchised
classes of working women. If the vote has been indispensable
as a protection in the past, it will be still
more indispensable in the future because modern socialistic
legislation will increasingly control employers
and employed. Thousands of English women are to-day
banded together in their suffrage unions demanding
with desperate courage from a reluctant parliament
a vote to protect their labor and their children
for whom they labor.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Despair</h3>

<p class="author">By Lady Wilde</p>

<p class="intro-c">(Irish poet, mother of Oscar Wilde.)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Before us dies our brother of starvation;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Around are cries of famine and despair!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Where is hope for us, or comfort, or salvation—</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Where—oh! where?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">If the angels ever harken, downward bending,</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_263"></a>[263]</span>
    <div class="verse indent2">They are weeping, we are sure,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">At the litanies of human groans ascending</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">From the crushed hearts of the poor.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">We never knew a childhood’s mirth and gladness,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Nor the proud heart of youth free and brave;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Oh, a death-like dream of wretchedness and sadness</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Is life’s weary journey to the grave!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Day by day we lower sink, and lower,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Till the God-like soul within</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Falls crushed beneath the fearful demon power</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Of poverty and sin.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">So we toil on, on with fever burning</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">In heart and brain;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">So we toil on, on through bitter scorning,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Want, woe, and pain.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">We dare not raise our eyes to the blue heavens</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Or the toil must cease—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">We dare not breathe the fresh air God has given</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">One hour in peace.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Breadth of Woman Suffrage</h3>

<p class="author">By Millicent Garrett Fawcett</p>

<p class="intro">(English contemporary. Introduction to “The Future of the
Woman’s Movement.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Other movements toward freedom have aimed at
raising the status of a comparatively small group or
class. But the woman’s movement aims at nothing
less than raising the status of an entire sex—half of
the human race—to lift it up to the freedom and
valor of womanhood.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_264"></a>[264]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Poor Sex</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. H. W. Swanwick</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_205">See page 205</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>Women are notoriously the poor sex. Even a
woman who figures as a rich woman is often merely an
article de luxe for the man who provides for her, and
though he may band her neck with jewels, he does
not readily give her a check for her suffrage society.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Of What Use Is It</h3>

<p class="author">By Ida M. Cannon</p>

<p class="intro">(Headworker of the Social Service Department Massachusetts
General Hospital.)</p>

</div>

<p>If a patient for whom a surgeon orders a back
brace starves herself to pay the bill?</p>

<p>If a workman, cured of rheumatism, goes back to
his job in the damp cellar which caused it?</p>

<p>If a clerk fitted to glasses, returns to the dim
desk which crippled her sight?</p>

<p>If an unmarried girl, delivered of her child, goes
from the maternity ward back to the neighborhood
that ruined?</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Breaking Up in Violence</h3>

<p class="author">By Clara E. Laughlin</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_68">See page 68</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>There must be a check on the ever-widening inequality
between the richest and the poorest, or our
social structure will not endure; we shall have revolution,
not evolution; cataclysm, not growth.... In
some of the old world countries the inequality is of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_265"></a>[265]</span>
such long growth that one can hardly imagine its
breaking up without violence. With us it is not yet
adamantine. Pray God it never may be.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Workers’ Right</h3>

<p class="author">By Helen Keller</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_209">See page 209</a>)</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “Out of the Dark.”<a id="FNanchor_18" href="#Footnote_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>Their cause is my cause. If they are denied a
living wage, I also am defrauded. While they are industrial
slaves, I cannot be free. My hunger is not
satisfied while they are unfed. I cannot enjoy the
good things of life which come to me, if they are hindered
and neglected. I want all the workers of the
world to have sufficient money to provide the elements
of a normal standard of living—a decent home,
healthful surroundings, opportunity for education
and recreation. I want them to have the same blessings
I have. I, deaf and blind, have been helped to
overcome many obstacles. I want them to be helped
as generously in a struggle which resembles my own
in many ways.</p>

<p>Surely the things that the workers demand are
not unreasonable. It cannot be unreasonable to ask
of society a fair chance for all.... Until the spirit of
love for our fellow men, regardless of race, color or
creed, shall fill the world, making real in our lives and
our deeds the actuality of human brotherhood—until
the great mass of the people shall be filled with the
sense of responsibility for each other’s welfare, social
injustice can never be attained.</p>

<div class="footnotes">
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_18" href="#FNanchor_18" class="label">[18]</a> Doubleday, Page &amp; Co.</p>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_266"></a>[266]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Women’s Labor Organizations</h3>

<p class="author">By Ida Tarbell</p>

<p class="intro">(American contemporary. Author of “History of Standard
Oil,” “The Business of Being a Woman,” etc.)</p>

</div>

<p>Already there are signs that the woman’s labor
organizations are willing to recognize the inherent
dignity of household service—and this is as it should
be. The woman who labors should be the one to recognize
that all labor is per se equally honorable—that
there is no stigma in honestly performed, useful service.</p>

<p>If she is to bring to the labor world the regeneration
she dreams, she must begin not by saying that the
shop girl, the clerk, the teacher, are in a higher class
than the cook, the waitress, the maid, but that we are
all laborers alike, sisters by virtue of the service we
are rendering society. That is, labor should be the
last to recognize the canker in the caste.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Happy Warrior</h3>

<p class="author">By Dorothea Hollins</p>

<p class="intro">(In “The Labor Leader.” J. Keir Hardie, English Labor
leader, Anti-militarist and Member of Parliament. Died September
26, 1915. It is said the present war broke his heart.)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">’Midst the world’s tumult, he lies very still</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Humanity’s knight-errant, who ’gainst wrong</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Ne’er sheathed his sword, but climbed the perilous long</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And lengthening ascent to that far hill</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Throning the city of God! What shapes of ill</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">He met, he recked not, so he might be strong</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For the down-trodden at his side. His song</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Of Brotherhood each failing heart did fill</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_267"></a>[267]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">With manly comfort, and from Womanhood</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">He smote the bands of tyranny and ease;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">No knight was e’er more dauntless. Devil’s strife</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Outbreaking, broke his heart, snapped the worn life,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Yet cannot dim the victory of good</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Nor take from Righteousness the kiss of Peace.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Abolish “Dependent Classes”</h3>

<p class="author">By Josephine Shaw Lowell</p>

<p class="intro">(Quoted from “The Survey.” Mrs. Charles Russell Lowell.
Mrs. Lowell served 13 years as Charity Commissioner in New
York, and in many other ways was engaged in all good causes,
municipal as well as philanthropic.)</p>

</div>

<p>I object to the term “dependent classes,” unless
in speaking of the insane. That such a class, not included
among the insane, does exist among us is a fact;
in more than one county of this great, rich state,
there are families, as you know, who for five generations
have been more or less dependent on their fellow
citizens and such families constitute a class; but yet
I protest against the use of this phrase in a way to
suggest that the existence of such a class should be
recognized except to be abolished.</p>

<p>There will always be <i>persons</i> who must be helped,
<i>individuals</i> who must depend upon public relief or
on private charity for maintenance, it is true, but it
is a disgrace to any community to have a dependent
<i>class</i>, and the fact of its existence is a proof that the
community has done its duty neither to those who
compose it, nor to those who maintain it.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_268"></a>[268]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Servant Class</h3>

<p class="author">By Edna Kenton</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_71">See page 71</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>Women are thinking at last, not in men’s terms,
but in their own, and that in a slave class is always
dynamic.... Because it has vision where the other
has archaism, the “lower class” is become the higher
class, self-conscious and self-poised. Not only youth,
but childhood, is rebel. Art has become anarchic, and
as mysteriously as Nature works everywhere, so has
she worked with the servant half of the human race,
stirring it to self-consciousness and action; helping to
keep alive the tiny torch of revolt.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Breshkovskaya</h3>

<p class="author">By Elsa Barker</p>

<p class="intro">(Contemporary American poet and novelist. Author “The
Frozen Grail,” etc. The following is said to be the strongest of
her poems. It was written during Breshkovskaya’s last exile, before
the Russian revolution released her.)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">How narrow seems the round of ladies’ lives</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And ladies’ duties in their smiling world,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The day this Titan woman, gray with years,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Goes out across the void to prove her soul!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Brief are the pains of motherhood that end</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">In motherhood’s long joy; but she has borne</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The age-long travail of a cause that lies</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Still-born at last on History’s cold lap.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And yet she rests not; yet she will not drink</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The cup of peace held to her parching lips</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">By smug Dishonor’s hand. Nay, forth she fares,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Old and alone, on exile’s rocky road—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">That well-worn road with snows incarnadined</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">By blood-drops from her feet long years agone.</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_269"></a>[269]</span>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Mother of power, my soul goes out to you</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">As a strong swimmer goes to meet the sea</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Upon whose vastness he is like a leaf.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">What are the ends and purposes of song,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Save as a bugle at the lips of Life</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To sound reveille to a drowsing world</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">When some great deed is rising like the sun?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Where are those others whom your deeds inspired</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To deeds and words that were themselves a deed?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Those who believe in death have gone with death</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To the gray crags of immortality;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Those who believed in life have gone with life</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To the red halls of spiritual death.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">And you? But what is death or life to you?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Only a weapon in the hand of faith</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To cleave a way for beings yet unborn</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To a far freedom you will never share!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Freedom of body is an empty shell</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Wherein men crawl whose souls are held with gyves;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For Freedom is a spirit and she dwells</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">As often in a jail as on the hills.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">In all the world this day there is no soul</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Freer than you, Breshkovskaya, as you stand</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Facing the future in your narrow cell.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For you are free of self and free of fear,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Those twin-born shades that lie in wait for man</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">When he steps out upon the wind-blown road</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">That leads to human greatness and to pain.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Take in your hand once more the pilgrim’s staff—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Your delicate hand misshapen from the nights</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_270"></a>[270]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">In Kara’s mines; bind on your unbent back</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">That long has borne the burdens of the race,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The exile’s bundle, and upon your feet</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Strap the worn sandles of a tireless faith.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">You are too great for pity. After you</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">We send not sobs, but songs; and all our days</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">We shall walk bravelier knowing where you are.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Revolutionist</h3>

<p class="author">By Catherine Breshkovskaya</p>

<p class="intro">(Born to luxury, but casting her lot, when only twenty-six,
with the group of revolutionists who dared hope that the Russian
peasantry might some day arise and rebel against the horrible oppression
of the government. Twice exiled to Siberia, escaping once
after serving a sentence of twenty-one years. Just before the overthrow
of the czar closely guarded in a Siberian prison cell, after a
second attempt to escape. Free once more, she has lived to see
part of the realization of her dreams, the overthrow of Imperialism.)</p>

</div>

<p>We put on peasant dress, to elude the police and
break down the peasant’s cringing distrust. I dressed
in enormous bark shoes, coarse shirt and drawers, and
heavy cloak. I used acid on my face and hands; I
worked and ate with the peasants; I learned their
speech; I travelled on foot, forging passports. I
lived ‘illegally!’</p>

<p>By night I did my organizing. You desire a picture?
A low room with mud floors and walls. Rafters
just overhead, and still higher thatch. The room was
packed with men, women and children. Two big fellows
sat up on the high brick stove, with their dangling
feet knocking occasional applause. These people
had been gathered by my host, a brave peasant whom
I picked out, and he in turn had chosen only those<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_271"></a>[271]</span>
whom Siberia could not terrify. I now recalled their
floggings; I pointed to those who were crippled for
life; to women, whose husbands died under the lash;
and when asked if men were to be forever flogged,
then they would cry out so fiercely that the three or
four cattle in the next room would bellow and have
to be quieted. Again I would ask what chances their
babies had of living, and in reply some peasant woman
would tell how her baby had died the winter before.
Why? I asked. Because they had only the
most wretched strips of land. To be free and live,
the people must own the land! From my cloak I
would bring a book of fables written to teach our
principles and stir the love of freedom. And then far
into the night, the firelight showed a circle of great,
broad faces and dilated eyes, staring with all the reverence
every peasant has for that mysterious thing—a
book.</p>

<p>These books, twice as effective as oral work, were
printed in secrecy at heavy expense. But many of
us had libraries, jewels, costly gowns and furs to sell;
and new recruits kept adding to our fund. We had
no personal expenses....</p>

<p>In that year of 1874, over two thousand educated
people traveled among the peasants. Weary work,
you say. Yes, when the peasants were slow and dull
and the spirit of freedom seemed an illusion. But
when that spirit grew real one felt far from weary....</p>

<p>We may die in exile, and our children may die in
exile, and our children’s children may die in exile,
but something must come of it at last.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_272"></a>[272]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Old Comrade</h3>

<p class="author">By May Beals</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Progressive Woman.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">You have sowed for the world and man</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">The harvest you cannot reap.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">You have won nor fame nor gold nor lands,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">But your faith in man you keep.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">You have stood for the right alone—</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Faced odium, danger, death;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Poverty is your reward and pain,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">That shall end with your dying breath.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">I, beginning the path you trod,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Love you, so near the end;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Can I, too, conquer the trammeled clod,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Till the higher self ascend?</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">I know not: Many brave men fall</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Ere they reach your brave life’s span.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Old friend, it is due in part to you,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">That I keep my faith in man.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Voice of Labor</h3>

<p class="author">By Inez Haynes Irwin</p>

<p class="intro">(From “The American Federation of Labor Convention”: An
Impression. In “The Masses.”)</p>

</div>

<p>The voice of labor is a roar, deep as though it
came from a throat of iron, penetrating as though it
came through lips of silver. One day that voice will
silence all the great guns of the world.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_273"></a>[273]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Our New Aristocracy</h3>

<p class="author">By Gertrude Atherton</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “The New Aristocracy,” in “The Cosmopolitan.”)</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_44">See page 44</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>Instead of laying away their sense of social supremacy
in old rose and lavendar, our new aristocracy
of wealth is often haughty and frigid in manner, and
not only ostentatious in expenditure, but arrogantly
assertive of what it believes to be its superior rights
... frivolity, selfishness and pride and the constant
exercise of these qualities hardens what, for convenience,
we call the heart, and breeds indifference for the
feelings and rights of others. I have been interviewed
by women reporters in almost every country I have
visited, and it is only in America—in New York, to
be exact—that they have spoken of their dread of approaching
fashionable or merely rich, women....
Those we have of ancient lineage,—who have framed
their family tree and proved their seven generations,
whose fortunes have kept pace with the times, and
who from the somewhat attenuated backbone of society,
in New York, for instance—are more objectionable
in some respects, than the new-rich. While they
ought to know better, they are so uneasily conscious of
their position as real aristocrats in a country too large
to give them a universal recognition, that anxious
pride has bleached their very blood, attenuated their
features, narrowed their lips, and practically deprived
them of any distinctive personalities, the best that
can be said of them is that they are not, with one
notorious exception, vulgar in the common use of
the word.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_274"></a>[274]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<p class="author">By H. R. H.</p>

<p class="intro-c">(The Infanta Eulalia of Spain. In the “Century Magazine.”)<br>
1864-1912</p>

</div>

<p>The glitter and magnificence of society can
exist only against a background of misery and
starvation.</p>

<div class="section">

<p class="author">By Mary Wollstonecraft</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “Vindication of the Rights of Women.”)</p>

</div>

<p>It is the pestiferous purple which renders the
progress of civilization a curse, and warps the
understanding, till men of sensibility doubt whether
the expansion of the intellect produces a greater
proportion of happiness or misery.</p>

<div class="section">

<p class="author">By Mrs. John Martin</p>

</div>

<p>We have a civilization that is bloated at the top
and bleeding at the bottom, and there is decay in both.</p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_275"></a>[275]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="BOOK_X">BOOK X<br>
<span class="smaller">Miscellaneous</span></h2>

</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_276"></a>[276]</span></p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_277"></a>[277]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="MISCELLANEOUS">MISCELLANEOUS</h2>

</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>In Passing</h3>

<p class="author">By Ruth</p>

<p class="intro-c">(Contemporary Poet.)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Too long have I listened to the voices of men;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">They said they would teach me wisdom—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And I am not wise:</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And now when I listen for the voice of God—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I cannot hear it.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>A Contrast</h3>

<p class="author">By Laura Simmons</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Across the gloom a shadow flits; I glimpse a sodden face</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Wherein the years of sin and care, and toil have left their trace.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">A wanton laugh;—I mark no more, for yonder in the glow</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">One waiteth me—my love! my star! with welcoming, I know.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Tender and fine is she, withal so stately sweet and fair</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">My grateful heart thrills thanks to heaven to see her standing there.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">If this be woman, pure, benign—man’s blessed beacon light—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Then—Christ! What that poor outcast soul that passed me in the night?</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_278"></a>[278]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Mary and Magdalene</h3>

<p class="author">By Virginia Cleaver Beacon</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Coming Nation.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Little sister of the street,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Do not hurry by!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">There’s a problem we must meet</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Together, you and I.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">While your head with shame is bowed,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">While you shun the day,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Right forbids that I be proud,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Who might have gone your way.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Did you find the road too hard,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Feet untaught must tread?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Was the honest pathway barred,—</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">To this the other led?</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">In a world where all is sold</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">You have sold yourself;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Poor the price the world has doled,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">You win not even pelf.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Little sister of the street,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">This old wrong must cease!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">You and I as women meet</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">To give the world release.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Dare We Judge?</h3>

<p class="author">By Paulina Brandreth</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Survey.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">What do we know of life,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">We, who are housed and fed,</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_279"></a>[279]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">What do we know of strife</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Who are so gently led?</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Have we dwelt in the slime</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Of Poverty’s abode</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Have we walked with the crime</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Engendered by its load?</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Oh, have we ever known</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Days of eternal care?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">When Hope is turned to stone</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And broken by Despair?</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Or have we ever raced</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And won, and lost again?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And then with failure faced</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">The cruelty of men?</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">We have not lived these things,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Our bread and wine is sweet;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">We do not know what causes bring</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">The woman to the street.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Yet, she who wounds her soul</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Is better far than we,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Who do our lives control</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">In self-complacency.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Aye, better far than we,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Who ignorantly dwell,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Lulled with tranquility</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Above the wreck of hell.</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_280"></a>[280]</span>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">What do we know of life,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">We, who are housed and fed,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Who, sheltered from all strife,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">On thornless pathways tread?</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>Two Storks</h3>

<p class="author">By Charlotte Perkins Gilman</p>

<p class="intro">(America’s foremost woman Sociologist. Author of numerous
books, and editor, owner and publisher of “The Forerunner,” a
magazine of advanced thought on the woman question. The following
is from “The Forerunner.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Two storks were nesting.</p>

<p>He was a young stork—and narrow minded. Before
he married he had consorted mainly with striplings
of his own kind, and had given no thought to the
ladies, either maid or matron.</p>

<p>After he married his attention was concentrated
on his all-satisfying wife, upon that triumph of art,
labor and love—their nest, and upon those special
creations—their children. Deeply was he moved by
the marvelous instincts and processes of motherhood.
Love, reverence, intense admiration, rose in his
heart for her of the well-built nest; her of the gleaming
treasure of smooth eggs; her of the patient brooding
breast, the warming wings, the downy, wide-mouthed
group of little ones.</p>

<p>Assiduously he labored to help her build the nest,
to help her feed the young; proud of his impassioned
activity in her and their behalf; devoutly he performed
his share of the brooding, while she hunted in
her turn. When he was a-wing he thought continually
of her as one with the brood—his brood. When<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_281"></a>[281]</span>
he was on the nest he thought all the more of her,
who sat there so long, so lovingly, to such noble ends.</p>

<p>The happy days flew by, fair spring—sweet summer—gentle
autumn. The young ones grew larger
and larger; it was more and more work to keep their
lengthening, widening beaks shut in contentment.
Both parents flew far afield to feed them.</p>

<p>Then the days grew shorter, the sky grayer, the
wind colder; there was large hunting and small success.
In his dreams he began to see sunshine, broad,
burning sunshine, day after day; skies of limitless
blue; dark, deep, yet full of fire; stretches of bright
water, shallow, warm—fringed with tall reeds and
rushes, teeming with fat frogs.</p>

<p>They were in her dreams, too, but he did not
know that.</p>

<p>He stretched his wings and flew farther every
day; but his wings were not satisfied. In his dreams
came a sense of vast heights and boundless spaces of
the earth streaming away beneath him; black water
and white land; gray water and brown land, blue
water and green land, all flowing backward from day
to day, while the cold lessened and the warmth grew.</p>

<p>He felt the empty sparkling nights, stars far
above, quivering, burning; stars far below quivering
more in the dark water; and felt his great wings wide,
strong, all-sufficient, carrying him on and on!</p>

<p>This was in her dreams, too, but he did not know
that.</p>

<p>“It is time to go,” he cried one day. “They are
coming! It is upon us! Yes,—I must go! Goodbye,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_282"></a>[282]</span>
my wife! Goodbye, my children!” For the passion
of wings was upon him.</p>

<p>She, too, was stirred to the heart. “Yes, it is
time to go!” she cried. “I am ready! Come!”</p>

<p>He was shocked, grieved, astonished. “Why, my
dear!” he said, “How preposterous! You cannot go
on the great flight! Your wings are for brooding
tender little ones! Your body is for the wonder of the
gleaming treasure.—Not for days’ and nights’ ceaseless
soaring! You cannot go!”</p>

<p>She did not heed him. She spread her wide
wings and swept and circled far and high above,—as,
in truth, she had been doing for many days, though
he had not noticed it.</p>

<p>She dropped to the ridge pole beside him, where
he was still muttering objections. “Is it not glorious?”
she cried. “Come! They are nearly ready!”</p>

<p>“You unnatural mother!” he burst forth. “You
have forgotten the order of nature! You have forgotten
your children! Your lovely, precious, tender,
helpless little ones!” And he wept, for his highest
ideals were shattered.</p>

<p>But the precious little ones stood there on the
ridge pole and flapped their strong young wings in
high derision. They were as big as he was, nearly;
for as a matter of fact, he was but a young stork
himself.</p>

<p>Then the air was beaten white with a thousand
wings; it was like snow and silver and sea-foam;
there was a flash, a whirlwind, a hurricane of wild
joy and then the army of the sky spread wide in due
array and streamed southward.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_283"></a>[283]</span></p>

<p>Full of remembered joy and more joyous hope,
finding the sunlight better than her dreams, she swept
away to the far summerland; and her children, mad
with the happiness of the first flight, swept beside her.</p>

<p>“But you are a mother!” he panted, as he caught
up with them.</p>

<p>“Yes,” she cried, joyously, “but I was a stork
before I was a mother! and afterward!—and all the
time!”</p>

<p>And the storks were flying.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Doomed Men’s Message</h3>

<p class="author">By Mary Carolyn Davies</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Survey.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Three doomed men in the death house write</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">A word like a torch from their night to my night.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Three doomed men in Sing Sing wait</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Through the fading black of the night, a fate</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">That I made for them, I—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I said “You must die.”</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">They will die at dawn. But before they go</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">They write me a word, that I, too, may know.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">They sit and write, the three doomed men,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">(They three never will write again—)</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Three doomed men in Sing Sing write</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">A word like a torch from their night to my night.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">And this is the word: “Are you justified?</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">We would give our lives for the men who died—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Who died—by our hand. But it would not aid.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And out of two wrongs can a right be made?”</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_284"></a>[284]</span>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">It is thus they plead, the three doomed men—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">They three never will plead again.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">They must die at dawn. As a brave man faces</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The death he fears, they will take their places.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">They will smile, perhaps, they will maybe jest.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">They will be dust then. Perhaps that’s best;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But even so, what good am I</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">To say to three other men, “You must die?”</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Three doomed men in the death house pray</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Forgiveness. And I, do I ever pray?</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Three doomed men confess their sin</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And die as they watch a day begin.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Jealousy—anger through drink—and they</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Go to their death at the break of day!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Jealousy, anger through drink—and I</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">A free man, walk down the street. Why, why?</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Did I scorn them? Well, we are brothers now,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I and the three, or will be soon.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">When day blots out this fading moon,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I shall have killed, no matter how,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Then, murderers all, take heed of me!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">They killed but one.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">When my deed is done,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">My hands will be stained with the blood of three!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">They sit and write, the three doomed men,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">They three never will write again—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But I still shall hear, with fear and dread,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">What the three doomed men in Sing Sing said.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_285"></a>[285]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Road Song</h3>

<p class="author">By Irene P. McKeehan</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Century Magazine.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">I have lived in the garden with Adam,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And eaten the fruit of the tree;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I have hidden, ashamed, from the face of God,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">For I dreamed that He could not see.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The flaming sword of the Angel of Wrath</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Has driven me over the earth;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I am marked with the mark of the murderer Cain;</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">I have travailed at death and at birth.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">With patriarch, priest and prophet, I seek for a promised land,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Lead me, brother; follow, me, brother; brother, oh, take my hand!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I am moving onward, and ever on, O brother, I may not stand!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">I have made my children the slaves of trade,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And scarred their backs with the rod;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For a bag of gold, with a sword of steel</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">I have broken the laws of God.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But whenever a cause demands my life,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">I have laid it down with a will;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For honor and love and a heart-wrung cry</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">I can play the hero still.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">My feet are firm on the steep, straight way, though I doubt if I understand;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Whether you lead or follow me brother, let us go hand in hand!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And stay not behind, dear brother of mine, on the road to the Promised Land.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_286"></a>[286]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Dress Reform</h3>

<p class="author">By Amelia Bloomer</p>

<p class="intro">(Editor of “The Lily.” An advocate in the ’50s, of dress
reform. Introduced the bifurcated skirt which popular acclaim at
once called “The Bloomer.” A woman personally modest, who suffered
because of the sneers and attacks at her efforts to have women
dress sensibly. From “Life and Work of Susan B. Anthony.”)</p>

</div>

<p>I feel that if all of us were less slaves to fashion
we would be nobler women, for both our bodies and
minds are now rendered weak and useless from the
unhealthy and barbarous style of dress adopted, and
from the time and thought in making it attractive. A
change is demanded and if I have been the means of
calling the attention of the public to it and of leading
only a few to disregard old customs and for once to
think and act for themselves, I shall not trouble myself
about the false imputations that may be cast upon
me.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Giving Up Her Name</h3>

<p class="author">By Mrs. Alec Tweedie</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_126">See page 126</a>)</p>

</div>

<p>Another handicap that falls to the lot of woman
is in her loss of individuality and family through giving
up her own name in marriage.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Purse and the Soul</h3>

<p class="author">By Meta L. Stern</p>

<p class="intro-c">(<a href="#Page_250">See page 250</a>)</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Comrade.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">The soul doth sow and the purse doth reap</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The purse doth feed while the soul doth weep—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Oh, such is the world’s strange way.</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_287"></a>[287]</span>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Power and honor the purse doth bring—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Worship of trader and priest and king</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">While souls are as cheap as clay.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">O, such is the bitter way of life;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">A way of unending toil and strife—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Our heritage but a curse.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">So must it be till the knell we toll</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Of senseless greed that gives to the soul</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Less honor than to the purse.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="section">

<h3>I Heard the Spirit Singing</h3>

<p class="author">By June E. Downy</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Independent.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">I heard the spirits singing in the ancient caves of work;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">“You are playing, man-child, playing, where the evil demons lurk.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Yet I would not have you falter, or count the awful cost,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Lest your heart grow old within you, and your zest for sport be lost.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“So toss the ball of empire, with its fatal coat of fire;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And dig for gilded nuggets, with the pangs of hot desire;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And blow your filmy bubbles in the bright face of the sun,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Tho’ you know they will tarnish, vanish, ere your playing day is done.</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_288"></a>[288]</span>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“Go, spin your humming-top of thought, or brood with sullen lip,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">As you scrawl upon the canvas, or load the merchant ship;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Come, tell some old, old story, or rehearse some ancient creed,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Or with many a lisp of wonder, draw the music from the reed.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“Let your playful hand in cunning devise a giant eye;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And in long hours of frolic, guess the secrets of the sky;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Or peer with curious longing in the busy under-bourne,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Where microscopic beings are playing in their turn.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“And raise Love’s swaying ladder to the dizzy heights of woe;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And walk o’er desert places where the thorns and thistles grow,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">When the man-child gropes and stumbles and holds his quivering breath,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">As he meets within the shadows his last playfellow, “Death.”</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">I heard the Spirit singing: “Laughter is the strongest prayer,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And the zest of faith is measured by the mirth that toys with care;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And he who plays the hardest and dares to sing aloud,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Beyond the shadows’ caverns may some day work with God.”</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_289"></a>[289]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Difference</h3>

<p class="author">By Olive Schreiner</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “Woman and Labor.”)</p>

</div>

<p>To the male, the giving of life is a laugh; to the
female, blood, anguish and sometimes death. Here
we touch one of the few yet important differences between
man and woman as such.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>The Unfair Status</h3>

<p class="author">By Matilda Jocelyn Gage</p>

<p class="intro-c">(From “Woman, Church and State.”)</p>

</div>

<p>Under French law, woman is a perpetual minor
under the guardianship of her own, or that of her
husband’s family. Only in the case of the birth of
an illegitimate child is she treated as a responsible
being, and then only that discomfort and punishment
may fall upon her.</p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Custom</h3>

<p class="author">By Sarah Sellers</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Woman’s Journal.”)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">I was dreaming</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And I saw the children,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The babies from heaven;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The mothers of the future</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Who will nurse us and rear us.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Who will teach us, and guide us;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Straight from heaven, I saw them,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Beautiful to look on;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And I heard a voice:</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">“Bring the chains, the chains of custom.”</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_290"></a>[290]</span>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">The chains were golden,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And fine as a baby’s hair,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And the beautiful children</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Were wound in them.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">I was dreaming;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And I saw the maidens,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Strong and straight,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">With the beauty of youth in their faces,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">With the promise of years before them;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And I heard a voice:</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">“Bring the chains, the chains of custom.”</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">And the new chains were brought,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Beautiful and golden;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And the maidens did not know</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">They were chains.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">I was dreaming,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And the mothers stood before me,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">With their children around them;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And a voice said:</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">“Bring the chains, the chains of custom.”</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">And the mothers were bound</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">With chains not golden,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And the links held them</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">With the strength of years.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The mothers knew they were chained;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And they looked at their children.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_291"></a>[291]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>A Thanksgiving</h3>

<p class="author">By Theodosia Garrison</p>

<p class="intro-c">(One of America’s leading contemporary poets.)</p>

</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">For the friendship of women, Lord, that hath been since the world had breath,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Since a woman stood at a woman’s side to comfort through birth and death,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">You have made as a bond of mirth and tears to last forever and aye,—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For the friendship of true woman, Lord, take you my thanks today.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Many the joys I have welcomed, many the joys that have passed,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">But this is the good unfailing, and this is the peace that shall last;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">From love that dies and love that lies, and love that must cling and sting,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Back to the arms of our sisters we turn, for our comforting.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">For the friendship of true women, Lord, that has been and shall ever be,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Since a woman stood at a woman’s side at the cross of Calvary;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For the tears we weep and the trust we keep, and the self-same prayers we pray—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">For the friendship of true women, Lord, take you my thanks today.</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_292"></a>[292]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>Women Run in Molds</h3>

<p class="author">By Frances Power Cobb</p>

<p class="intro">(From “Woman’s Work and Woman’s Culture,” a compilation
of essays published in 1869, in London.)</p>

</div>

<p>Of all the theories current concerning women,
none is more curious than the theory that it is needful
to make a theory about them. That a woman is a
Domestic, a Social, or a Political creature; that she is
a Goddess, or a Doll; the “Angel in the House,” or a
Drudge, with a suckling of fools and a chronicaling of
small beer for her sole privileges that she has, at all
events, a “Mission,” or a “Sphere,” or a “Kingdom,”
of some sort or other, if we could but agree on
what it is,—all this is taken for granted. But, as nobody
ever yet sat down and constructed analogous
hypotheses about the other half of the human race, we
are driven to conclude, both that a woman is a more
mysterious creature than a man, and also that it is the
general impression that she is made of some more
plastic material, which can be advantageously manipulated
to fit our theory about her nature and office,
whenever we have come to a conclusion as to what that
nature and office may be. “Let us fix our own Ideal
in the first place,” seems to be the popular notion,
and then the real Woman in accordance thereto will
appear in due course of time. We have nothing to do
but to make round holes and women will grow round
to fill them; or square holes, and they will become
square. Men grow like trees, and the most we can
do is to lop or clip them, but women run in molds,
like candles, and we can make them long-threes, or
short-sixes, whichever we please.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_293"></a>[293]</span></p>

<div class="section">

<h3>A Sheaf of Quotations</h3>

</div>

<p class="author">By Mme. Necker</p>

<p>Woman’s tongue is her sword which she never
lets rust.</p>

<p class="author">By Marguerite de Valois</p>

<p>A woman of honor should never suspect another
of things she would not do herself.</p>

<p class="author">By Mme. de Sonza</p>

<p>It is vanity that renders the youth of women
culpable and their old age ridiculous.</p>

<p class="author">By Mdlle. de Lespinasse</p>

<p>A woman would be in despair if Nature had
formed her as fashion makes her appear.</p>

<p class="author">Mme. Fee</p>

<p>Do not take women from the bedside of those who
suffer; it is their post of honor.</p>

<p class="author">By Eugenie de Guerin</p>

<p>A mother’s tenderness and caresses are the milk
of the heart.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_294"></a>[294]</span></p>

<p class="author">By Margaret Deland</p>

<p>The best things of our nature fashion themselves
in silence.</p>

<p class="author">By Edith Wharton</p>

<p>Life’s just a perpetual piecing together.</p>

<p class="author">By Agnes H. Downing</p>

<p class="intro-c">(In “The Progressive Woman.”)</p>

<p>The woman is censured with the idea of protecting
morality. And the man is let go; why? Nobody
knows why. Because he is a man and no one ever
thought of punishing a man for a little thing like
that.... Would you avoid tragedies? Then advocate
sex-equality. We will always have individual and
social tragedy so long as the woman is stoned and the
man goes free.</p>

<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75366 ***</div>
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