The Forerunner, Volume 1 by Charlotte Perkins Gilman (page 13)

healthful regimen practiced daily would double the daily pleasure of living and add ten years to the span of life, nine out of ten would neglect it. And (b) thoughtlessness through faulty education; the primary function of mental culture being to teach people to think, analyze, and solve the problems of life, and cultivate the memory; but memory is too often given first place to the exclusion of the others.”–_A. O. H._

This is an excellent answer. There are others.–C. P. G.

THE EDITOR’S PROBLEM

To pay its running expenses this little magazine must have about three thousand subscribers. It now has between eleven and twelve hundred.

We want, to make good measure, two thousand more. This is a bare minimum, providing no salary to the editor. If enough people care for the magazine to support it to that extent, the editor will do her work for nothing–and be glad of the chance! If enough people care for it to support her–she will be gladder.

Do you like the magazine, its spirit and purpose? Do you find genuine interest and amusement in the novel–the short story? Do the articles appeal to you? Do the sermons rouse thought and stir to action? Are the problems treated such as you care to study? Does the poetry have bones to it as well as feathers? Does it give you your dollar’s worth in the year? And do you want another dollar’s worth?

Most of the people who take it like it very much. We are going to print, a few at a time, some of the pleasant praises our readers send. They are so cordial that we are moved to ask all those who do enjoy this little monthly service of sermon and story, fun and fiction, poetry and prose,

First, To renew their subscriptions.

Second, Each to get one new subscriber. (Maybe more!)

Third, To make Christmas presents of subscriptions, or of bound volumes of the first year.

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“Women and Economics” $1.50

Since John Stuart Mill’s essay there has been no book dealing with the whole position of women to approach it in originality of conception and brilliancy of exposition.–_London Chronicle._

A remarkable book. A work on economics that has not a dull page–the work of a woman about women that has not a flippant word.–_Boston Transcript._

Will be widely read and discussed as the cleverest, fairest, most forcible presentation of the view of the rapidly increasing group who look with favor on the extension of industrial employment to women.–_Political Science Quarterly._

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WANTED:–A philanthropist, to give a copy to every English-speaking parent.–_The Times,_ New York.

Should be read by every mother in the land.–_The Press,_ New York.

Wholesomely disturbing book that deserves to be read for its own sake.–_Chicago Dial._

“In This Our World” (Poems) $1.25

There is a joyous superabundance of life, of strength, of health, in Mrs. Gilman’s verse, which seems born of the glorious sunshine and rich gardens of California.–_Washington Times._

The poet of women and for women, a new and prophetic voice in the world. Montaigne would have rejoiced in her.–_Mexican Herald._

“The Yellow Wall Paper” $0.50

Worthy of a place beside some of the weird masterpieces of Hawthorne and Poe.–_Literature._

As a short story it stands among the most powerful produced in America.–_Chicago News._

“The Home” $1.00

Indeed, Mrs. Gilman has not intended her book so much as a treatise for scholars as a surgical operation on the popular mind.–_The Critic,_ New York.

It is safe to say that no more stimulating arraignment has ever before taken shape and that the argument of the book is noble, and, on the whole, convincing.–_Congregationalist,_ Boston.

“Human Work” $1.00

Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman has been writing a new book, entitled “Human Work.” It is the best thing that Mrs. Gilman has done, and it is meant to focus all of her previous work, so to speak.–_Tribune,_ Chicago.

In her latest volume, “Human Work,” Charlotte Perkins Gilman places herself among the foremost students and elucidators of the problem of social economics.–“San Francisco Star._

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“What Diantha Did” (A Novel) $1.00

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THE FORERUNNER
CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN’S MAGAZINE CHARLTON CO., 67 WALL ST., NEW YORK

AS TO PURPOSE:

_What is The Forerunner?_ It is a monthly magazine, publishing stories short and serial, article and essay; drama, verse, satire and sermon; dialogue, fable and fantasy, comment and review. It is written entirely by Charlotte Perkins Gilman.

_What is it For?_ It is to stimulate thought: to arouse hope, courage and impatience; to offer practical suggestions and solutions, to voice the strong assurance of better living, here, now, in our own hands to make.

_What is it about?_ It is about people, principles, and the questions of every-day life; the personal and public problems of to-day. It gives a clear, consistent view of human life and how to live it.

_Is it a Woman’s magazine?_ It will treat all three phases of our existence–male, female and human. It will discuss Man, in his true place in life; Woman, the Unknown Power; the Child, the most important citizen.

_Is it a Socialist Magazine?_ It is a magazine for humanity, and humanity is social. It holds that Socialism, the economic theory, is part of our gradual Socialization, and that the duty of conscious humanity is to promote Socialization.

_Why is it published?_ It is published to express ideas which need a special medium; and in the belief that there are enough persons interested in those ideas to justify the undertaking.

AS TO ADVERTISING:

We have long heard that “A pleased customer is the best advertiser.” The Forerunner offers to its advertisers and readers the benefit of this authority. In its advertising department, under the above heading, will be described articles personally known and used. So far as individual experience and approval carry weight, and clear truthful description command attention, the advertising pages of The Forerunner will be useful to both dealer and buyer. If advertisers prefer to use their own statements The Forerunner will publish them if it believes them to be true.

AS TO CONTENTS:

The main feature of the first year is a new book on a new subject with a new name:–

_”Our Androcentric Culture.”_ this is a study of the historic effect on normal human development of a too exclusively masculine civilization. It shows what man, the male, has done to the world: and what woman, the more human, may do to change it.

_”What Diantha Did.”_ This is a serial novel. It shows the course of true love running very crookedly–as it so often does–among the obstructions and difficulties of the housekeeping problem–and solves that problem. (NOT by co-operation.)

Among the short articles will appear:

“Private Morality and Public Immorality.” “The Beauty Women Have Lost”
“Our Overworked Instincts.”
“The Nun in the Kitchen.”
“Genius: Domestic and Maternal.”
“A Small God and a Large Goddess.”
“Animals in Cities.”
“How We Waste Three-Fourths Of Our Money.” “Prize Children”
“Kitchen-Mindedness”
“Parlor-Mindedness”
“Nursery-Mindedness”

There will be short stories and other entertaining matter in each issue. The department of “Personal Problems” does not discuss etiquette, fashions or the removal of freckles. Foolish questions will not be answered, unless at peril of the asker.

AS TO VALUE:

If you take this magazine one year you will have:

One complete novel . . . By C. P. Gilman One new book . . . By C. P. Gilman
Twelve short stories . . . By C. P. Gilman Twelve-and-more short articles . . . By C. P. Gilman Twelve-and-more new poems . . . By C. P. Gilman Twelve Short Sermons . . . By C. P. Gilman Besides “Comment and Review” . . . By C. P. Gilman “Personal Problems” . . . By C. P. Gilman And many other things . . . By C. P. Gilman

DON’T YOU THINK IT’S WORTH A DOLLAR?

THE FORERUNNER
CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN’S MAGAZINE CHARLTON CO., 67 WALL ST., NEW YORK

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Please find enclosed $_____ as subscription to “The Forerunner” from _____ 19___ to _____ 19___

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THE FORERUNNER

A MONTHLY MAGAZINE

BY

CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN
AUTHOR, OWNER & PUBLISHER

1.00 A YEAR
.10 A COPY

Volume 1. No. 11
SEPTEMBER, 1910
Copyright for 1910
C. P. Gilman

Your Unborn Grandchild is more real then your Buried Grandfather. Let us then Obliterate Graveyards and Build Babygardens.

TO-MORROW NIGHT

Marginal mile after mile of smooth-running granite embankment, Washed by clean waters, clean seas and clean rivers embracing; Pier upon pier lying wide for the ships of all seas to foregather, Broad steps of marble, descending, for the people to enter the water, White quays of marble, with music, and myriad pleasure-boats waiting; Music of orchestras playing in blossoming parks by the river, Playing on white-pillared piers where the lightfooted thousands are dancing,
Dancing at night in the breeze flowing fresh from the sea and the river; Music of flute and guitar from the lovers afloat on the water, Music of happy young voices far-flying across the bright ripples, Bright with high-glittering ships and the low rosy lanterns of lovers, Bright with the stars overhead and the stars of the city beside them, Their city, the heaven they know, and love as they love one another.

MR. ROBERT GREY SR.

I thought I knew what trouble was when Jimmy went away. It was bad enough when he was clerking in Barstow and I only saw him once a week; but now he’d gone to sea.

He said he’d never earn much as a clerk, and he hated it too. He’d saved every cent he could of his wages and taken a share in the Mary Jenks, and I shouldn’t see him again for a year maybe,–maybe more. She was a sealer.

O dear! I’d have married him just as he was; but he said he couldn’t keep me yet, and if they had luck he’d make 400 per cent. on his savings that voyage,–and it was all for me. My blessed Jimmy!

He hadn’t been gone but a bare fortnight when “unmerciful disaster followed fast and followed faster” on our poor heads. First father broke his arm. There was the doctor to pay, and all that plaster cast thing, and of course I had to do the milking and all the work. I didn’t mind that a bit. We hadn’t any horse then, to take care of, and Rosy, our cow, was a dear; gentle as a kitten, and sweet-breathed as a baby. But it put back all the farm work, of course; we couldn’t hire, and there wasn’t enough to go shares on. Mother was pretty wretched, and no wonder.

And then Rosy was stolen! That did seem the last straw. As long as Rosy was there and I could milk her, we shouldn’t starve.

Poor father! There he sat, with that plaster arm in the sling–the other one looking so discouraged and nerveless, and his head bowed on his breast; the hand hanging, the strong busy fingers laxly open.

“I’ll go and look,” he said, starting up, “where’s my hat?”

“It’s no use looking, father,” said I, “the halter’s gone, there are big footprints beside her hoof-marks out to the road, and then quite a stamped place, and then wagon wheels and her nice little clean tracks going off after the wagon. Plain stolen.”

He sat down again and groaned.

“Thought I heard a wagon in the middle of the night,” said mother, weakly. Her face was flushed, and her eyes ran over. “I can’t sleep much you know. I ought to have spoken, but you need your sleep.”

I ran to her and kissed her.

“Now mother dear! Don’t you fret over it,–please don’t! We’ll find Rosy. I’ll get Mrs. Clark to ‘phone for me at once.”

“‘Phone where?” said father. “It’s no use ‘phoning. Its those gypsies. And they got to town hours ago–and Rosy’s beef by this time.” He set his jaw hard; but there were tears in his eyes, too.

I was nearly distracted myself. “If only Jimmy were here,” I said, “he’d find her!”

“I don’t doubt he’d make a try,” said father, “but it’s too late.”

I ran over to Mrs. Clark, and we ‘phoned to the police in Barstow, and sure enough they found the hide and horns! It didn’t do us any good. They arrested some gypsies, but couldn’t prove anything; shut one of ’em up for vagrancy, too,–but that didn’t do us any good, either. And if they’d proved it and convicted him it wouldn’t have brought back Rosy,–or given us another cow.

Then mother got sick. It was pure discouragement as much as anything, I think, and she missed Rosy’s milk,–she used to half live on it. After she was sick she missed it more, there were so few things she could eat,–and not many of those I could get for her.

O how I did miss Jimmy! If he’d been there he’d have helped me to _see over_ it all. “Sho!” he’d have said. “It’s hard lines, little girl, now; but bless you, a broken arm’s only temporary; your father’ll be as good as ever soon. And your mother’ll get well; she’s a strong woman. I never saw a stronger woman of her age. And as to the food–just claim you’re ‘no breakfast’ people, and believe in fasting for your health!”

That’s the way Jimmy met things, and I tried to say it all to myself, and keep my spirits up,–and theirs. But Jimmy was at sea.

Well, father couldn’t work, it had to be his right arm, of course. And mother couldn’t work either; she was just helpless and miserable, and the more she worried the sicker she got, and the sicker she got the more she worried. My patience! How I did work! No time to read, no time to study, no time to sew on any of the pretty white things I was gradually accumulating. I got up before daylight, almost; kept the house as neat as I could, and got breakfast, such as it was. Father could dress himself after a fashion, and he could sit with mother when I was outside working in the garden. I began that garden just as an experiment, the day after father broke his arm. The outlay was only thirty cents for lettuce and radish seed, but it took a lot of work.

Then there was mother to do for, and father to cheer up (which was hardest of all), and dinner and supper to get,–and nothing to get them with, practically.

The doctor didn’t push us any, but father hates a debt as he hates poison, and mother is a natural worrier. “She is killing herself with worry,” the doctor said; and he had no anti-toxin for that, apparently.

And then, as if that wasn’t enough, that Mr. Robert Grey Sr. took advantage of our misfortunes and began to make up to me again.

I never liked the old man since I was a little girl. He was always picking me up and kissing me, when I didn’t want to in the least. When I got older he’d pinch my checks, and offer me a nickle if I’d kiss him.

Mother liked him, for he stood high in the church, and was a charitable soul. Father liked him because he was successful–father always admired successful men;–and Mr. Grey got his money honestly, too, father said. He was a kind old soul. He offered to send me to college, and I was awfully tempted; but father couldn’t bear a money obligation,–and I couldn’t bear Mr. Grey.

There was a Robert Grey Jr., who was disagreeable enough; a thin, pimply, sanctimonious young fellow, with a class of girls in sunday-school. He was sickly enough, but Mr. Robert Grey Sr. was worse. He sort of tottered and threw his feet about as he walked; and kind or not kind, I couldn’t bear him. But he came around now all the time.

He brought mother nice things to eat,–you can’t refuse gifts to the sick,–and they were awfully nice; he has a first class cook. And he brought so much that there was enough for father too. We had to eat it to save it, you see,–but I hated every mouthful. I lived on our potatoes mostly, and they were poor enough–in June–and no milk to go with them.

He came every day, bringing his basket of delicacies for mother, and he’d chat awhile with her–she liked it; and he’d sit and talk with father–he liked it; and then he’d hang around me–and I had to be civil to him! But I did not like it a bit. I couldn’t bear the old man with his thin grey whiskers, and his watery gray eyes, and his big pink mouth–color of an old hollyhock.

But he came and came, and nobody could fail to see what he wanted; but O dear me! How I wished for Jimmy. My big, strong, brisk boy, with the jolly laugh and the funny little swears that he invented himself! I watched the shipping news, and waited and hoped; he might come back any time now, if they’d had luck. But he didn’t come. Mr. Robert Grey Sr. was there every day–and Jimmy didn’t come.

I tried not to cry. I needed all my strength and courage to keep some heart in father and mother, and I tried always to remember what Jimmy would have said; how he’d have faced it. “Don’t be phazed by _anything,_” he used to say. “Everything goes by–give it time. Don’t holler! Don’t give a jam!” (People always looked so surprised when Jimmy said “Jam!”) “Just hang on and do the square thing. You’re not responsible for other people’s sorrows. Hold up your own end.”

Jimmy was splendid! He used to read to me about an old philosopher called Euripides, and I got to appreciate him too. But when the papers were full of “Storms at sea”–“Terrible weather in the north”–“Gales”–“High winds”–“Losses in shipping”–it did seem as if I couldn’t bear it.

Then at last it came, in a terrible list of wrecks. The Mary Jenks–lost, with all on board.

O what was the use of living! What did anything matter! Why couldn’t I die! Why couldn’t I die!

But I didn’t. My health was as good as ever; I could even sleep–when I wasn’t crying. Working hard out of doors and not eating very much makes you sleep I guess, heart or no heart. And I had to keep on working; my lettuce was up and coming on finely, rows upon rows of it, just as I had planted it, two days apart. And the radishes too, they were eatable, and we tried them.

But father laughed grimly at my small garden. “A lot of good that’ll do us, child!” he said. “O Jenny–there’s more than that you can do for your poor mother! I know you feel badly, and ordinarily I wouldn’t say a word, but–you see how it is.”

I saw how it was well enough, but it seemed to me too horrible to think of. To thrust that tottering old philanthropist right into my poor bleeding heart! I couldn’t bear it.

Mother never said a word. But she looked. She’d lie there with her big hollow eyes following me around the room; and when I came to do anything for her she’d look in my face so! It was more effective than all father’s talks. For father had made up his mind now, and urged me all the time.

“We might as well face the facts, Jenny,” he said. “James Young is gone, and I’m sorry; and you are naturally broken-hearted. But even if you were a widow I’d say the same thing. Here is this man who has been good to you since you were a child; he will treat you well, you’ll have a home, you’ll be provided for when he dies. I know you’re not in love with him. I don’t expect it. He don’t either. He has spoken to me. He don’t expect miracles. Here we are, absolutely living on his food! It–it is _terrible_ to me, Jennie! But I couldn’t refuse, for your mother’s sake. Now if I could pocket my pride for her sake, can’t you pocket your grief? You can’t bring back the dead.”

“O father, don’t!” I said. “How can you talk so! O Jimmy! Jimmy!–If you were here!”

“He isn’t here–he never will be!” said father steadily. “But your mother is here, and sick. Mr. Grey wants to send her to a sanitarium–‘as a friend.’ I can’t let him do that,–it would cost hundreds of dollars. But–as a son-in-law I could.”

Mother didn’t say a thing–dear mother. But she looked at me.

They made me feel like a brute, between them; at least father did. He kept right on talking.

“Mr. Grey is a good man,” he said, “an unusually good man. If he was a bad man I’d never say a word.”

“He was when he was young, old Miss Green says,” I answered.

“I am ashamed of you, Jennie,” said father, “to listen to such scandalous gossip! How–how unmaidenly of you! I dare say he was a little wild,–forty years ago. Most young fellows are, and he was rich and handsome. But he has been a shining light in this community for forty years.–A good husband–a good father.”

“What’d his wife die of?” I asked suddenly.

“An operation,–but he did everything for her. She had the best doctors and nurses. She was a good deal of an invalid, I believe, after Robert Jr. was born.”

“He’s not much!” said I.

“No, Robert Jr. has been a great disappointment to his father–the great disappointment of his life, I may say; though he was very fond of his wife. But he won’t trouble you any, Jenny; his father is going to send him to Europe for a long time–for his health. Now Jenny, all this is ancient history. Here is a good kind man who loves you dearly, and wants to marry you at once. If you do it you may save your mother’s life,–and set me on my feet again for what remains of mine. I never said a word while you were engaged to Jimmy Young, but now it’s a plain duty.”

That night Mr. Grey Sr. came as usual. He had sent round his car and got mother to take a ride that afternoon. It did her good, too. And when he came father went out and sat with her, and left me to him:–and he asked me to marry him.

He told me all the things he’d do for me–for mother–for father. He said he shouldn’t live very long anyway, and then I could be my own mistress, with plenty of money. And I couldn’t say a word, yes or no.

I sat there, playing with the edge of the lamp-mat–and thinking of Jimmy.

And then Mr. Robert Grey Sr. made a mistake. He got a hold of my hand and fingered it. He came and took me in his arms–and kissed my mouth.

I jerked away from him–he almost fell over. “No! O NO!” I cried. “I can’t do it Mr. Grey. I simply _can’t!”_

He turned the color of ashes.

“Why not?” he said.

“Because it isn’t decent,” said I firmly. “I can’t bear to have you touch me–never could. I will be a servant to you–I will work for you–nurse you–but to be your wife!–I’m sorry Mr. Grey, but I can’t do it.”

I ran upstairs, and cried and cried; and I had reason to cry, for father was a living thundercloud after that, and mother was worse; and they wouldn’t take any more of Mr. Grey’s kindnesses, either of them.

My lettuce and radishes kept us alive until the potatoes were ripe. I sold them, fresh every day. Walked three miles with a big basket full every morning, to one of the summer hotels. It was awfully heavy, especially when it rained. They didn’t pay much, but it kept us–a dollar a day, sometimes more.

Father got better in course of time, of course, and went to work on the farm in a discouraged sort of way. But mother was worse, if anything. She never blamed me–never said a word; but her eyes were a living reproach.

“Mother, dear,” I begged her, “do forgive me! I’ll work till I drop, for you; I’ll deny myself everything: I’ll do most anything that’s decent and honest. But to marry a man you don’t love is not honest; and to marry an old invalid like that–it’s not decent.”

She just sighed–didn’t say anything.

“Cheer up mother, do! Father’s almost well; we can get through this year somehow. Next year I can make enough to buy a cow, really.”

But it wasn’t more than a month from that time, I was sitting on the door stone at twilight–thinking of Jimmy, of course–and–there _was_ Jimmy. I thought it was his ghost; but if it was it was a very warm-blooded one.

As to old Mr. Robert Grey, Sr., he persuaded little Grace Salters to marry him; a pretty, foolish, plump little thing; and if you’ll believe it, she died within a year–she and her baby with her.

Well. If ever anybody was glad I was.

I don’t mean glad she was dead, poor girl; but glad I didn’t marry him, and did marry Jimmy.

WHAT VIRTUES ARE MADE OF

“Making a virtue of necessity” we say, somewhat scornfully; and never consider that all virtues are so made.

“The savage virtues” of endurance, patience, gratitude, hospitality, are easily seen to be precisely the main necessities of savages. Their daily hardships and occasional miseries were such that an extra store of endurance was needed, and this they artificially cultivated by the system of initiation by torture.

The Spartans used the same plan, training the young soldier to bear a doubly heavy spear, that the real one might be light to his hand.

Patience was needed by the hunter, and still more by the laboring squaw; gratitude sprang from the great need–and rarity–of mercy or service; and hospitality is always found in proportion to the distance, difficulty, and danger of traveling. Courage, as the preeminent virtue of manhood, rose to this prominence later in history, under conditions of constant warfare.

Where you have to meet danger, and your danger is best overcome by courage, by that necessity courage becomes a virtue. It has not been deemed a virtue in women, because it was not a necessity. They were not allowed to face outer danger; and what dangers they had were best escaped by avoidance and ingenuity. Amusingly enough, since the woman’s main danger came through her “natural protector”–man; and since her skill and success in escaping from or overcoming him was naturally not valued by him, much less considered a necessity; this power of evasion and adaptation in woman has never been called a virtue. Yet it is just as serviceable to her as courage to the man, and therefore as much a virtue.

Honesty is a modern virtue. It existed, without a name and without praise, among savages; but its place among virtues comes with the period of commercial life. Without some honesty, no commerce; it is absolutely necessary to keep the world going; its absence in any degree is a social injury; therefore we extol honesty and seek to punish dishonesty, as the savage never thought of doing.

All men are not honest in this commercial period, nor were all men brave in the period of warfare: but they all agree in praising the virtue most needed at the time.

Truth, as a special virtue, is interesting to study. The feeling of trust in the word of another is of great value, under some conditions. Under what conditions? In slavery? No. Truthfulness is evidently not advantageous to slaves, for they do not manifest, or even esteem that quality.

Those same Spartans, to whom courage and endurance stood so high, thought but little of truth and honesty, and taught their boys to steal. In warfare trickery and robbery are part of the game.

Where do we find the “word of honour” most valued? Among gentlefolk and nobles, and those who inherit their traditions and impulses. It is conditioned upon freedom and power. You must trust a man’s word–when you have no other hold upon him!

Mercy, kindness, “humanity”–as we quite justifiably call it,–is a very young virtue, growing with social growth. Cruelty was once the rule; now the exception. The more inextricably our lives are interwoven in the social fabric, the more we need the mutual love which is the natural state of social beings; and this feeling becoming a necessity, it also becomes a virtue. Similarly, as our lives depend on the presence and service of other animals we need to be kind to them; and in our highest development so far, kindness to animals has been elected virtue.

But of all virtues made of necessity, none is more glaringly in evidence than the one we call “virtue” itself,–chastity. We call it “virtue” because it is _the_ quality–and the only quality–which has been a necessity to the possessor–woman. Her life depended absolutely on man. He valued her in one relation, and in that relation demanded this one thing;–that she serve him alone.

Because of this demand, to her an absolute necessity, we have developed the virtue of chastity, and praised it above all others–in woman! But in men it was not even considered a virtue, much less demanded and enforced.

Could anything be clearer proof that virtue was made of necessity?

What we need to study now is the chief necessity of modern life. When we have found that out we shall be able to rearrange our scale of virtues.

ANIMALS IN CITIES

A city is a group residence for human beings. There is no room in it for any animal but one–_Genus Homo._ At present we make a sort of menagerie of it.

Genus Homo is the major factor, bus he shares his common home with many other beasts, _genus equus,_ _genus canis,_ _genus felis,_ and members of others whose Latin names are not so familiar.

The horse is most numerous. He is a clean animal, a good friend and strong servant where animals belong–in the country. In the city he is an enemy. His stable is a Depot for the Wholesale Distribution of Diseases.

The services of the horse, and the tons upon tons of fertilizing material produced by him, are financially valuable; but the injury from many deaths, the yearly drain from long sickness, and all the doctors and druggists bills, amounts to a far greater loss.

There is no horse work in a city that cannot be done by machine. The carriage, wagon, truck and dray, can take his place as workers; and they _breed no flies._

We are learning, learning fast, how large a proportion of diseases spring from minute living things which get inside of us and play havoc with our organism. And very lately we are learning further, that of all the benevolent distributors of disease none are more swift and sure than certain insects; insects which are born and bred in and upon the bodies and excreta of animals.

It is true that our kitchen garbage furnishes another popular nursery for flies, but the unclean stable is the other breeding place.

Next in number to the horse come the dog and cat. These creatures are not healthy and not happy in a city. They cannot be kept there without injury to them; and the injury is more than revenged upon their keepers. The dog furnishes his quota of deaths from hydrophobia, as well as plain “assault and battery;” he defiles our sidewalks, and the fruits and vegetables exposed upon our sidewalks; he keeps us awake by his forlorn howling; he has diseases of his own which we may receive from him; and he has fleas.

The flea, as well as the fly, is a valiant and industrious purveyor of disease. From beast to beast they hop, carrying their toxic germs with them: and the dog, displeased with his persecutors, scratches them off upon our carpets.

The same applies to cats. A cat in the country is clean and safe; a cat in the city is neither–if it has any freedom. If a young kitten, cleansed and flealess, were reared in a lofty apartment, it would be clean, doubtless; but the usual cat is free on intersecting fences; and in the contact of warfare, or of gentler feelings, the flea is free to travel and exchange.

The rat and mouse come under the same condemnation; they have fleas. They make dirt. They tend to increase and maintain our insect pests and terrors. They penetrate to all unsavory places. They acquire disease themselves, or carry the germs of it in their blood or on their fur. Their parasites gather them up and give them to us. The rats will leave a sinking ship, the fleas will leave a sinking rat, and among their millions some of them come to us.

When we build cities clean and tight from basement to roof,–all concrete, brick, stone, metal, and plaster; when the holes for pipes of all sorts are scaled as they enter the home; when the kitchen is eliminated by 90 per cent. and replaced by the food laboratories; when no animal but man is allowed within city limits–and he is taught to keep clean; we can then compare, for antiseptic cleanliness with a fine hospital–and have few hospitals to compare with!

WHAT DIANTHA DID

XI.

THE POWER OF THE SCREW.

Your car is too big for one person to stir– Your chauffeur is a little man, too;
Yet he lifts that machine, does the little chauffeur, By the power of a gentle jackscrew.

Diantha worked.

For all her employees she demanded a ten-hour day, she worked fourteen; rising at six and not getting to bed till eleven, when her charges were all safely in their rooms for the night.

They were all up at five-thirty or thereabouts, breakfasting at six, and the girls off in time to reach their various places by seven. Their day was from 7 A. M. to 8.30 P. M., with half an hour out, from 11.30 to twelve, for their lunch; and three hours, between 2.20 and 5.30, for their own time, including their tea. Then they worked again from 5.30 to 8.30, on the dinner and the dishes, and then they came home to a pleasant nine o’clock supper, and had all hour to dance or rest before the 10.30 bell for bed time.

Special friends and “cousins” often came home with them, and frequently shared the supper–for a quarter–and the dance for nothing.

It was no light matter in the first place to keep twenty girls contented with such a regime, and working with the steady excellence required, and in the second place to keep twenty employers contented with them. There were failures on both sides; half a dozen families gave up the plan, and it took time to replace them; and three girls had to be asked to resign before the year was over. But most of them had been in training in the summer, and had listened for months to Diantha’s earnest talks to the clubs, with good results.

“Remember we are not doing this for ourselves alone,” she would say to them. “Our experiment is going to make this kind of work easier for all home workers everywhere. You may not like it at first, but neither did you like the old way. It will grow easier as we get used to it; and we _must_ keep the rules, because we made them!”

She laboriously composed a neat little circular, distributed it widely, and kept a pile in her lunch room for people to take.

It read thus:

UNION HOUSE
Food and Service.

General Housework by the week . . . $10.00 General Housework by the day . . . $2.00 Ten hours work a day, and furnish their own food. Additional labor by the hour . . . $ .20 Special service for entertainments, maids and waitresses, by the hour . . . $ .25
Catering for entertainments.
Delicacies for invalids.
Lunches packed and delivered.
Caffeteria . . . 12 to 2

What annoyed the young manager most was the uncertainty and irregularity involved in her work, the facts varying considerably from her calculations.

In the house all ran smoothly. Solemn Mrs. Thorvald did the laundry work for thirty-five–by the aid of her husband and a big mangle for the “flat work.” The girls’ washing was limited. “You have to be reasonable about it,” Diantha had explained to them. “Your fifty cents covers a dozen pieces–no more. If you want more you have to pay more, just as your employers do for your extra time.”

This last often happened. No one on the face of it could ask more than ten hours of the swift, steady work given by the girls at but a fraction over 14 cents an hour. Yet many times the housekeeper was anxious for more labor on special days; and the girls, unaccustomed to the three free hours in the afternoon, were quite willing to furnish it, thus adding somewhat to their cash returns.

They had a dressmaking class at the club afternoons, and as Union House boasted a good sewing machine, many of them spent the free hours in enlarging their wardrobes. Some amused themselves with light reading, a few studied, others met and walked outside. The sense of honest leisure grew upon them, with its broadening influence; and among her thirty Diantha found four or five who were able and ambitious, and willing to work heartily for the further development of the business.

Her two housemaids were specially selected. When the girls were out of the house these two maids washed the breakfast dishes with marvelous speed, and then helped Diantha prepare for the lunch. This was a large undertaking, and all three of them, as well as Julianna and Hector worked at it until some six or eight hundred sandwiches were ready, and two or three hundred little cakes.

Diantha had her own lunch, and then sat at the receipt of custom during the lunch hour, making change and ordering fresh supplies as fast as needed.

The two housemaids had a long day, but so arranged that it made but ten hours work, and they had much available time of their own. They had to be at work at 5:30 to set the table for six o’clock breakfast, and then they were at it steadily, with the dining rooms to “do,” and the lunch to get ready, until 11:30, when they had an hour to eat and rest. From 12:30 to 4 o’clock they were busy with the lunch cups, the bed-rooms, and setting the table for dinner; but after that they had four hours to themselves, until the nine o’clock supper was over, and once more they washed dishes for half an hour. The caffeteria used only cups and spoons; the sandwiches and cakes were served on paper plates.

In the hand-cart methods of small housekeeping it is impossible to exact the swift precision of such work, but not in the standardized tasks and regular hours of such an establishment as this.

Diantha religiously kept her hour at noon, and tried to keep the three in the afternoon; but the employer and manager cannot take irresponsible rest as can the employee. She felt like a most inexperienced captain on a totally new species of ship, and her paper plans looked very weak sometimes, as bills turned out to be larger than she had allowed for, or her patronage unaccountably dwindled. But if the difficulties were great, the girl’s courage was greater. “It is simply a big piece of work,” she assured herself, “and may be a long one, but there never was anything better worth doing. Every new business has difficulties, I mustn’t think of them. I must just push and push and push–a little more every day.”

And then she would draw on all her powers to reason with, laugh at, and persuade some dissatisfied girl; or, hardest of all, to bring in a new one to fill a vacancy.

She enjoyed the details of her lunch business, and studied it carefully; planning for a restaurant a little later. Her bread was baked in long cylindrical closed pans, and cut by machinery into thin even slices, not a crust wasted; for they were ground into crumbs and used in the cooking.

The filling for her sandwiches was made from fish, flesh, and fowl; from cheese and jelly and fruit and vegetables; and so named or numbered that the general favorites were gradually determined.

Mr. Thaddler chatted with her over the counter, as far as she would allow it, and discoursed more fully with his friends on the verandah.

“Porne,” he said, “where’d that girl come from anyway? She’s a genius, that’s what she is; a regular genius.”

“She’s all that,” said Mr. Porne, “and a benefactor to humanity thrown in. I wish she’d start her food delivery, though. I’m tired of those two Swedes already. O–come from? Up in Jopalez, Inca County, I believe.”

“New England stock I bet,” said Mr. Thaddler. “Its a damn shame the way the women go on about her.”

“Not all of them, surely,” protested Mr. Porne.

“No, not all of ’em,–but enough of ’em to make mischief, you may be sure. Women are the devil, sometimes.”

Mr. Porne smiled without answer, and Mr. Thaddler went sulking away–a bag of cakes bulging in his pocket.

The little wooden hotel in Jopalez boasted an extra visitor a few days later. A big red faced man, who strolled about among the tradesmen, tried the barber’s shop, loafed in the post office, hired a rig and traversed the length and breadth of the town, and who called on Mrs. Warden, talking real estate with her most politely in spite of her protestation and the scornful looks of the four daughters; who bought tobacco and matches in the grocery store, and sat on the piazza thereof to smoke, as did other gentlemen of leisure.

Ross Warden occasionally leaned at the door jamb, with folded arms. He never could learn to be easily sociable with ranchmen and teamsters. Serve them he must, but chat with them he need not. The stout gentleman essayed some conversation, but did not get far. Ross was polite, but far from encouraging, and presently went home to supper, leaving a carrot-haired boy to wait upon his lingering customers.

“Nice young feller enough,” said the stout gentleman to himself, “but raised on ramrods. Never got ’em from those women folks of his, either. He _has_ a row to hoe!” And he departed as he had come.

Mr. Eltwood turned out an unexpectedly useful friend to Diantha. He steered club meetings and “sociables” into her large rooms, and as people found how cheap and easy it was to give parties that way, they continued the habit. He brought his doctor friends to sample the lunch, and they tested the value of Diantha’s invalid cookery, and were more than pleased.

Hungry tourists were wholly without prejudice, and prized her lunches for their own sake. They descended upon the caffeteria in chattering swarms, some days, robbing the regular patrons of their food, and sent sudden orders for picnic lunches that broke in upon the routine hours of the place unmercifully.

But of all her patrons, the families of invalids appreciated Diantha’s work the most. Where a little shack or tent was all they could afford to live in, or where the tiny cottage was more than filled with the patient, attending relative, and nurse, this depot of supplies was a relief indeed.

A girl could be had for an hour or two; or two girls, together, with amazing speed, could put a small house in dainty order while the sick man lay in his hammock under the pepper trees; and be gone before he was fretting for his bed again. They lived upon her lunches; and from them, and other quarters, rose an increasing demand for regular cooked food.

“Why don’t you go into it at once?” urged Mrs. Weatherstone.

“I want to establish the day service first,” said Diantha. “It is a pretty big business I find, and I do get tired sometimes. I can’t afford to slip up, you know. I mean to take it up next fall, though.”

“All right. And look here; see that you begin in first rate shape. I’ve got some ideas of my own about those food containers.”

They discussed the matter more than once, Diantha most reluctant to take any assistance; Mrs. Weatherstone determined that she should.

“I feel like a big investor already,” she said. “I don’t think even you realize the _money_ there is in this thing! You are interested in establishing the working girls, and saving money and time for the housewives. I am interested in making money out of it–honestly! It would be such a triumph!”

“You’re very good–” Diantha hesitated.

“I’m not good. I’m most eagerly and selfishly interested. I’ve taken a new lease of life since knowing you, Diantha Bell! You see my father was a business man, and his father before him–I _like it._ There I was, with lots of money, and not an interest in life! Now?–why, there’s no end to this thing, Diantha! It’s one of the biggest businesses on earth–if not _the_ biggest!”

“Yes–I know,” the girl answered. “But its slow work. I feel the weight of it more than I expected. There’s every reason to succeed, but there’s the combined sentiment of the whole world to lift–it’s as heavy as lead.”

“Heavy! Of course it’s heavy! The more fun to lift it! You’ll do it, Diantha, I know you will, with that steady, relentless push of yours. But the cooked food is going to be your biggest power, and you must let me start it right. Now you listen to me, and make Mrs. Thaddler eat her words!”

Mrs. Thaddler’s words would have proved rather poisonous, if eaten. She grew more antagonistic as the year advanced. Every fault that could be found in the undertaking she pounced upon and enlarged; every doubt that could be cast upon it she heavily piled up; and her opposition grew more rancorous as Mr. Thaddler enlarged in her hearing upon the excellence of Diantha’s lunches and the wonders of her management.

“She’s picked a bunch o’ winners in those girls of hers,” he declared to his friends. “They set out in the morning looking like a flock of sweet peas–in their pinks and whites and greens and vi’lets,–and do more work in an hour than the average slavey can do in three, I’m told.”

It was a pretty sight to see those girls start out. They had a sort of uniform, as far as a neat gingham dress went, with elbow sleeves, white ruffled, and a Dutch collar; a sort of cross between a nurses dress and that of “La Chocolataire;” but colors were left to taste. Each carried her apron and a cap that covered the hair while cooking and sweeping; but nothing that suggested the black and white livery of the regulation servant.

“This is a new stage of labor,” their leader reminded them. “You are not servants–you are employees. You wear a cap as an English carpenter does–or a French cook,–and an apron because your work needs it. It is not a ruffled label,–it’s a business necessity. And each one of us must do our best to make this new kind of work valued and respected.”

It is no easy matter to overcome prejudices many centuries old, and meet the criticism of women who have nothing to do but criticize. Those who were “mistresses,” and wanted “servants,”–someone to do their will at any moment from early morning till late evening,–were not pleased with the new way if they tried it; but the women who had interests of their own to attend to; who merely wanted their homes kept clean, and the food well cooked and served, were pleased. The speed, the accuracy, the economy; the pleasant, quiet, assured manner of these skilled employees was a very different thing from the old slipshod methods of the ordinary general servant.

So the work slowly prospered, while Diantha began to put in execution the new plan she had been forced into.

While it matured, Mrs. Thaddler matured hers. With steady dropping she had let fall far and wide her suspicions as to the character of Union House.

“It looks pretty queer to me!” she would say, confidentially, “All those girls together, and no person to have any authority over them! Not a married woman in the house but that washerwoman,–and her husband’s a fool!”

“And again; You don’t see how she does it? Neither do I! The expenses must be tremendous–those girls pay next to nothing,–and all that broth and brown bread flying about town! Pretty queer doings, I think!”

“The men seem to like that caffeteria, don’t they?” urged one caller, perhaps not unwilling to nestle Mrs. Thaddler, who flushed darkly as she replied. “Yes, they do. Men usually like that sort of place.”

“They like good food at low prices, if that’s what you mean,” her visitor answered.

“That’s not all I mean–by a long way,” said Mrs. Thaddler. She said so much, and said it so ingeniously, that a dark rumor arose from nowhere, and grew rapidly. Several families discharged their Union House girls. Several girls complained that they were insultingly spoken to on the street. Even the lunch patronage began to fall off.

Diantha was puzzled–a little alarmed. Her slow, steady lifting of the prejudice against her was checked. She could not put her finger on the enemy, yet felt one distinctly, and had her own suspicions. But she also had her new move well arranged by this time.

Then a maliciously insinuating story of the place came out in a San Francisco paper, and a flock of local reporters buzzed in to sample the victim. They helped themselves to the luncheon, and liked it. but that did not soften their pens. They talked with such of the girls as they could get in touch with, and wrote such versions of these talks as suited them.

They called repeatedly at Union House, but Diantha refused to see them. Finally she was visited by the Episcopalian clergyman. He had heard her talk at the Club, was favorably impressed by the girl herself, and honestly distressed by the dark stories he now heard about Union House.

“My dear young lady,” he said, “I have called to see you in your own interests. I do not, as you perhaps know, approve of your schemes. I consider them–ah–subversive of the best interests of the home! But I think you mean well, though mistakenly. Now I fear you are not aware that this-ah–ill-considered undertaking of yours, is giving rise to considerable adverse comment in the community. There is–ah–there is a great deal being said about this business of yours which I am sure you would regret if you knew it. Do you think it is wise; do you think it is–ah–right, my dear Miss Bell, to attempt to carry on a–a place of this sort, without the presence of a–of a Matron of assured standing?”

Diantha smiled rather coldly.

“May I trouble you to step into the back parlor, Dr. Aberthwaite,” she said; and then;

“May I have the pleasure of presenting to you Mrs. Henderson Bell–my mother?”

*

“Wasn’t it great!” said Mrs. Weatherstone; “I was there you see,– I’d come to call on Mrs. Bell–she’s a dear,–and in came Mrs. Thaddler–“

“Mrs. Thaddler?”

“O I know it was old Aberthwaite, but he represented Mrs. Thaddler and her clique, and had come there to preach to Diantha about propriety–I heard him,–and she brought him in and very politely introduced him to her mother!–it was rich, Isabel.”

“How did Diantha manage it?” asked her friend.

“She’s been trying to arrange it for ever so long. Of course her father objected–you’d know that. But there’s a sister–not a bad sort, only very limited; she’s taken the old man to board, as it were, and I guess the mother really set her foot down for once–said she had a right to visit her own daughter!”

“It would seem so,” Mrs. Porne agreed. “I _am_ so glad! It will be so much easier for that brave little woman now.”

It was.

Diantha held her mother in her arms the night she came, and cried tike a baby.

“O mother _dear!_” she sobbed, “I’d no idea I should miss you so much. O you blessed comfort!”

Her mother cried a bit too; she enjoyed this daughter more than either of her older children, and missed her more. A mother loves all her children, naturally; but a mother is also a person–and may, without sin, have personal preferences.

She took hold of Diantha’s tangled mass of papers with the eagerness of a questing hound.

“You’ve got all the bills, of course,” she demanded, with her anxious rising inflection.

“Every one,” said the girl. “You taught me that much. What puzzles me is to make things balance. I’m making more than I thought in some lines, and less in others, and I can’t make it come out straight.”

“It won’t, altogether, till the end of the year I dare say,” said Mrs. Bell, “but let’s get clear as far as we can. In the first place we must separate your business,–see how much each one pays.”

“The first one I want to establish,” said her daughter, “is the girl’s club. Not just this one, with me to run it. But to show that any group of twenty or thirty girls could do this thing in any city. Of course where rents and provisions were high they’d have to charge more. I want to make an average showing somehow. Now can you disentangle the girl part front the lunch part and the food part, mother dear, and make it all straight?”

Mrs. Bell could and did; it gave her absolute delight to do it. She set down the total of Diantha’s expenses so far in the Service Department, as follows:

Rent of Union House . . . $1,500
Rent of furniture . . . $300
One payment on furniture . . . $400 Fuel and lights, etc. . . . $352
Service of 5 at $10 a week each . . . $2,600 Food for thirty-seven . . . $3,848
—–
Total . . . $9,000

“That covers everything but my board,” said Mrs. Bell.

“Now your income is easy–35 x $4.50 equals $8,190. Take that from your $9,000 and you are $810 behind.”

“Yes, I know,” said Diantha, eagerly, “but if it was merely a girl’s club home, the rent and fixtures would be much less. A home could be built, with thirty bedrooms–and all necessary conveniences–for $7,000. I’ve asked Mr. and Mrs. Porne about it; and the furnishing needn’t cost over $2,000 if it was very plain. Ten per cent. of that is a rent of $900 you see.”

“I see,” said her mother. “Better say a thousand. I guess it could be done for that.”

So they set down rent, $1,000.

“There have to be five paid helpers in the house,” Diantha went on, “the cook, the laundress, the two maids, and the matron. She must buy and manage. She could be one of their mothers or aunts.”

Mrs. Bell smiled. “Do you really imagine, Diantha, that Mrs. O’Shaughnessy or Mrs. Yon Yonson can manage a house like this as you can?”

Diantha flushed a little. “No, mother, of course not. But I am keeping very full reports of all the work. Just the schedule of labor–the hours–the exact things done. One laundress, with machinery, can wash for thirty-five, (its only six a day you see), and the amount is regulated; about six dozen a day, and all the flat work mangled.

“In a Girl’s Club alone the cook has all day off, as it were; she can do the down stairs cleaning. And the two maids have only table service and bedrooms.”

“Thirty-five bedrooms?”

“Yes. But two girls together, who know how, can do a room in 8 minutes–easily. They are small and simple you see. Make the bed, shake the mats, wipe the floors and windows,–you watch them!”

“I have watched them,” the mother admitted. “They are as quick as–as mill-workers!”

“Well,” pursued Diantha, “they spend three hours on dishes and tables, and seven on cleaning. The bedrooms take 280 minutes; that’s nearly five hours. The other two are for the bath rooms, halls, stairs, downstairs windows, and so on. That’s all right. Then I’m keeping the menus–just what I furnish and what it costs. Anybody could order and manage when it was all set down for her. And you see–as you have figured it–they’d have over $500 leeway to buy the furniture if they were allowed to.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Bell admitted, “_if_ the rent was what you allow, and _if_ they all work all the time!”

“That’s the hitch, of course. But mother; the girls who don’t have steady jobs do work by the hour, and that brings in more, on the whole. If they are the right kind they can make good. If they find anyone who don’t keep her job–for good reasons–they can drop her.”

“M’m!” said Mrs. Bell. “Well, it’s an interesting experiment. But how about you? So far you are $410 behind.”

“Yes, because my rent’s so big. But I cover that by letting the rooms, you see.”

Mrs. Bell considered the orders of this sort. “So far it averages about $25.00 a week; that’s doing well.”

“It will be less in summer–much less,” Diantha suggested. “Suppose you call it an average of $15.00.”

“Call it $10.00,” said her mother ruthlessly. “At that it covers your deficit and $110 over.”

“Which isn’t much to live on,” Diantha agreed, “but then comes my special catering, and the lunches.”

Here they were quite at sea for a while. But as the months passed, and the work steadily grew on their hands, Mrs. Bell became more and more cheerful. She was up with the earliest, took entire charge of the financial part of the concern, and at last Diantha was able to rest fully in her afternoon hours. What delighted her most was to see her mother thrive in the work. Her thin shoulders lifted a little as small dragging tasks were forgotten and a large growing business substituted. Her eyes grew bright again, she held her head as she did in her keen girlhood, and her daughter felt fresh hope and power as she saw already the benefit of the new method as affecting her nearest and dearest.

All Diantha’s friends watched the spread of the work with keenly sympathetic intent; but to Mrs. Weatherstone it became almost as fascinating as to the girl herself.

“It’s going to be one of the finest businesses in the world!” she said, “And one of the largest and best paying. Now I’ll have a surprise ready for that girl in the spring, and another next year, if I’m not mistaken!”

There were long and vivid discussions of the matter between her and her friends the Pornes, and Mrs. Porne spent more hours in her “drawing room” than she had for years.

But while these unmentioned surprises were pending, Mrs. Weatherstone departed to New York–to Europe; and was gone some months. In the spring she returned, in April–which is late June in Orchardina. She called upon Diantha and her mother at once, and opened her attack.

“I do hope, Mrs. Bell, that you’ll back me up,” she said. “You have the better business head I think, in the financial line.”

“She has,” Diantha admitted. “She’s ten times as good as I am at that; but she’s no more willing to carry obligation than I am, Mrs. Weatherstone.”

“Obligation is one thing–investment is another,” said her guest. “I live on my money–that is, on other people’s work. I am a base capitalist, and you seem to me good material to invest in. So–take it or leave it–I’ve brought you an offer.”

She then produced from her hand bag some papers, and, from her car outside, a large object carefully boxed, about the size and shape of a plate warmer. This being placed on the table before them, was uncovered, and proved to be a food container of a new model.

“I had one made in Paris,” she explained, “and the rest copied here to save paying duty. Lift it!”

They lifted it in amazement–it was so light.

“Aluminum,” she said, proudly, “Silver plated–new process! And bamboo at the corners you see. All lined and interlined with asbestos, rubber fittings for silver ware, plate racks, food compartments–see?”

She pulled out drawers, opened little doors, and rapidly laid out a table service for five.

“It will hold food for five–the average family, you know. For larger orders you’ll have to send more. I had to make _some_ estimate.”

“What lovely dishes!” said Diantha.

“Aren’t they! Aluminum, silvered! If your washers are careful they won’t get dented, and you can’t break ’em.”

Mrs. Bell examined the case and all its fittings with eager attention.

“It’s the prettiest thing I ever saw,” she said. “Look, Diantha; here’s for soup, here’s for water–or wine if you want, all your knives and forks at the side, Japanese napkins up here. Its lovely, but–I should think–expensive!”

Mrs. Weatherstone smiled. “I’ve had twenty-five of them made. They cost, with the fittings, $100 apiece, $2,500. I will rent them to you, Miss Bell, at a rate of 10 per cent. interest; only $250 a year!”

“It ought to take more,” said Mrs. Bell, “there’ll be breakage and waste.”

“You can’t break them, I tell you,” said the cheerful visitor, “and dents can be smoothed out in any tin shop–you’ll have to pay for it;–will that satisfy you?”

Diantha was looking at her, her eyes deep with gratitude. “I–you know what I think of you!” she said.

Mrs. Weatherstone laughed. “I’m not through yet,” she said. “Look at my next piece of impudence!” This was only on paper, but the pictures were amply illuminating.

“I went to several factories,” she gleefully explained, “here and abroad. A Yankee firm built it. It’s in my garage now!”

It was a light gasolene motor wagon, the body built like those old-fashioned moving wagons which were also used for excursions, wherein the floor of the vehicle was rather narrow, and set low, and the seats ran lengthwise, widening out over the wheels; only here the wheels were lower, and in the space under the seats ran a row of lockers opening outside. Mrs. Weatherstone smiled triumphantly.

“Now, Diantha Bell,” she said, “here’s something you haven’t thought of, I do believe! This estimable vehicle will carry thirty people inside easily,” and she showed them how each side held twelve, and turn-up seats accommodated six more; “and outside,”–she showed the lengthwise picture–“it carries twenty-four containers. If you want to send all your twenty-five at once, one can go here by the driver.

“Now then. This is not an obligation, Miss Bell, it is another valuable investment. I’m having more made. I expect to have use for them in a good many places. This cost pretty near $3,000, and you get it at the same good interest, for $300 a year. What’s more, if you are smart enough–and I don’t doubt you are,–you can buy the whole thing on installments, same as you mean to with your furniture.”

Diantha was dumb, but her mother wasn’t. She thanked Mrs. Weatherstone with a hearty appreciation of her opportune help, but no less of her excellent investment.

“Don’t be a goose, Diantha,” she said. “You will set up your food business in first class style, and I think you can carry it successfully. But Mrs. Weatherstone’s right; she’s got a new investment here that’ll pay her better than most others–and be a growing thing I do believe.”

And still Diantha found it difficult to express her feelings. She had lived under a good deal of strain for many months now, and this sudden opening out of her plans was a heavenly help indeed.

Mrs. Weatherstone went around the table and sat by her. “Child,” said she, “you don’t begin to realize what you’ve done for me–and for Isobel–and for ever so many in this town, and all over the world. And besides, don’t you think anybody else can see your dream? We can’t _do_ it as you can, but we can see what it’s going to mean,–and we’ll help if we can. You wouldn’t grudge us that, would you?”

As a result of all this the cooked food delivery service was opened at once.

“It is true that the tourists are gone, mostly,” said Mrs. Weatherstone, as she urged it, “but you see there are ever so many residents who have more trouble with servants in summer than they do in winter, and hate to have a fire in the house, too.”

So Diantha’s circulars had an addition, forthwith.

These were distributed among the Orchardinians, setting their tongues wagging anew, as a fresh breeze stirs the eaves of the forest.

The stealthy inroads of lunches and evening refreshments had been deprecated already; this new kind of servant who wasn’t a servant, but held her head up like anyone else (“They are as independent as–as–‘salesladies,'” said one critic), was also viewed with alarm; but when even this domestic assistant was to be removed, and a square case of food and dishes substituted, all Archaic Orchardina was horrified.

There were plenty of new minds in the place, however; enough to start Diantha with seven full orders and five partial ones.

Her work at the club was now much easier, thanks to her mother’s assistance, to the smoother running of all the machinery with the passing of time, and further to the fact that most of her girls were now working at summer resorts, for shorter hours and higher wages. They paid for their rooms at the club still, but the work of the house was so much lightened that each of the employees was given two weeks of vacation–on full pay.

The lunch department kept on a pretty regular basis from the patronage of resident business men, and the young manager–in her ambitious moments–planned for enlarging it in the winter. But during the summer her whole energies went to perfecting the _menus_ and the service of her food delivery.

Mrs. Porne was the very first to order. She had been waiting impatiently for a chance to try the plan, and, with her husband, had the firmest faith in Diantha’s capacity to carry it through.

“We don’t save much in money,” she explained to the eager Mrs. Ree, who hovered, fascinated, over the dangerous topic, “but we do in comfort, I can tell you. You see I had two girls, paid them $12 a week; now I keep just the one, for $6. My food and fuel for the four of us (I don’t count the babies either time–they remain as before), was all of $16, often more. That made $28 a week. Now I pay for three meals a day, delivered, for three of us, $15 a week–with the nurse’s wages, $21. Then I pay a laundress one day, $2, and her two meals, $.50, making $23.50. Then I have two maids, for an hour a day, to clean; $.50 a day for six days, $3, and one maid Sunday, $.25. $26.75 in all. So we only make $1.25.

_But!_ there’s another room! We have the cook’s room for an extra guest; I use it most for a sewing room, though and the kitchen is a sort of day nursery now. The house seems as big again!”

“But the food?” eagerly inquired Mrs. Ree. “Is it as good as your own? Is it hot and tempting?”

Mrs. Ree was fascinated by the new heresy. As a staunch adherent of the old Home and Culture Club, and its older ideals, she disapproved of the undertaking, but her curiosity was keen about it.

Mrs. Porne smiled patiently. “You remember Diantha Bell’s cooking I am sure, Mrs. Ree,” she said. “And Julianna used to cook for dinner parties–when one could get her. My Swede was a very ordinary cook, as most of these untrained girls are. Do take off your hat and have dinner with us,–I’ll show you,” urged Mrs. Porne.

“I–O I mustn’t,” fluttered the little woman. “They’ll expect me at home–and–surely your–supply–doesn’t allow for guests?”

“We’ll arrange all that by ‘phone,” her hostess explained; and she promptly sent word to the Ree household, then called up Union House and ordered one extra dinner.

“Is it–I’m dreadfully rude I know, but I’m _so_ interested! Is it–expensive?”

Mrs. Porne smiled. “Haven’t you seen the little circular? Here’s one, ‘Extra meals to regular patrons 25 cents.’ And no more trouble to order than to tell a maid.”

Mrs. Ree had a lively sense of paltering with Satan as she sat down to the Porne’s dinner table. She had seen the delivery wagon drive to the door, had heard the man deposit something heavy on the back porch, and was now confronted by a butler’s tray at Mrs. Porne’s left, whereon stood a neat square shining object with silvery panels and bamboo trimmings.

“It’s not at all bad looking, is it?” she ventured.

“Not bad enough to spoil one’s appetite,” Mr. Porne cheerily agreed.

“Open, Sesame! Now you know the worst.”

Mrs. Porne opened it, and an inner front was shown, with various small doors and drawers.

“Do you know what is in it?” asked the guest.

“No, thank goodness, I don’t,” replied her hostess. “If there’s anything tiresome it is to order meals and always know what’s coming! That’s what men get so tired of at restaurants; what they hate so when their wives ask them what they want for dinner. Now I can enjoy my dinner at my own table, just as if I was a guest.”

“It is–a tax–sometimes,” Mrs. Ree admitted, adding hastily, “But one is glad to do it–to make home attractive.”

Mr. Porne’s eyes sought his wife’s, and love and contentment flashed between them, as she quietly set upon the table three silvery plates.

“Not silver, surely!” said Mrs. Ree, lifting hers, “Oh, aluminum.”

“Aluminum, silver plated,” said Mr. Porne. “They’ve learned how to do it at last. It’s a problem of weight, you see, and breakage. Aluminum isn’t pretty, glass and silver are heavy, but we all love silver, and there’s a pleasant sense of gorgeousness in this outfit.”

It did look rather impressive; silver tumblers, silver dishes, the whole dainty service–and so surprisingly light.

“You see she knows that it is very important to please the eye as well as the palate,” said Mr. Porne. “Now speaking of palates, let us all keep silent and taste this soup.” They did keep silent in supreme contentment while the soup lasted. Mrs. Ree laid down her spoon with the air of one roused from a lovely dream.

“Why–why–it’s like Paris,” she said in an awed tone.

“Isn’t it?” Mr. Porne agreed, “and not twice alike in a month, I think.”

“Why, there aren’t thirty kinds of soup, are there?” she urged.

“I never thought there were when we kept servants,” said he. “Three was about their limit, and greasy, at that.”

Mrs. Porne slipped the soup plates back in their place and served the meat.

“She does not give a fish course, does she?” Mrs. Ree observed.

“Not at the table d’hote price,” Mrs. Porne answered. “We never pretended to have a fish course ourselves–do you?” Mrs. Ree did not, and eagerly disclaimed any desire for fish. The meat was roast beef, thinly sliced, hot and juicy.

“Don’t you miss the carving, Mr. Porne?” asked the visitor. “I do so love to see a man at the head of his own table, carving.”

“I do miss it, Mrs. Ree. I miss it every day of my life with devout thankfulness. I never was a good carver, so it was no pleasure to me to show off; and to tell you the truth, when I come to the table, I like to eat–not saw wood.” And Mr. Porne ate with every appearance of satisfaction.

“We never get roast beef like this I’m sure,” Mrs. Ree admitted, “we can’t get it small enough for our family.”

“And a little roast is always spoiled in the cooking. Yes this is far better than we used to have,” agreed her hostess.

Mrs. Ree enjoyed every mouthful of her meal. The soup was hot. The salad was crisp and the ice cream hard. There was sponge cake, thick, light, with sugar freckles on the dark crust. The coffee was perfect and almost burned the tongue.

“I don’t understand about the heat and cold,” she said; and they showed her the asbestos-lined compartments and perfectly fitting places for each dish and plate. Everything went back out of sight; small leavings in a special drawer, knives and forks held firmly by rubber fittings, nothing that shook or rattled. And the case was set back by the door where the man called for it at eight o’clock.

“She doesn’t furnish table linen?”

“No, there are Japanese napkins at the top here. We like our own napkins, and we didn’t use a cloth, anyway.”

“And how about silver?”

“We put ours away. This plated ware they furnish is perfectly good. We could use ours of course if we wanted to wash it. Some do that and some have their own case marked, and their own silver in it, but it’s a good deal of risk, I think, though they are extremely careful.”

Mrs. Ree experienced peculiarly mixed feelings. As far as food went, she had never eaten a better dinner. But her sense of Domestic Aesthetics was jarred.

“It certainly tastes good,” she said. “Delicious, in fact. I am extremely obliged to you, Mrs. Porne, I’d no idea it could be sent so far and be so good. And only five dollars a week, you say?”

“For each person, yes.”

“I don’t see how she does it. All those cases and dishes, and the delivery wagon!”

That was the universal comment in Orchardina circles as the months passed and Union House continued in existence–“I don’t see how she does it!”

THE WAITING-ROOM

The Waiting-room. With row on row
Of silent strangers sitting idly there, In a large place expressionless and bare, Waiting for trains to take them other-where; And worst for children, who don’t even know Where they’re to go.

The Waiting-room. Dull pallid Patients here, Stale magazines, cheap books, a dreary place; Each Silent Stranger, with averted face, Waiting for Some One Else to help his case; and worst for children, wondering in fear Who will appear.

WHILE THE KING SLEPT

He was a young king, but an old subject, for he had been born and raised a subject, and became a king quite late in life, and unexpectedly.

When he was a subject he had admired and envied kings, and had often said to himself “If I were a king I would do this–and this.” And now that he was a king he did those things. But the things he did were those which came from the envy of subjects, not from the conscience of kings.

He lived in freedom and ease and pleasure, for he did not know that kings worked; much less how their work should be done. And whatever displeased him he made laws against, that it should not be done; and whatever pleased him he made laws for, that it should be done–for he thought kings need but to say the word and their will was accomplished.

Then when the things were not done, when his laws were broken and disregarded and made naught of, he did nothing; for he had not the pride of kings, and knew only the outer showing of their power.

And in his court and his country there flourished Sly Thieves and Gay Wantons and Bold Robbers; also Poisoners and Parasites and Impostors of every degree.

And when he was very angry he slew one and another; but there were many of them, springing like toadstools, so that his land became a scorn to other kings.

He was sensitive and angry when the old kings of the old kingdoms criticized his new kingdom. “They are envious of my new kingdom;” he said; for he thought his kingdom was new, because he was new to it.

Then arose friends and counsellors, many and more, and they gave him criticism and suggestion, blame, advice, and special instructions. Some he denied and some he neglected and some he laughed at and some he would not hear.

And when the Sly Thieves and Gay Wantons and Bold Robbers and Poisoners and Parasites and Imposters of every degree waxed fat before his eyes, and made gorgeous processions with banners before him, he said, “How prosperous my country is!”

Then his friends and counsellors showed him the prisons–overflowing; and the hospitals–overflowing; and the asylums–overflowing; and the schools–with not enough room for the children; and the churches–with not enough children for the room; and the Crime Mill, into which babies were poured by the hundreds every day, and out of which criminals were poured by the hundreds every day; and the Disease Garden, where we raise all diseases and distribute them gratis.

And he said “I am tired of looking at these things, and tired of hearing about them. Why do you forever set before me that which is unpleasant?”

And they said “Because you are the king. If you choose you can turn the empty churches into free schools, teaching Heaven Building. You can gradually empty the hospitals and asylums and prisons, and destroy the Crime Mill, and obliterate the Disease Garden.”

But the king said “You are dreamers and mad enthusiasts. These things are the order of nature and cannot be stopped. It was always so.” For the king had been a subject all his life, and was used to submission; he knew not the work of kings, nor how to do it.

And the false counsellors and the false friends and all the lying servants who stole from the kitchens and the chambers answered falsely when he asked them, and said, “These evils are the order of nature. Your kingdom is very prosperous.”

And the Sly Thieves and the Gay Wantons and the Bold Robbers and the Parasites and Poisoners and Impostors of every degree hung like leeches on the kingdom and bled it at every pore.

But the king was weary and slept.

Then the friends and counsellors went to the Queen, and called on her to learn Queen’s work, and do it; for the King slept.

“It is King’s work,” she said, and strove to waken him with tales of want and sorrow in his kingdom. But he sent her away, saying “I will sleep.”

“It is Queen’s work also,” they said to her; and though she had been a subject with her husband, she was more by nature a Queen. So she fell to and learned Queen’s work, and did it.

She had no patience with the Gay Wantons and Sly Thieves and Bold Robbers; and the Poisoners and the Parasites and the Impostors of every degree were a horror to her. The false friends she saw through, and the lying servants she disbelieved.

Since the king would not, she would; and when at last he woke, behold, the throne was a double one, and the kingdom smiled and rejoiced from sea to sea.

THE HOUSEWIFE

Here is the House to hold me–cradle of all the race; Here is my lord and my love, here are my children dear– Here is the House enclosing, the dear-loved dwelling-place; Why should I ever weary for aught that I find not here?

Here for the hours of the day and the hours of the night; Bound with the bands of Duty, rivetted tight; Duty older than Adam–Duty that saw
Acceptance utter and hopeless in the eyes of the serving squaw.

Food and the serving of food–that is my daylong care; What and when we shall eat, what and how we shall wear; Soiling and cleaning of things–that is my task in the main– Soil them and clean them and soil them–soil them and clean them again.

To work at my trade by the dozen and never a trade to know; To plan like a Chinese puzzle–fitting and changing so; To think of a thousand details, each in a thousand ways; For my own immediate people and a possible love and praise.

My mind is trodden in circles, tiresome, narrow and hard, Useful, commonplace, private–simply a small back-yard; And I the Mother of Nations!–Blind their struggle and vain!– I cover the earth with my children–each with a housewife’s brain.

OUR ANDROCENTRIC CULTURE; or, THE MAN-MADE WORLD

XI.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT.

The human concept of Sin has had its uses no doubt; and our special invention of a thing called Punishment has also served a purpose.

Social evolution has worked in many ways wastefully, and with unnecessary pain, but it compares very favorably with natural evolution.

As we grow wiser; as our social consciousness develops, we are beginning to improve on nature in more ways than one; a part of the same great process, but of a more highly sublimated sort.

Nature shows a world of varied and changing environment. Into this comes Life–flushing and spreading in every direction. A pretty hard time Life has of it. In the first place it is dog eat dog in every direction; the joy of the hunter and the most unjoyous fear of the hunted.

But quite outside of this essential danger, the environment waits, grim and unappeasable, and continuously destroys the innocent myriads who fail to meet the one requirement of life–Adaptation. So we must not be too severe in self-condemnation when we see how foolish, cruel, crazily wasteful, is our attitude toward crime and punishment.

We become socially conscious largely through pain, and as we begin to see how much of the pain is wholly of our own causing we are overcome with shame. But the right way for society to face its past is the same as for the individual; to see where it was wrong and stop it–but to waste no time and no emotion over past misdeeds.

What is our present state as to crime? It is pretty bad. Some say it is worse than it used to be; others that it is better. At any rate it is bad enough, and a disgrace to our civilization. We have murderers by the thousand and thieves by the million, of all kinds and sizes; we have what we tenderly call “immorality,” from the “errors of youth” to the sodden grossness of old age; married, single, and mixed. We have all the old kinds of wickedness and a lot of new ones, until one marvels at the purity and power of human nature, that it should carry so much disease and still grow on to higher things.

Also we have punishment still with us; private and public; applied like a rabbit’s foot, with as little regard to its efficacy. Does a child offend? Punish it! Does a woman offend? Punish her! Does a man offend? Punish him! Does a group offend? Punish them!

“What for?” some one suddenly asks.

“To make them stop doing it!”

“But they have done it!”

“To make them not do it again, then.”

“But they do do it again–and worse.”

“To prevent other people’s doing it, then.”

“But it does not prevent them–the crime keeps on. What good is your punishment?”

What indeed!

What is the application of punishment to crime? Its base, its prehistoric base, is simple retaliation; and this is by no means wholly male, let us freely admit. The instinct of resistance, of opposition, of retaliation, lies deeper than life itself. Its underlying law is the law of physics–action and reaction are equal. Life’s expression of this law is perfectly natural, but not always profitable. Hit your hand on a stone wall, and the stone wall hits your hand. Very good; you learn that stone walls are hard, and govern yourself accordingly.

Conscious young humanity observed and philosophized, congratulating itself on its discernment. “A man hits me–I hit the man a little harder–then he won’t do it again.” Unfortunately he did do it again–a little harder still. The effort to hit harder carried on the action and reaction till society, hitting hardest of all, set up a system of legal punishment, of unlimited severity. It imprisoned, it mutilated, it tortured, it killed; it destroyed whole families, and razed contumelious cities to the ground.

Therefore all crime ceased, of course? No? But crime was mitigated, surely! Perhaps. This we have proven at last; that crime does not decrease in proportion to the severest punishment. Little by little we have ceased to raze the cities, to wipe out the families, to cut off the ears, to torture; and our imprisonment is changing from slow death and insanity to a form of attempted improvement.

But punishment as a principle remains in good standing, and is still the main reliance where it does the most harm–in the rearing of children. “Spare the rod and spoil the child” remains in belief, unmodified by the millions of children spoiled by the unspared rod.

The breeders of racehorses have learned better, but not the breeders of children. Our trouble is simply the lack of intelligence. We face the babyish error and the hideous crime in exactly the same attitude.

“This person has done something offensive.”

Yes?–and one waits eagerly for the first question of the rational mind–but does not hear it. One only hears “Punish him!”

What is the first question of the rational mind?

“Why?”

Human beings are not first causes. They do not evolve conduct out of nothing. The child does this, the man does that, _because_ of something; because of many things. If we do not like the way people behave, and wish them to behave better, we should, if we are rational beings, study the conditions that produce the conduct.

The connection between our archaic system of punishment and our androcentric culture is two-fold. The impulse of resistance, while, as we have seen, of the deepest natural origin, is expressed more strongly in the male than in the female. The tendency to hit back and hit harder has been fostered in him by sex-combat till it has become of great intensity. The habit of authority too, as old as our history; and the cumulative weight of all the religions and systems of law and government, have furthermore built up and intensified the spirit of retaliation and vengeance.

They have even deified this concept, in ancient religions, crediting to God the evil passions of men. As the small boy recited; “Vengeance. A mean desire to get even with your enemies: ‘Vengeance is mine saith the Lord’–‘I will repay.'”

The Christian religion teaches better things; better than its expositors and upholders have ever understood–much less practised.

The teaching of “Love your enemies, do good unto them that hate you, and serve them that despitefully use you and persecute you,” has too often resulted, when practised at all, in a sentimental negation; a pathetically useless attitude of non-resistance. You might as well base a religion on a feather pillow!

The advice given was active; direct; concrete. “_Love!_” Love is not non-resistance. “Do good!” Doing good is not non-resistance. “Serve!” Service is not non-resistance.

Again we have an overwhelming proof of the far-reaching effects of our androcentric culture. Consider it once more. Here is one by nature combative and desirous, and not by nature intended to monopolize the management of his species. He assumes to be not only the leader, but the whole thing–to be humanity itself, and to see in woman as Grant Allen so clearly put it “Not only not the race; she is not even half the race, but a subspecies, told off for purposes of reproduction merely.”

Under this monstrous assumption, his sex-attributes wholly identified with his human attributes, and overshadowing them, he has imprinted on every human institution the tastes and tendencies of the male. As a male he fought, as a male human being he fought more, and deified fighting; and in a culture based on desire and combat, loud with strident self-expression, there could be but slow acceptance of the more human methods urged by Christianity. “It is a religion for slaves and women!” said the warrior of old. (Slaves and women were largely the same thing.) “It is a religion for slaves and women” says the advocate of the Superman.

Well? Who did the work of all the ancient world? Who raised the food and garnered it and cooked it and served it? Who built the houses, the temples, the acqueducts, the city wall? Who made the furniture, the tools, the weapons, the utensils, the ornaments–made them strong and beautiful and useful? Who kept the human race going, somehow, in spite of the constant hideous waste of war, and slowly built up the real industrial civilization behind that gory show?–Why just the slaves and the women.

A religion which had attractions for the real human type is not therefore to be utterly despised by the male.

In modern history we may watch with increasing ease the slow, sure progress of our growing humanness beneath the weakening shell of an all-male dominance. And in this field of what begins in the nurse as “discipline,” and ends on the scaffold as “punishment,” we can clearly see that blessed change.

What is the natural, the human attribute? What does this “Love,” and “Do good,” and “Serve” mean? In the blundering old church, still androcentric, there was a great to-do to carry out this doctrine, in elaborate symbolism. A set of beggars and cripples, gathered for the occasion, was exhibited, and kings and cardinals went solemnly through the motions of serving them. As the English schoolboy phrased it, “Thomas Becket washed the feet of leopards.”

Service and love and doing good must always remain side issues in a male world. Service and love and doing good are the spirit of motherhood, and the essense of human life.

Human life is service, and is not combat. There you have the nature of the change now upon us.

What has the male mind made of Christianity?

Desire–to save one’s own soul. Combat–with the Devil. Self-expression–the whole gorgeous outpouring of pageant and display, from the jewels of the high priest’s breastplate to the choir of mutilated men to praise a male Deity no woman may so serve.

What kind of mind can imagine a kind of god who would like a eunuch better than a woman?

For woman they made at last a place–the usual place–of renunciation, sacrifice and service, the Sisters of Mercy and their kind; and in that loving service the woman soul has been content, not yearning for cardinal’s cape or bishop’s mitre.

All this is changing–changing fast. Everywhere the churches are broadening out into more service, and the service broadening out beyond a little group of widows and fatherless, of sick and in prison, to embrace its true field–all human life. In this new attitude, how shall we face the problems of crime?

Thus: “It is painfully apparent that a certain percentage of our people do not function properly. They perform antisocial acts. Why? What is the matter with them?”