Southern Branch 
 of the 
 
 University of California 
 
 Los Angeles 
 
 Form L 1 
 
 159
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped bel 
 
 ow 
 
 iV'A'Tf 1 3 1329 
 
 rAV 07 ^g^.. 
 
 FEB 9 1976 
 
 Form L-9-15;)*-8,'24: 
 
 \
 
 \
 
 fi\t 
 
 THE. 
 
 
 Mother-A 
 
 rtist 
 
 BY 
 
 JANE DEARBORN 
 
 MILLS 
 
 (Mrs. James E. Mills) 
 
 
 Introduction by 
 
 HANNAH KENT SCHOFF 
 
 President, National Congress of Mothers 
 
 /3^/^ 
 
 THE PALMER COMPANY 
 
 M D C C C C I V 
 
 / 3 6^)3
 
 copyright, 1904 
 by Jane Dearborn Mills 
 
 PRESS OF FfiANK WOOD 
 BOSTON, Mass.
 
 ^ HCi 
 
 ^A 
 
 The Mother-Artist 
 
 Introduction 
 
 WOMAN'S opportunities and work, 
 which have been for centuries almost 
 entirely confined to the home and to 
 its duties, have so broadened and widened 
 during the last fifty years that she has not yet 
 adjusted herself to the change ; and with en- 
 joyment of the new fields open to her, per- 
 haps for a time the world-old duties of wife 
 *^ and mother have seemed less of a career than 
 ^ formerly. 
 
 The pendulum has swung far in the other 
 direction ; and with nearly every door open, 
 the thoughtful woman realizes that still in the 
 God-given place of wife and mother she may 
 find her deepest happiness and her broadest, 
 highest use. 
 
 The 
 
 ] 
 
 S 

 
 The J^ other- Artist 
 
 The Heavenly Father gave her that place, 
 and in so doing He crowned her life with a 
 richness and a fullness that nothing else can 
 give. 
 
 Why then has He opened every door to 
 her outside of home? Is it not that she may 
 bring to her own special work a breadth of 
 view, an unselfish love, and a conception of 
 its relation to the world-life ? 
 
 Has she not gone out into the world to 
 realize the more fully the needs of His chil- 
 dren^ and the place they should be fitted to 
 occupy in the wider relationships of life ? 
 How could she fit them for duties of which 
 she had no conception ? 
 
 Has not the journey'ing into new fields 
 taught her that true, broad mother-love is 
 needed in the world-life, and that it must take 
 within its care the childhood of the world ? 
 
 Woman, enriched and broadened by the 
 wider opportunities, must bring back to the 
 home the fruits of her gathering abroad. 
 
 More intelligently, more perfectly, must 
 she fill that God-given sphere of wife and 
 
 mother. 
 
 [ii
 
 The N other- Artist 
 
 mother, which is still the highest of all. In 
 the home and in the nation the mother-work 
 is needed. We have tampered long with the 
 sacred trust that is ours in shaping and guid- 
 ing the little ones. 
 
 The nurture of the race is in the mother's 
 hands — for time and for eternity. She gives 
 the ideals of life to the men and women of 
 the future. Can there be a higher trust, a 
 graver responsibility, given to a human being? 
 
 May this little book suggest to its readers 
 the beautiful vision of physical and spiritual 
 beauty which the Divine Artist would have 
 as a guide to the Mother and Father Artists, 
 who are His earthly helpers in the care of 
 His children. 
 
 Hannah Kent Schoff, 
 
 President of the National Congress of Mothers. 
 
 Ill 
 
 ]
 
 The Mother-Artist 
 
 Prelude 
 
 THERE has grown up in modern days 
 a pitying spirit toward the mother, 
 carrying with it an idea of martyrdom, 
 and that almost unendurable if the number 
 of the children is greater than three. It is 
 an exceedingly unhealthy notion for mothers 
 actual and possible, and for all the world 
 besides. It is a discounting of the dignity of 
 motherhood, for it looks upon its duties as if 
 they were the unintelligent drudgery of the 
 slave. 
 
 This little book is a suggestion of the rich- 
 ness of growth possible in the mother's life. 
 No element of character is left unexercised in 
 the doing of a mother's duties. Her love- 
 nature is fully aroused; her intellect may be, 
 
 and 
 
 ^]
 
 The Mother- Artist 
 
 and actively so, if she will follow where the 
 children lead with their wise little questions 
 and answer them as truly as she can ; and 
 her character may grow more wholly rounded 
 into beautiful relative proportions, each part 
 to each, in this work and atmosphere than 
 is possible to it in any other condition. The 
 drudgery is only that which any artist finds 
 connected with his work. 
 
 This, first of all, is what the little book 
 has to say. 
 
 Second to that great truth are hints of 
 the kind of training best calculated to 
 hold children in normal states of growth 
 in those years when they must be guided, 
 in large measure, by the mother and the 
 father. And another thought is here 
 brought in, which, though seemingly 
 minor, is not less in value than the main 
 idea. This is the place that rightly belongs 
 to the father in the rearing of the children. 
 Our modern views hold too much to the 
 notion that mothers are alone in giving 
 children's training due consideration. The 
 
 fact 
 
 [ 
 
 VI
 
 The Nother- Artist 
 
 fact is, that women in their absorbing zeal, 
 and with the same tendency, being human, 
 that men have to assume superiority when 
 the occasion offers, fail many times to recog- 
 nize the man's true wisdom. The wife, con- 
 sequently, occupies all the ground, not only 
 hers, but his, so that if he would he cannot 
 come into the nearness to the children neces- 
 sary to do for them what he might, and 
 worse than that even, she prevents and dis- 
 courages in him the conscious growing of 
 his fatherhood ; for a man can be discour- 
 aged as easily as a woman, and the one who 
 can most perfectly accomplish his discour- 
 agement is his wife. 
 
 Because a man sees general laws and less 
 of detail than a woman, many an ardently 
 devoted mother thrusts aside as of no value 
 the father's opinion which happens to differ 
 from her own, with never a thought of try- 
 ing to find if there may not be something of 
 wisdom in it, and if by modifying both his 
 and hers a new one might not be formed, 
 stronger and truer than either his or hers 
 
 alone 
 
 vii ]
 
 The Tlother- Artist 
 
 alone can be. This is loss of marriage in 
 the rearing of the children, and loss of 
 highest parenthood to the sons and daugh 
 ters. And it is more ; for her appreciation 
 of his thought would arouse in him, if he 
 has them not strongly already, desire and 
 purpose to train himself in fatherhood as 
 she is striving to teach herself true moth 
 erhood. 
 
 This little book here offered to the world 
 touches upon these most vital ideas. It is 
 only a word ; but one word, if it happen to 
 be the right, is better than ten thousand. 
 
 [viii
 
 The Mother-Artist 
 
 I. Love 
 
 From Gilt the child's clear eyes his angel pleads 
 For the companiotiship of you and me 
 
 \
 
 The Mother-Artist 
 
 I. Love 
 
 IT never has occurred to human nature 
 to take the best of its best things in 
 earnest, — Peace, and Marriage, and Home- 
 making, and Motherhood. In olden times 
 it frankly cast them out and trod them 
 under foot. Then it thought, one day, 
 how fine would be the mingling of pretty 
 talk with its real estimate of them. It 
 tried it and Hked it and has kept on, even 
 down to now. So the vocabulary is a queer 
 mixture. The messenger from Mars must 
 find it puzzling to make connection between 
 Hosannas for " Peace on earth " and 
 Hurrahs for war among men, all in the 
 selfsame breath. He must turn dizzy at 
 the sight of " holy marriage " as a butt 
 
 for 
 
 3] 
 
 \
 
 The Tlother- Artist 
 
 for jokes in funny papers and conversation. 
 He must be curious to know why a mother 
 is a queen and a slave ; and all these med- 
 leys he may well take back to his Martian 
 children to show them what queer minds 
 the folks have on the planet they call 
 Earth. 
 
 There was a weekly paper once — perhaps 
 it does not any more exist — that had for 
 reason of its being, the exaltation of the 
 making of the home, the giving inspiration 
 to the mothers ; and this is what it gave : 
 " Sometimes we (mothers) may think that if 
 we had time for them, we have duties, too, 
 to the outside world, which we are as well 
 fitted to perform as others. But .... we 
 are doing woman's noblest and highest duty 
 before dish-pan and bread-board and cradle. 
 I know the daily round often seems monoto- 
 nous, the care of children is very wearying 
 .... but pray for grace and strength. 
 // is but for a day. There will be many 
 years .... when your house will be 
 quiet and orderly . . . Take heart, dear 
 
 mothers ; 
 
 [4
 
 The Tlother- Artist 
 
 mothers ; this is the noblest and highest 
 (duty) you can ever do. " 
 
 What curious inspiration ! The certainty 
 that the children soon will be no more ! 
 " Qiiiet, orderly " rows of dead furniture to 
 "repay" the mother for the priceless pos- 
 session of child-life ! A curious reward 
 for what one would fancy as containing 
 within itself the seeds of its own recom- 
 pense ! And this is the " consolation " 
 most commonly offered to the mothers, 
 which is the most curious of all. 
 
 How does the world not know that pity 
 debases motherhood ? Did Pericles need 
 consolation for making Athens the glory 
 of the world ? Did Michael Angelo need 
 to be consoled for lying two years upon 
 his back on a scaffolding while painting 
 the ceiling of the Sistiine Chapel ? Did 
 Raphael want consolation for the labor 
 which produced his divine Madonna? 
 Biography does not pity these men. It 
 counts their toil as only so much added to 
 their glory. Can the artist compare with 
 
 the 
 
 5]
 
 The Mother - Artist 
 
 the mother in richness of the material 
 worked upon, in possibihties for what may 
 be wrought, in never ceasing exercise of all 
 best human powers, in the companionship 
 with what is pure, and deep, and high, and 
 true? Why this morbid pity for her? It 
 is because there is no serious belief in 
 Motherhood, as there is none in Peace, 
 and none in Marriage. " Hurrah for 
 war!" they cry. "Is marriage a fail- 
 ure?" they ask. The world glorifies war, 
 jokes about marriage, or depreciates it, 
 and talks of motherhood as if it were a 
 form ot slavery. 
 
 Come, little mother, with the five sweet, 
 bright-eyed children, let us think awhile 
 about the matter. Your life has some- 
 times seemed monotonous and hard- to 
 you ; for, though a woman be a queen, if 
 all the world is telling her she is a slave, she 
 more than half believes the tale herself. 
 Then the conditions of her sovereignty seem 
 like chains upon her. She loses sight of her 
 
 great glory and mourns the limitations of her 
 
 queenship. 
 
 [6
 
 The Tiother- Artist 
 
 queenship. For there is no place on the 
 earth so high it does not hold one in 
 some bond of law ; and queens are no more 
 free from irksome duties than are others. 
 
 In the rich hfe you lead among your child- 
 ren, surely your resources from weariness 
 are more than those of Michael Angelo upon 
 his board. The growing human souls are 
 more inspiring than lifeless forms created out 
 of paint; and this is not disparagement of 
 man's beautiful handiwork, but only apprecia- 
 tion of that greatest art wrought by the hand 
 of the Master of the masters. 
 
 Do you know that little gem of Kiphng's, 
 " The Story of Muhammad Din " ? Only 
 a tiny Indian boy, — the child of a ser- 
 vant, — his little white shirt " ridiculously in- 
 adequate," a few bits of broken crockery, 
 some thrown-away flowers, a garden, a white 
 man and a horse, — these are the dramatis 
 personae and stage effects, and the story 
 covers but four short pages. It tells how 
 the big man let the child play in the big 
 man's garden with these cast-off things, and 
 
 of 
 
 7]
 
 The Hother- Artist 
 
 of the baby's grateful love, unconscious of 
 
 himself, and beautiful. The love was no 
 
 less genuine because the words were few. 
 
 For, " our conversation," says the author, 
 
 " was confined to * Talaam, Tahib,' from his 
 
 side, and ' Salaam, Muhammad Din,' from 
 
 mine." But he adds, " Daily, on my return 
 
 from the office, the little white shirt and the 
 
 fat little body used to rise from the shade of 
 
 the creeper-covered trellis where they had 
 
 been hid ; and daily, I checked my horse 
 
 here, that my salutation might not be slurred 
 
 over or given unseemly." Has literature 
 
 ever pictured a more exquisite tenderness of 
 
 companionship ? 
 
 '•'■ The same kind of companionship, open 
 
 down to deeps not possible to this man and 
 
 child, is offered to every mother. The 
 
 opportunities for it in the daily incidents are 
 
 always at her hand. You remember when 
 
 Donald, your eldest, your clear-eyed boy of 
 
 sixteen now, was just beyond his baby years, 
 
 and you were suffering with a cold one day. 
 
 How plainly it comes back again before your 
 
 memory. 
 *The two incidents following are facts from life. 
 
 [8
 
 The Mother- Artist 
 
 memory. You are lying on your bed with 
 swollen eyes and nose, and aching body. 
 Donald soon comes to keep you company. 
 He has the baby confidence in being always 
 welcome, which drives away your momentary 
 wish to stay alone ; the angel in it is a nobler 
 healer than solitude could be. In Donald's 
 arms are what he calls " the tools " : some 
 wooden pieces, a hammer, and some tacks. 
 He lays them on the floor and climbs up on 
 the bed and leans upon his hands and knees 
 and looks at you. You close your eyes, and 
 in another moment a little finger feels its way 
 along your nose. 
 
 " Your nose is ' dust ' as red, mamma," he 
 says, in that rising tone which gives the rar- 
 est sweetness to his voice. 
 
 " Yes, dear, mamma has a cold. Did you 
 bring the tools? " 
 
 " Yes, and I'm going to build a wagon," 
 scrambling down and beginning to work 
 busily. 
 
 " How ? " you feebly ask. 
 
 Donald is abundantly amused if he can 
 
 think 
 
 9]
 
 The N o ther- Artist 
 
 think of anything to say. His answer to 
 your simple question keeps him happy for 
 the next ten minutes. Then a few more 
 words from you supply him with further op- 
 portunity. Soon he begs you to admire 
 ** the wagon." You pull together all the 
 strength you have into an expression of ad- 
 miration ; and when your eyes are closed 
 again, they have before them a vision of the 
 beaming happiness awakened by your words 
 of praise. 
 
 Presently you hear, " Mamma, Fm going 
 down for another piece. I'll come back" ; 
 and he goes out, shutting the door after him. 
 Then, evidently remembering that he heard 
 you say once to his father that you loved to 
 hear his little feet upon the stairs, he opens 
 wide the door, pushing it wholly back, smil- 
 ing and explaining, " I'm coming back, 
 mamma, and I'll leave the door open so you 
 can hear my feet coming." His joy in an- 
 swering in certainty to your love for him beams 
 in his face and sounds in every tone. You 
 lie there smiling, with no care for aching eyes 
 
 and 
 
 [■
 
 The N other- Arti st 
 
 and limbs, and undone tasks. You know 
 now that they cannot injure you or others ; 
 because your baby has revealed to you the 
 gladness of "becoming as little children," — 
 the companionship there will be in it with 
 the Father, even like what the trusting of 
 your little child has brought to you and him. 
 
 Another day Donald is in your room. 
 " Donald," you say, " I'm going downstairs 
 to speak to Mary ; come." 
 
 " No, mamma," he says, " I can wait for 
 )''ou here." 
 
 But you fear that he may play with the 
 open fire, and you say, " Oh, Donald, won't 
 you come? It is so much nicer to do things 
 together." 
 
 Either the words or the tone appeal to 
 him strongly, for turning with glowing look, 
 he runs to you and clasps you round and 
 hides his face in your gown. Then the little 
 hand is close in yours, and the little feet 
 patter contented by your side. Your heart 
 fills with happiness. The Father's love 
 flows new into your soul with overwhelming 
 power. The joy is unspeakable.
 
 The Mother-Artist 
 
 II. Intellect x^ 
 
 " Knowledge never learned of schools " 
 — The Barefoot Boy
 
 The Mother-Artist 
 
 II. Intellect 
 
 ALL this you remember, and it was beau- 
 tiful; but it was baby life. It was the 
 emotional, and priceless in its power. 
 Such moments must be rare, however, else 
 they grow sentimental. And you are crav- 
 ing intellectual life, that it may give the emo- 
 tions healthfulness ? No, little mother, it is 
 the intellectual pastime that you crave; the 
 life, you have been having constantly. Why, 
 you began it with the birth of Donald. 
 When he had lived a few short hours only 
 you saw him put his tiny hand beneath his 
 cheek as he lay sleeping, and you wondered, 
 with the little strength you had, what im- 
 pulse made him do it. During his first two 
 years you studied hygienically and physiolog- 
 ically and psychologically his every sign of 
 
 growth 
 
 '5]
 
 The ?I other- Artist 
 
 growth. As soon as he could talk your col- 
 lege training was brought into use. Your 
 every intellectual power was fiilly tested 
 now ; for you were a true mother and would 
 not give false or careless answers to your 
 boy. You did not tell him that he must not 
 question, or say that you were too tired to 
 answer, implying that you always would be 
 so. You roused your every intellectual fac- 
 ulty, as it v/as called upon, to meet his needs. 
 You often turned to the " big books " to help 
 you out. These were the boy's delight ; for 
 you taught him that one needs always the 
 " big books," and eagerly he waited for the 
 day when he should use them too. 
 
 What a review it was of all you knew ! 
 The " preliminaries " were only the begin- 
 ning of it — the geography, arithmetic and 
 grammar, spelling and the history of the 
 United States. Indeed, it included every 
 other branch you had any knowledge of — 
 general history, physics, chemistry, astron- 
 omy, zoology, botany, mineralogy, physical 
 geography, mythology, biography, literature 
 
 of 
 
 [i6
 
 The Tiother- Artist 
 
 of all the languages you knew, physiology, 
 anatomy, hygiene, politics, and religion ! 
 Have I omitted any? Well, you reviewed 
 those, too. And the course in English was 
 far beyond the possibilities of any college to 
 give. The careful thinking which must pre- 
 cede the words, and then the choosing of the 
 words themselves — for they must be simple 
 and comprehensive — and the re-adapting day 
 by day of thought and language to the grow- 
 ing mind ; where can the equal of such a 
 course be found in any hall of learning? 
 Your years of school work soon proved in- 
 adequate to meet the task before you. How 
 could a few years of girlish lore suffice for 
 this demand upon your intellect? You were 
 glad you had it, to be sure ; for, meager as 
 it was, it was invaluable. It saved you from 
 confusion at the start by furnishing a little 
 store of knowledge. It was diminutive, how- 
 ever, for your needs ; for you soon found that 
 answers to his questions claimed from you a 
 study limited by no less bounds than those 
 
 which keep the universe in place. 
 
 When 
 
 7]
 
 The Tlother- Artist 
 
 When the school work was added to your 
 own, how much the interest grew ! Only 
 you were anxious, as the children were, about 
 their standing. But here your husband took 
 the matter up. 
 
 " Let them alone," he said, " don't worry 
 yourself." 
 
 " I'm afraid they'll be careless, if they don't 
 see my interest." 
 
 " They'd better be that than intellectual 
 prigs." 
 
 " But, Fred, don't you want them to be 
 thorough scholars ? " 
 
 " I don't care much about it." 
 
 You thought immediately of the traditional 
 zest of mother-love compared with that of 
 the father. You had been fancying that 
 Fred was different and you answered frigidly, 
 to hide the disappointment, " I don't under- 
 stand you." 
 
 " Because I want them to be human be- 
 ings, anyhow, and scholars if they can." 
 
 " If they're faithful to school work, won't 
 they be both? " 
 
 " Not 
 
 [.8
 
 The Mother- Artist 
 
 " Not necessarily." 
 
 You sighed quite audibly, hoping Fred 
 would hear; but finding that he took no no- 
 tice of your mood, you changed the subject. 
 After that you fervently kept on, pathetically 
 lonely in your zeal, avoiding, when it was 
 possible, the bringing it to the attention of 
 your husband. 
 
 But one day, like a kitten newly born, 
 your eyes were opened. Professor C. of 
 the university, had come to dinner. Led 
 by him, the conversation turned upon the 
 limitations and defects of schools under the 
 general system. He argued clearly that true 
 education would have no care in it for rank 
 among one's fellows. " Real education," he 
 went on to say, " is a growth in one's own 
 powers." Fred's breadth of thought sur- 
 prised you as he answered. He showed ap- 
 preciation of the deepening, widening, height- 
 ening of child growth which you had missed 
 in fiissy care for details. You had shut off 
 your understanding of him, imagining your 
 own superiority of mother-love. You had 
 
 been 
 
 9]
 
 The J^ other- Artist 
 
 been narrowing down your motherhood and 
 missing much of wifehood. 
 
 Fred and the Professor went on to say that 
 education is not, either for child or adult, the 
 doing or the thinking according to a plan 
 prescribed by another. It is the free play of 
 the faculties in the balance of correct propor- 
 tions. You had heard this thought stated 
 repeatedly throughout your school days ; 
 but you had never known until now that you 
 had missed the sense of it. From that time 
 the father as well as the mother had a share 
 in the education of your children. 
 
 1 o
 
 The Mother-Artist 
 
 III. Character 
 
 Growth, not protection, is the end of life: 
 To see for self and choose 'twixt good and ill 
 
 \ 
 
 I
 
 The Mother-Artist 
 
 III. Character 
 
 WITH great delight you realized again 
 your husband's interest in the chil- 
 dren's growth ; but you still did hesi- 
 tate over his judgment in the choice of Don- 
 ald's mates. It seemed as if he must be 
 making, this time, one of the proverbial 
 man's mistakes. 
 
 " I shouldn't bother myself so much about 
 bad boys," he said, " let Donald choose for 
 himself." 
 
 " But he is such a baby ! " 
 
 "He always will be as long as you pick 
 out the boys for him to play with." 
 
 " He will know how himself, when he is 
 older, if he doesn't go with any but good 
 boys now." 
 
 •* Never, 
 
 2 3 ] 
 
 \
 
 The N other- Artist 
 
 " Never, until he begins to choose them 
 himself. People don't come in assorted lots. 
 Every one is a mixture of good and bad and 
 made up in proportions different from every 
 other one. You can't teach him how much 
 bad to risk for the sake of the good that goes 
 with it by labeling a few. He 's got to find 
 out how to do the labeling himself." 
 
 Still you doubted. " It seems as if doing 
 it for him at first would help." 
 
 " No, the child must be left to grow. I'm 
 no more up in the science of boy training 
 than you are, but I do know one thing, — 
 they must do their own growing. We can't 
 do it for them." 
 
 " But, certainly, Fred," you urged, " we 
 can train their judgment." 
 
 " Yes, that's exactly the thing to do ; go 
 ahead, wifie, and find out a way. Your way 
 wouldn't do it. How would you manage it 
 by your plan ? Would you tell Donald that 
 he is too good to play with this and that and 
 the other one ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, of course not," eagerly. " I 
 
 would 
 [24
 
 The N other- Artist 
 
 would be very cautious how I put it." 
 
 " Yes, and do you suppose you can pull 
 the wool over his eyes by caution ? Doesn't 
 the child scent out the Pharisee in his father 
 and mother quicker than anything else? And 
 doesn't he take to the character himself, like 
 a duck to water ? I would rather see my boy 
 in the gutter than a moral snob." 
 
 " Oh, Fred ! " 
 
 " I mean it, dear. A drunkard at least 
 despises his obliquity ; a moral snob ad- 
 mires his. But I don't believe there is 
 need of either. I am sure we can find a 
 way to keep our boys reasonably decent 
 both in conduct and character." 
 
 You believed this might be done, and 
 remembering the conceit you had discov- 
 ered in yourself, you set yourself to the 
 task of joining your husband's idea and 
 yours, — freedom for the children and the 
 training of their judgment. You could 
 not plan what you would do all at once ; 
 but you could see that home standards 
 must be made those for the child to use 
 
 in 
 
 M]
 
 The Mother- Artist 
 
 in his little world outside. It was anxious 
 work at first, but Donald gave you no real 
 trouble. He seemed to know how to be 
 friendly to the good in a boy without being 
 intimate with the bad. Tom had more dif- 
 ficulty, from his more impulsive tempera- 
 ment; but he never was vicious, and his 
 honest little nature worked its way out, 
 finally, under the influences of home. 
 Tom is now as trusty in his choice of 
 friends as Donald. 
 
 Step by step you gained your end. 
 Looking back, you see the course you 
 followed. 
 
 A certain instinct led you to avoid the 
 plan of coaxing the children with amuse- 
 ments invented for them by the anxious 
 elder ones, — a process which many call 
 "making home attractive." Instead, you 
 took the ground that each child has his 
 part to do toward the happiness of the 
 home. You gave each one some pleasing 
 little task. Among others were their 
 duties to your guests. If it were com- 
 pany 
 
 [ 2 6
 
 The N other- Artist 
 
 pany to pass the day, the children showed 
 them where they might take off their 
 wraps ; if a gathering for the evening, 
 they waited on the door besides ; and if the 
 visitor remained for days, a child, appointed, 
 went to the guest room after dinner to make 
 certain that the maid had left it in good order 
 for the night. This special duty could be 
 theirs at eight years old ; and they looked 
 forward, from their baby years, eagerly, to 
 their initiation into it. Of course, for 
 certainty of comfort to your guests, you 
 always made it in your way to look into 
 the room yourself; and you were both 
 surprised and pleased to see the accuracy 
 which the children showed in case of care- 
 less doing of the servant. Their feeling 
 of the honor laid upon them quickened 
 their eyes and memories. 
 
 Again, you studied all their separate 
 tastes. Geography was a great favorite 
 with Donald ; and you got globes for him, 
 and maps and pictures ; and you directed 
 his attention, by a suggestion now and then. 
 
 as 
 
 a 7]
 
 The Nother- Artist 
 
 as you had the time for it, to the available 
 literature of any country studied. Tom 
 reveled in machinery of every kind he 
 could get hold of; you gave him all the 
 chances possible for exercising this taste. In 
 all these things Fred did his share as faith- 
 fully as you your own. You instigated all 
 the children to invent new games, to make 
 things for themselves, to act in little plays. 
 At times you and Fred joined in a charade ; 
 and the ones you joined in were played by 
 them many times, and all the fimny points 
 repeated carefully. " You can say funnier 
 things than we can," they said, " because 
 you know so much." 
 
 In all of this companionship with them, 
 life's questions constantly arose. You 
 never preached to them of these. You 
 only said, "In such a case it is honest to 
 do so and so, isn't it ? what do you think ? " 
 The standards for all acts were taken for 
 granted, — honesty and truth and kindli- 
 ness, and bravery in standing up for 
 them. 
 
 Step 
 
 [28
 
 The Mother- Artist 
 
 Step by step you gained your end. The 
 home has always been their greatest inter- 
 est. At times even the care for some home 
 comfort or amusement for the rest has 
 been sufficient motive to one or other of 
 them for foregoing a strong attraction else- 
 where, and as a natural consequence home 
 standards have become, or always have 
 been, the ones for judgment of things in 
 the world, — just the aim you sought. 
 
 You have reason, especially of late, for 
 gladness in your husband's stand against 
 self-righteousness. For it has led, you 
 feel, to a development in Donald's charac- 
 ter of unsuspected strength. A little while 
 ago * he came from school and to your room, 
 with his face distressed and pale. 
 
 " Mother ! " he said, and seemed unable 
 to go on. 
 
 "Why, Donald, boy, what is it?" you 
 asked, alarmed. 
 
 "Well — you know — how the fellows 
 
 snub Jones. They won't have anything 
 
 to do with him. He is always getting 
 
 in 
 *A true incident. 
 
 1 9]
 
 The Tlother- Artist 
 
 in with muckers, but it's because he 
 doesn't know any better. They cheat him 
 into taking hold of some of their deviltry, 
 and he's always their cat's paw. He never 
 sees what they are doing till he's in too far 
 to get out, and since his last scrape the de- 
 cent fellows have shut down on him, every 
 one of them. I did, too, but the other day 
 he came up to me in the street and asked 
 me if 1 wouldn't let him speak to me. He 
 said he didn't mean to be so bad, and he 
 wished the fellows would give him another 
 chance ; he thought he had found out enough 
 to keep him away from such scrapes another 
 time. He said he didn't like those micks, 
 but he must have somebody, and wouldn't I 
 help him to get in again with our fellows. 
 Of course I told him I couldn't ask any of 
 them to go with him, but I'd stand by him 
 myself. I couldn't go back on him when 
 became to me like that, could I, mother? 
 I'm awfully sorry for him; he isn't a bad 
 boy, really ; he isn't a sneak, like some of 
 those who won't go with him, and he hasn't 
 
 [3 o
 
 The 9Iother- Artist 
 
 a good home, not like us ; his mother and 
 father are away half the time, and when 
 they're there they don't want him 'round. 
 Well, while we were talking Sallie came 
 along, and it's happened that way four or 
 five times since ; and to-day at recess she 
 came up to me and said : " Donald, I don't 
 associate with any boy who makes a friend 
 of Simeon Jones. If you don't give him 
 up, you'll have to give me up. Will you 
 promise not to speak to him again?" 
 
 You waited for his answer, wondering. 
 Would he be strong? for he loved Sallie 
 with all his boyish soul. 
 
 "It was awful, mother. Everything 
 turned kind of black ; don't you know how 
 it does? But there wasn't anything to do; 
 I'd promised Sim I'd stand by him, so I said, 
 
 *No."' 
 
 How your heart ached for the boy ! You 
 soothed him as you could, resolving to your- 
 self that you would explain the matter to the 
 girl. She lived in the next town ; you did 
 not know her family, and had met her only 
 
 31]
 
 The Mother- Artist 
 
 a few times. You would, however, find a 
 way to see her and tell her the whole story. 
 But when you and Fred were talking of it 
 together, he said : " Don't do it yet, dear. 
 It's a tragedy for the boy now, but it won't 
 hurt him. We don't know that Sallie is 
 really worth the trouble, and if she isn't it 
 would be taking too much notice of her. If 
 she is what we have thought, perhaps she 
 will find out the truth herself. She knows 
 Donald isn't a rowdy ; the boys will begin 
 to talk it over soon, and the whole story 
 may come out in its true colors without our 
 doing anything about it. SalHe will under- 
 stand Donald all the better for working on 
 it herself; and if we find she's sound and 
 needs a little help by and by, you can step 
 in at the right moment and give it to her." 
 And you, with trust now, after all these 
 years, in those convictions which were strong 
 with him, answered, " Perhaps that is best, 
 but it's hard to keep still." 
 
 [3 2
 
 The Mother-Artist 
 
 IV. The Babies as Teachers 
 
 \ 
 
 *Jnd by the Vision splendid 
 Is on his way attended" 
 
 — Intimations of Immortality
 
 The Mother-Artist 
 
 IV. The Babies as Teachers 
 
 ALL this has been strong brain-life. Is it 
 not strange that you have pitied your- 
 self oftentimes for being able to attend 
 the club only occasionally? You have been 
 living the rich mother-life, while at the club 
 they have been talking of it. Your pity 
 ought to be for childless women, or for those 
 mothers who prefer to talk about their chil- 
 dren to living in their lives. Thank God 
 that only few of these exist ; but still there 
 are some. The pleasure-loving woman is 
 found everywhere ; sometimes society is to 
 her taste, sometimes she dissipates in clubs 
 or church *' aids." She is the one for pity, 
 not yourself. You have been living the real 
 life, and club, society and church have been 
 
 auxiliary 
 
 35] 
 
 \
 
 The Mother- Artist 
 
 auxiliary to the home and to humanity's in- 
 terests. This is the proper function of all 
 these organizations. Why not enjoy your 
 intellectual life in this, your work, as other 
 intellectual workers do ? 
 
 But art and music and the drama, how 
 little you have had of these, you say ? You 
 mean, how much of them ! Recall your 
 Christmas mornings when the children all 
 were young. The little white-gowned fig- 
 ures, peeping into your room, and then the 
 shout, " They're awake ! Merry Christmas ! 
 Merry Christmas ! " The dancing through 
 the door, each with overflowing stocking in 
 the hand, and the scrambling up onto the bed ; 
 the joyful shouts, as wished-for gifts come 
 forth; rejoicings, each over the good fortune 
 of the others ; the gratitude and love toward 
 papa and mamma ; their own small offerings, 
 bespeaking size of giver and his purse ; 
 the flaxen heads and brown, bending above 
 treasures or tossing with high glee ; the 
 chorus of merry voices, — could painted pic- 
 ture ever be so perfect, or music made by 
 
 reed 
 
 [36
 
 The J^ other- Artist 
 
 reed or string so sweet ? You have not 
 known that your own babies were your 
 teachers in art and music ; but they far sur- 
 pass the painted canvas or bands of men 
 playing on instruments. 
 
 Their Uterary criticism, too, is of the high- 
 est. Their innocence throws Hght on molif 
 of tale in fiction or in history. They go 
 directly to the heart of it. " Did Antonio 
 spit upon Shylock and call him names be- 
 cause he didn't like Jews ? What a wicked 
 man, wasn't he, mamma ? " The inhuman 
 hatred of Christian for the Jew seemed more 
 than ever fiendish in the light of their inno- 
 cence. Antonio was stripped, suddenly, of 
 all the glamour with which youth and beauty 
 had bedecked him. 
 
 And exquisite, indeed, was Silas Marner 
 in contact with their tenderness? It was a 
 rainy day that first time that you told this 
 story. Some little playmates had come in to 
 see your older children. You told the tale 
 as you sat sewing, and six happy faces were 
 looking intently into yours whenever you 
 
 glanced 
 
 3 7]
 
 The H other- Artist 
 
 glanced up. You told of Silas' loving nature, 
 thrown back upon itself by treacherous friend 
 and faithless sweetheart ; you showed that it 
 had nothing to expend itself upon except the 
 hoarding up of money ; you told them of the 
 baby straying into his small cottage and fall- 
 ing asleep upon the floor; and how, awaken- 
 ing out of one of those strange naps, the 
 baby's hair appeared to Silas' eyes, short- 
 sighted as they were, like his lost gold ; and 
 then he tried to grasp it in his hand, and felt 
 instead the touch of babv curls : and when 
 you said he loved the little thing from the 
 first moment when it nestled in his arms, and 
 how he would not give it up to public char- 
 ity, and how he cared for it with patient, 
 clumsy skill, — and the kind woman neighbor 
 helped him, — how the sweet faces looking 
 into yours glowed with tenderness ! You 
 felt a deepening of your own warm love for 
 this rare gem of literature. The traits of 
 Silas' character, and the child's love for him, 
 which loyally withstood, when she was grown, 
 the allurements of the wealth and station 
 
 which 
 
 [3 8
 
 The Mother- Artist 
 
 which belonged to her, — these all showed a 
 deeper greatness by the light of the apprecia- 
 tion given them by your child listeners. 
 Oh, those story-hours ! How the great 
 drama we are living has unfolded its grand 
 features, clear from false whims and artificial 
 notions, as the child innocence has illuminated 
 the pictures you have held up for their amuse- 
 ment! 
 
 Little mother, you have taught your 
 children a few of life's facts and principles as 
 you have seen them ; but they, the children, 
 have been leading you along the highways 
 of the living God, where his clear sunlight 
 shows things as they are. Their vision, un- 
 obstructed by the pride of life, sees inner 
 spirit where our purblind adult sight dis- 
 cerns but little more than outer shape ; and 
 their unsullied natures make demand upon 
 you for the best interpretation of what you 
 have to offer them. Thereby come revela- 
 tions to yourself of what there is in life 
 which you have never dreamed of here- 
 tofore. 
 
 It 
 
 3 9]
 
 The Tlother- Artist 
 
 It was so with the Bible, markedly. You 
 wondered how you should begin it with 
 them, and when the time was come they led 
 you with their guilelessness, thinking, you 
 and they, that it was you that showed to 
 them the truth. 
 
 A favorite tale was that of Israel's chil- 
 dren. They liked to hear it many times, 
 and often wished to tell some parts of it 
 themselves. " Let me tell it to Cousin 
 Mollie," begged Tom one day, when one of 
 your own cousins whom the children dearly 
 loved was visiting at your house. " Well, 
 the children of Israel complained and com- 
 plainedy and Moses didn't know what to do 
 with himself; but the Lord said, * Don't you 
 worry yourself, /'// take care of it all.* " 
 Tom's version certainly had in it nothing of 
 the letter which killeth, and much of the 
 spirit which maketh alive. The children 
 commented that day with eagerness. " / 
 wouldn't have done so, would you, mamma, 
 when the Lord had been so good to them 
 and led them away from their wicked enemies, 
 
 and 
 
 [4
 
 The J^ other- Artist 
 
 and had taken care of them all the long 
 journey ? " And you answered : " Yes, 
 Donald, it is just like what we all do, don't 
 you know? Have you forgotten how you fret- 
 ted that day that it rained and you had to 
 give up your ball game with the boys? 
 Wasn't that a complaining of what the Lord 
 sent, like the children of Israel ? " Then, 
 because you saw him look embarrassed, you 
 went on : " And mamma and papa and Cousin 
 Mollie, too, have to try not to complain. 
 We intended, you know, to spend several 
 weeks at the shore, and when papa found 
 that his business would keep him from going 
 it was hard at the first to imagine the Heav- 
 enly Father had meant to be kind. But 
 now see how foolish we all were, — the chil- 
 dren of Israel, and you, and papa and I. 
 They got to the beautiful land that was 
 promised to them by taking that journey, 
 and it was the only way they ever could have 
 got there ; and you were at home on the day 
 that it rained, and Uncle Jack came here 
 and carried you into the country, and if you 
 
 had 
 
 41]
 
 The Ho ther- Artist 
 
 had been at the ball ground you would have 
 missed that ; and if we had been at the shore 
 we should have lost the visit Aunt Lucy 
 has made us and all that has come to us 
 from it. So you see that the Lord gives us 
 beautiful things when we think he is only 
 trying to keep some blessing from us." 
 
 " Yes, and it's mean to treat him that way. 
 I'm going to stop it, aren't you, Tom ? But 
 mamma, he doesn't give us something better 
 every time." 
 
 " No, sometimes he can't, because we be- 
 have so badly ; just as I couldn't get baby 
 ready one day to go out when you went, 
 because she was crying and squirming, and 
 yet the going out with you was what she was 
 crying to do. And then, oftentimes, we can't 
 see what the good is which comes ; but 
 always it does come, unless we prevent it by 
 being unhappy." 
 
 " How do we know it comes, mamma, 
 when we can't see it ? " 
 
 " By seeing it so very many times at the 
 moment, and so often when the disappoint- 
 ment 
 
 [42
 
 The ?I other- Arti st 
 
 ment is over, if we have not seen it at first • 
 and if we remember this, and don't cry and 
 are happy, it is * trusting the Lord.' Don't 
 you know how often we say that everyone 
 should trust in the Lord ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, is that what it means ? " 
 
 Afterward you heard Donald and Tom 
 talking : " Say, Tom, did you hear what 
 mamma said ? She and papa have to try, 
 too, to be good ! My ! when I'm as good 
 as they are, I won't try any more ! " 
 
 " Bet yer life, I won't. They're good 
 enough ; but then, we can't ever be as good 
 as they are, Don." 
 
 " Sure — not." 
 
 The Bible showed you its true nature now. 
 Any objectionable external feature fell away 
 from it when you began to tell the story to 
 them. Always there was some way, without 
 your changing any narrative suited on the 
 whole to their young minds, of modifying 
 whatever incident you could not give them 
 in its baldness. 
 
 In Joseph's story, a great favorite, you 
 
 said 
 
 43]
 
 The Toother- Artist 
 
 said of Potiphar's wife that she wished 
 Joseph to do a wicked thing, and he would 
 not, and that in her anger toward him she 
 told her husband lies about him so that he 
 would cast Joseph into prison. And, in 
 passing, you reminded them of what you 
 said one day about the good in trials ; you 
 pointed out that Joseph, not complaining, 
 through his cheerfulness and helpfulness to 
 others came to greatness that was ready for him 
 which he must get by staying a little while 
 in prison ; if he had passed his time in 
 moping, the others never would have known 
 that he could tell the meaning of their 
 dreams, and it was this which led to all his 
 greatness. Of Abraham's sacrifice you said 
 it seemed to him as if the Lord told him he 
 must make it ; but that really he did not 
 want him to, as Abraham found when he tried 
 to obey; but even this you did not tell them 
 in their younger years. 
 
 Neither you nor Fred had ever known be- 
 fore the Bible as it is. Till lately it had 
 seemed to you a book of precepts mingled 
 
 with 
 
 [44
 
 The Tlother- Artist 
 
 with old tales, instructive, morally, in gen- 
 eral, as examples or as warnings. From 
 habit and from education you had thought 
 that it was good, without the knowledge, 
 definitely, of how its various phases might be 
 reconciled. The children's atmosphere illu- 
 minated yours at the same time that they 
 questioned, and you beheld this Book the 
 history of the human soul. The babies were 
 your teachers where you imagined that you 
 had been theirs alone. 
 
 And so it has been with the whole phil- 
 osophy of life, which flows out of the inner 
 meaning of the Book ; for these are one, as 
 is the sunlight with the parent sun. You 
 told your children of the likeness of this 
 world to the soul world ; and the fitness of 
 this truth to their child-nature threw for you 
 a flood of light upon the things you pointed 
 out to them. You said that heat is like love ; 
 that always people speak as if it were, for we 
 say that we feel warm toward others when 
 we love them. In the same way we speak of 
 truth as light. We often say, " By the light 
 
 of 
 
 45]
 
 The M other- Artist 
 
 of this truth we can see," etc. You showed 
 that love and wisdom of the Lord — his 
 life — are like the sunlight, for they shine 
 upon us all the time, when we, the earth, 
 do not turn away or put dark clouds be- 
 tween. They give us always happiness and 
 health when we will take them. 
 
 All this was told, a little at a time, that you 
 might not carry the child-mind beyond its 
 depth. How your own ideas grew, led by 
 the eager questions ! What were the flowers 
 like ? Why, they were the thoughts of 
 angels in material form. And animals? 
 They were the acts of love the angels con- 
 stantly are putting forth in countless numbers. 
 
 " And the bad animals, they can't be the 
 acts of the angels ?" Donald, the thoughtful, 
 asked. 
 
 " No, dear, they are very unpleasant to 
 think of; but even the bad ones have their 
 good powers, and you know that the Bible 
 says that the Hon and the lamb shall lie down, 
 sometime, together. So one day the bad 
 will be tamed, and only the good they have 
 in them will live." And 
 
 [46
 
 The Mother- Artist 
 
 And so the human and the things of 
 nature were woven into one rich web of 
 life, and the word which tells of it is the 
 Great Book Divine, and the child-innocence 
 illuminates it all. 
 
 "■And a little child shall lead them." 
 
 \ 
 
 47]
 
 The Mother-Artist 
 
 V. Men and Women 
 
 " fVoman is not undeveloped man. 
 But diverse " 
 
 — The Princess 
 
 \
 
 The Mother-Artist 
 
 V. Men and Women 
 
 WORK 
 
 ONCE Donald asked why papa went to 
 the city every day. Here another 
 revelation awaited you. You had not 
 thought before of the industrial system as 
 more than man's contrivance for the making 
 of the family living and a fortune. That it 
 had anything of God's great purpose in it 
 was a new idea. Now, with those earnest 
 child-eyes looking into yours, the question 
 that arose in your own mind was startling. 
 Is business nothing but a universal grab-bag, 
 a street-boy scramble for the pennies God 
 has thrown ? And is the normal method of 
 its being done a jostling and a pushing and 
 a grasping of all the fist can hold, and shov- 
 ing it greedily into one's own coffers ? You 
 
 answered 
 
 \
 
 The J^ other- Artist 
 
 answered Donald briefly that papa got the 
 money for your living by his business, and 
 turned attention to the many kinds of trade ; 
 and the conversation ended in the boy's 
 decision that when he was grown he 
 would be a grocer's man, because then he 
 could ride around and drive a horse all the 
 time. This was of course enough to satisfy 
 the child, but it did not satisfy you, for you 
 looked forward involuntarily to the day when 
 you must give him a motive for going out 
 into the world of business, and what should 
 it be? So when the children all were sleep- 
 ing you and your husband talked in earnest. 
 By one of those coincidences which often 
 happen, he had been roused to similar 
 thought of late by a conversation with a 
 friend. You worked it out together with 
 great interest. You saw that if the industrial 
 system were a mass of disconnected individ- 
 ual efforts for private ends, then men were 
 spending life in making gain for self; for 
 though one might be generous with the sur- 
 plus riches once possessed, the seeking of 
 
 them 
 
 [5
 
 The Hoiher- Artist 
 
 them would have no inherent purpose in it 
 except self-interest. Thus the only men 
 whose daily lives would be a service to their 
 fellows would be the minister, the missionary 
 and the philanthropist. Light dawned upon 
 the whole when this thought came, — that all 
 life's work of every man should be inherently 
 a service to the world. So when you talked 
 of it again to Donald you had a worthy topic 
 for his questions. Papa's business was no 
 longer a mere contrivance planned by him 
 for getting money for yourselves. It was 
 a part of a great organism which, from its 
 very nature and in spite of the deformity 
 into which man's greed had twisted it, was 
 inherently a service of every man to all and 
 all to each. It was worthy to be scanned by 
 the Godhke innocence of the child, and to 
 be entered into by the manliness of man. 
 
 How it delighted Donald to think about 
 the persons and the nations that had con- 
 tributed to one breakfast and its service ! 
 He was especially enchanted with the 
 thought that all of us are daily served by a 
 
 greater 
 
 53]
 
 The Mother - Artist 
 
 greater retinue than kings in olden time 
 could summon for their personal wants. 
 Then followed the comparative study in 
 simple fashion of customs and of habits in 
 different ages and various countries. Then 
 he delighted to consider his father's business 
 as a part of the great industry, and to think 
 out the individuals and nations benefited by 
 it. 
 
 But one day you saw a cloud upon the 
 happy face. 
 
 "What is the matter, Donald? " 
 
 "Why — the mammas — they are all left 
 out. They don't have any business." 
 
 " Oh, yes, dear, they have a beautiful 
 part. The papas couldn't do theirs without 
 it." 
 
 Then you said that men alone can never 
 be more than half the race. Naturally, you 
 could not show him — for he was too young — 
 how the humanities of home tend to the soft- 
 ening of the business lite, and how the rigid- 
 ness of business gives firmness to the home. 
 You could not picture to him a community 
 
 of 
 
 [54
 
 The N other- Artist 
 
 of men brutalized by lacking woman's influ- 
 ence, or one of women inane from the ab- 
 sence of manhood's special genius. You 
 could point out, though, how his papa dearly 
 loved his home, — made up of you and Don- 
 ald, Tom and baby. You told him how he 
 carried the love of you all day with him, and 
 that he was a better business man for having 
 it ; more honest, just, and eager to serve his 
 fellow men. So, gradually you instilled into 
 his mind the mutual dependence of the man 
 and the woman; the intertwining into one of 
 the masculinity of business and the femininity 
 of home. 
 
 Thus you showed that woman's part is 
 homemaking ; and that whatever woman did, 
 even if it seemed the same as man was do- 
 ing in the business world, she always did it 
 in her woman's way, for being a woman it 
 was impossible for her to do it in any other ; 
 that all business and all work of every kind 
 has its woman's side, and this is better done 
 by woman than by man, naturally ; and that 
 much work of the world has been and still 
 
 remains 
 
 55]
 
 The Tiother- Artist 
 
 remains undone because the people are only 
 now discovering that there is a woman's side 
 to many of the businesses. You said that it 
 is in the family that homemaking is at its 
 greatest perfectness, and that here is where 
 we learn of its true value , for the mamma 
 knows how to turn the mere housekeeping 
 into the home which man so dearly loves, 
 and that no man can do it, or even knows 
 how it is done. That this might be made 
 clear you asked if he remembered how he 
 felt in those two weeks when you were absent, 
 and he said eagerly, " Oh, yes, mamma; it was 
 just as if there wasn't anybody much here, 
 though everybody else was here just the 
 same, and Cousin Mollie, too." Then you 
 told him that this was woman's work — she 
 made the home feel like home, and it was 
 why his papa loved you so dearly. 
 
 These talks occurred a little at a time, and 
 often after long intervals of interest in other 
 things; for you never forced any conversa- 
 tion, — you always let the children lead. You 
 have seen that what a child is interested in 
 
 at 
 
 [56
 
 The Nother- Artist 
 
 at the moment is what his mind is ready to 
 learn about just then. One day Donald said, 
 " But men can keep house, can't they, 
 mamma? because Uncle Jack did in the 
 mountain camp." 
 
 "Yes, men can do housekeeping, but not 
 homemaking." 
 
 After that you saw him watching you some- 
 times when you were at your household 
 tasks, and he would say, " Now, you're mak- 
 ing it feel 'homey,' and I don't know how 
 you do it, do I ? " You overheard him tell- 
 ing Tom that mamma knew something that 
 papa never could, nor all the men in all the 
 world ; it was how to make home feel homey. 
 " And she has a thousand ways, Tom, of 
 doing it, and you don't ever see her doing it, 
 and she's doing it all the time." Tom's 
 black eyes opened wide ; the puzzle was too 
 much for him. 
 
 One day Donald asked suddenly, " Men 
 wouldn't know how nice it is to have home 
 homey, would they, if they never had any 
 women to do it for them?" 
 
 This 
 
 57]
 
 The Hother- Artist 
 
 This was the opportunity you wanted, and 
 you purposely led the conversation to the 
 great national home. You pointed out some 
 of the simpler public interests which provide 
 for the national family, and showed that the 
 papas do their share for the big home ; some 
 by taking office, and all through voting. 
 Donald listened eagerly, and suddenly ex- 
 claimed, "Yes, and the mammas do the- 
 housekeeping for the big home ! What is it 
 that they do, mamma ? " 
 
 You answered that no woman is allowed 
 to do her part in the great national home, 
 and the child was deeply disappointed. He 
 exclaimed, " Why, that's just like the men 
 keeping house by themselves and never know- 
 ing how much bullier it would be to have 
 some mammas to make the home! " 
 
 You answered him that many men and 
 women now are trying to alter this restric- 
 tion, so that the country, the large home, 
 may have the mother-care for all, especially 
 for its small children ; and you said that 
 women are beginning already to do some- 
 thing 
 
 [58
 
 The ?1 other- Artist 
 
 thing of the municipal housekeeping ; also, 
 that in a few places, notably the great country 
 of Australia, the motherhood of some women 
 lawyers finds now its rightful exercise in one 
 usefulness man never thought of, — the Chil- 
 dren's Court. Donald enthusiastically ex- 
 claimed, "When I'm a man, I'll try all the 
 time till the mammas can be mammas in the 
 big home, too." 
 
 SEX RELATIONS 
 
 The usual questions about birth came 
 early, as they always do with children not 
 devoid of intellect. When eight-pound 
 Tom appeared, without announcement to 
 the older boy, and claimed the family rights, 
 Donald, quite naturally, inquired where he 
 came from. Fred had informed the child of 
 the baby's advent, and gave him an answer 
 simple and true. It awakened no surprise 
 in Donald's mind because there was no mys- 
 tery thrown around it. He accepted it and 
 forgot it, and three years later, when the baby 
 
 sister 
 
 59]
 
 The N other- Artist 
 
 sister as suddenly claimed the same rights, 
 he asked the selfsame question. 
 
 You and Fred have kept this truthfulness 
 throughout ; for lying is to you a practice 
 dangerous and immoral, and more so regard- 
 ing what you say of sexual matters to your 
 children than about any other subject in the 
 world. The physiology of plants furnishes 
 nature's own open revelation, and the hatch- 
 ing of the bird. Now that Donald is nearing 
 manhood his father is instilling into his mind, 
 as if incidentally, thoughts of the reverence 
 manhood owes to womanhood. This is as 
 it should be; for a mother's instruction to 
 her boy to honor womanhood has in it, una- 
 voidably, something of appeal for honor to 
 herself; a father's, on the contrary, has all 
 the force of the generous spirit of reverence 
 for what is, wholly, not himself A boy re- 
 spects his mother because of what she is ; but 
 why her womanhood should command his 
 boyish reverence, and how to act it out, is 
 learned more deeply from his father's honor 
 for her than it can be in any other way. 
 
 Moreover, 
 
 [60
 
 The Mother- Artist 
 
 Moreover, the father can impress upon his 
 boy more strongly what and what not to do 
 in his association with girl friends ; for the 
 father has his own knowledge of boy nature, 
 and what he tells him as possible in self-con- 
 trol the son believes ; while the mother's 
 same advice on practical purity, unsupported 
 by the father, the boy dismisses oftentimes 
 from his mind as "only a woman's; she 
 doesn't know what a boy is." 
 
 You believe, with reason, that Donald and 
 Tom are profiting by this association of their 
 father with them in sexual knowledge ; and 
 with your own nearness to the girls, the signs 
 are promising that the home standards will 
 be those of all your children in this supreme 
 relation of our human lives. 
 
 6i]
 
 The Mother-Artist 
 
 VI. Discipline 
 
 The Slaughter of the Innocents 
 
 \
 
 The Mother-Artist 
 
 VI. Discipline 
 
 SOME persons praise your children's 
 manners and characters, although it is 
 commonly said among your friends that 
 in your children's babyhood you used no 
 discipline. The praise is often not discrimi- 
 nating, and the criticism does not disturb 
 your peace of mind ; for people are accus- 
 tomed to assert that any child of three should 
 have been " conquered," whatever that may 
 mean, long before he reached that age. They 
 speak as if all the respectable class, with the 
 exception of a few unfortunates, had had this 
 inestimable process practiced upon them in 
 their infancy with great success. You fail to 
 see the grace they have gained by it. Cer- 
 tainly most adults use less constant self-con- 
 trol 
 
 65]
 
 The THother- Artist 
 
 trol than they expect from children ; they are 
 less obedient to the laws of right living that 
 they know than children are to parents ; they 
 are more selfish in proportion to the intelli- 
 gence they have. Where are the signs of 
 special sanctification which has come from 
 that subduing of their spirits in their baby- 
 hood which they exalt so highly? The little 
 one in patience surpasses any average adult. 
 What man or woman would endure the nag- 
 ging and restrictions placed upon a child by 
 even the good intentions of the fathers and 
 the mothers? Children listen to constant 
 criticisms and remarks about themselves, in 
 private and in public, with only an occasional 
 cry of pain against them. What adult is 
 there who would bear a thousandth part of 
 them without ill temper? Children obey 
 the whims and notions of the mother and 
 the nurse, and arbitrary dictates of the father, 
 with none but an infrequent assertion of their 
 independence. They yield to punishment 
 for inadvertent and unconscious errors with 
 less rebellion than most adults show in suf- 
 fering 
 
 [6 6
 
 The ?I other- Arti st 
 
 fering consequences for their own mistakes. 
 Children are slaves to ignorance and error, 
 follies, crimes, of parent, teacher, guardian, 
 and nurse toward them, and largely they are 
 willing ones. Instead of an attempt to 
 " conquer " them, the parent and the teacher 
 should daily kneel with the prayer, " God 
 be merciful to me a sinner toward these 
 little ones." 
 
 You had by instinct some perception of 
 your true relation to your children. As 
 soon as a new immortal soul came into your 
 life you recognized him as an independent 
 being. He was not accountable to you for 
 every act and thought ; instead, you must 
 account for what you do for him to your and 
 his Creator. In certain external affairs you 
 must point out the way, and this includes 
 the teaching of principles in words; but the 
 guidance of his spirit is beyond your knowl- 
 edge and power — it is in the hands of God 
 alone. Your greatest work with your child 
 is to learn how not to meddle with his nor- 
 mal growth. Given parents who are meaning 
 
 to 
 
 67]
 
 The N other- Artist 
 
 to live the highest Hfe they know of, and as 
 great freedom to the children as is compati- 
 ble with outer order and healthfulness, and 
 instruction in principle by the free and nat- 
 ural conversation of home, and you have the 
 best conditions for the growth of the child 
 into a normal spiritual being. (There are 
 many abnormal spiritual beings.) Donald 
 was playing with his blocks one day, and 
 you asked him to bring you something lying 
 on the table ; he did not start even at your 
 second asking; and then you saw that he was 
 wholly bent upon planning the structure of 
 a house. It flashed upon you that checking 
 his idea would lose to him, perhaps forever, 
 some brain-power just struggling into birth. 
 You rose and fetched the thing yourself. 
 An acquaintance who was calling soon re- 
 ported your delinquency : " She is spoiling 
 that child ; she doesn't make him mind. 
 My six children all learned to mind bng 
 before they were as old as Donald." 
 
 Fred smiled when he heard it. " I'm glad 
 to know in time," he said, " how she made 
 such dismal failures of those six kids." 
 
 Nevertheless, 
 
 [6 8
 
 The 91other-Artist 
 
 Nevertheless, respect for their individu- 
 ality did not compel you to give them every 
 injurious thing they wished. At first, though, 
 you made a mistake in your way of refusing 
 what you knew v/as harmful, and this even 
 led to your beginning to yield to the child 
 from sheer weariness in trying to talk him 
 into willing acquiescence with your decision. 
 
 "If Donald wants to make a dyspeptic of 
 himself," said his father, " there needn't be 
 any talk about it ; he simply can't do it." 
 He was trying to persuade you to give up 
 the habit of reasoning with the child every 
 time you refused him anything. You had 
 started with this error, common to mothers 
 who think much about treating children 
 justly, that giving him a reason would fill 
 his heart with a sweet contentment upon 
 being deprived of the only thing he wanted 
 at the moment, and to his childish percep- 
 tion the only thing he ever would want. 
 This course soon got you into trouble. Fi- 
 nally, a scene was this : — 
 
 " Mamma, there isn't any sugar on my 
 oatmeal!" "Why. 
 
 69]
 
 The H other- Artist 
 
 " Why, yes, dear, there is. You saw me 
 yourself when I put it on. You can't see it 
 because it has melted. Don't vou know 
 that when we put milk ." 
 
 " Mamma, give me some more ! Give me 
 much ! I want much ! " 
 
 " No, dear, you mustn't have any more, 
 because ." 
 
 " Give me much ! I want much ! " 
 
 " No, dear, it will make you sick." 
 
 " I want to be sick. I like to be sick." 
 
 " Oh, Donald, think how uncomfortable 
 you feel when you are sick ! " 
 
 " No, I don't feel uncomfle ! Give me 
 some more sugar ! " 
 
 " But, Donald, it makes mamma trouble 
 to take care of you when you are sick." 
 
 " You don't have to take care of me." 
 
 " Oh, yes, mamma couldn't let her little 
 boy be sick and not take care of him ! " 
 
 (A roar.) " Yes you could ! Give me 
 some sugar ! " 
 
 Here Fred arrived upon the scene. The 
 little tyrant soon was settled by being borne 
 
 upon 
 
 [70
 
 The blather- Artist 
 
 upon his father's shoulders up to his own 
 room and going breakfastless. Fred talked 
 more seriously now with you than ever be- 
 fore; and he persuaded you to try his way 
 for a month, and if it seemed not better for 
 the child you would go back to yours with- 
 out more protest from himself. 
 
 At first it was very hard, but steady prac- 
 tice made it easier in time. " No, Donald, 
 you can't have any more sugar " — this the 
 next day. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 You did not answer. 
 Why-y-y no-o-ot ? " 
 Never mind why not. You can't have 
 
 It. 
 
 A roar; but this time Fred was there. 
 " Donald ! " he called across the table, " will 
 you stop, or shall papa take you upstairs, 
 just like yesterday ? " 
 
 The child stopped suddenly on the half- 
 cry and gazed through tears at his father, 
 who looked at him sternly. Donald turned 
 to you : " Mamma, wipe Donnie's tears." 
 
 That 
 
 7>] 

 
 The J^ other- Artist 
 
 That was the last conflict for sugar in his 
 father's presence. The struggle was much 
 harder when you and Donald were alone ; 
 for you had taught him skill in argument, 
 and indeed, yourself, too ; and once the habit 
 formed, much time was necessary to get both 
 you and him out of it when there was not 
 the restraint of the masculine presence. 
 However, the month saw great improve- 
 ment, and your old ways have never been 
 resumed. You learned then that the time 
 for reasoning with a child is when he has no 
 immediate personal interest in the matter. 
 
 As the children grew and began, even in 
 tender years, to come into more companion- 
 ship with you, occasions became rarer, day 
 by day, when they desired to act contrary to 
 the general tone of home. They often erred 
 from inadvertence, even as adults do ; but 
 little faults were overlooked, as grown per- 
 sons overlook each other's ; the serious ones 
 were analyzed with them, and consequences 
 of continuing such a course were pointed out. 
 You also learned many a lesson new to your- 
 self; 
 
 [72
 
 The Mother -Artist 
 
 self; among them, that in case of unreason 
 and rebellion in the child, you often, not he, 
 were the one who had set the example in un- 
 reasonableness. Whenever you discovered 
 this you instantly retracted that which had 
 been wrong in your requirement or unjust in 
 your rebuke ; for you saw that you cannot 
 teach justice to your child by means of an in- 
 justice of your own to him. Many a rough 
 place has been made smooth and the child 
 drawn nearer to you in genuine love by your 
 simple words, " I was wrong." You felt the 
 blessing of it one day when you heard Tom 
 say, " Mother always gives a feller a chance ! " 
 As you looked around upon the mothers 
 that you knew, and studied the effects of dif- 
 ferent modes of treatment of their children, 
 you added, one by one, rich treasures to your 
 store of knowledge of the souls of childhood. 
 Of these, one was that an unconsciousness of 
 wrong in doing is a part of that unconscious- 
 ness of self which makes the angelic inno- 
 cence of these little ones. But we adults, 
 not recognizing how much harm wie do, work 
 
 unceasingly 
 
 73 ]
 
 The ?I other- Artist 
 
 unceasingly to form within the child the habit 
 of a constant thought of self. The ignorance 
 of wrong in some act that is to us a monstrous 
 thing was illustrated to yourself one day in 
 an amusing incident told by a friend : " I was 
 out," she said, " and when I came home. 
 Doctor," her husband, " said to me, * Robert 
 has been naughty. I have put him to bed. 
 You must not sympathize with him.' Then 
 he told me the story. Robert cried out when 
 he saw me, ' I don't see why I have to be 
 put to bed ; 1 only blew soap bubbles through 
 a pipe, and Ben and Sam they just /)o«r(?^ out 
 water by the pailful ! ' * But, Robbie,' I said, 
 * you told a lie!' He stopped crying and 
 looked at me with wide-open eyes. * Did I ? 
 Did I tell a lie ? Oh, well, it's all right then ; 
 I'll stay here all day.' So he settled himself 
 down,entirely willing to take his punishment." 
 You laughed with her in thinking of the 
 child, so ready for his spiritual cleansing, di- 
 rectly he was conscious of the blackness of 
 his sin ; but it impressed you greatly. So 
 many times you had discovered in your chil- 
 dren 
 
 [74
 
 The Mother- Artist 
 
 dren this same unconsciousness that they had 
 fallen into error. You asked yourself the 
 question, and you and Fred discussed It se- 
 riously, — Is punishment the best means for 
 meeting inadvertent fault? Is an uncon- 
 scious lie more dangerous to the growth than 
 the self-consciousness forced on a child by 
 constant reprimands and punishments? The 
 sin of lying is a monstrous thing ; but equal 
 in enormity is the consciousness of self in 
 eyery deed one does. All free and generous 
 acts are bound in chains by the accompany- 
 ing thought of one's own part in the doing. 
 All spontaneity of thought is checked by this 
 same eyil. The enormity of it is plain : 
 If thought of others is the angelic life, then 
 thought of self must be the opposite. Self- 
 consciousness is the besetting sin of Ameri- 
 cans, especially in the Northern United 
 States, and is cherished by us as if it were a 
 yirtue, and nurtured by us — indeed, called 
 into life almost — within the souls of children, 
 who when they come from God haye all the 
 self-unconsciousness of angels. 
 
 Another 
 
 75]
 
 The Nother- Artist 
 
 Another incident, quite different, affected 
 you most strongly. Calling one afternoon 
 upon a friend, her little child of three came 
 to the parlor where you sat waiting for her 
 mother. She had a doll clasped in her arms, 
 and was soon prattling happily, as children 
 will to those who love them. She especially 
 liked your dainty gloves, and stroked them 
 softly as she talked with you ; but when the 
 mother came she said, " Don't touch her 
 gloves ; you will soil them." But you had 
 allowed her playing with them before, and 
 the child did not hear her mother's words. 
 Again she spoke, quite sternly, but still the 
 baby did not hear. Then a third time the 
 command was given, " Mamie, if you do that 
 again I will take the doll away, and you can't 
 have her any more." You watched the 
 struggle in the baby mind to free itself from 
 absorption in playing with your glove. It 
 was not quick enough, however, to gain the 
 victory, and just once more you felt the little 
 touch upon your hand; then it stopped; but 
 the mother had already risen, and calmlv 
 
 taking 
 
 [76
 
 The ?I other- Artist 
 
 taking the doll from the child's arms she 
 threw it into the open fire. Never, to the 
 last day of your life, will you cease to hear 
 at times the cry of torture that burst from 
 the baby heart. In agony the little one 
 stamped and screamed. Would not the 
 mother have done the same if some one had 
 suddenly thrown her child into the fire? 
 Immediately the baby was taken from the 
 room, and you sat struggling with your tears 
 and your fierce anger toward the mother. 
 When she returned, her face, which was very 
 beautiful, had the relentless calm of fate. 
 " Baby has many dolls," she said, " but that 
 one was her favorite. She must learn to 
 mind, though, and to control that frightful 
 temper." You got away as fast as possible. 
 You thought of all the happy prattle of the 
 child before the mother had come down, and 
 how you had loved the feeling of the little 
 hand through your glove. You knew that 
 your encouragement had caused her mind to 
 be absorbed so that she could not get it 
 fixed on what the mother said. And vou 
 
 wondered 
 
 7 7]
 
 The Nother- Artist 
 
 wondered if the child would hate her mother 
 all her life, as you felt that she must hate 
 her at that moment. If not, the other thing 
 must happen : with the murder of her love 
 for her doll-child was slain some power of 
 loving, and all through life her soul would 
 walk a cripple through the world. And 
 when you contrasted in your mind the relent- 
 less calm upon the mother's face and the 
 shrieking agony of the tortured child, you 
 wondered it anyone could question which 
 temper was the deadliest, or whose the real 
 persistence in gaining her own end. When 
 you were calmer you were able to do more 
 justice to the mother, by recognizing her 
 self-deception in supposing that cruelty to 
 her child was duty, and in not seeing that 
 more of self-will was in her own act than the 
 little one manifested in her absorption with 
 the soft prettiness of the glove. But you 
 were shocked out of your charitable mood a 
 little after when the mother explained to you 
 that she showed the child, as soon as she 
 was calm, that it was for her, the child's 
 
 good, 
 
 [78
 
 The N other- Artist 
 
 good, she did the heartless thing. The 
 thought flashed across your mind how fitly 
 the child might have answered what your 
 little Fanny said to you when you had told 
 her once that she must learn to give up. 
 " No, mamma," she whimpered, " I don't 
 want to learn to give up ! You give up ! 
 Why can't you learn to give up ? Papa, 
 
 come here and make mamma learn to give 
 
 »> 
 up. 
 
 Since you did not feel at liberty to lay 
 before your beautiful friend this true wisdom 
 from the heart of your three-year-old baby, 
 you turned away with very little answer, think- 
 ing that she had added another cruelty to all 
 the rest. You recovered your charity again 
 in time, for this mother was a very faithful 
 one, according to her — darkness ; and who 
 has much of lightness after all ? But you 
 thanked God that your children never had 
 been put to torture such as this ; and you 
 registered a vow anew that " discipline " 
 should never gain an entrance to your home. 
 
 The lack of it mourned by your friends 
 
 has 
 
 7 9]
 
 The Tlother- Artist 
 
 has not borne as yet the fruit predicted by 
 them. Said Donald : " Some boys wanted 
 me to go rob a cherry tree. I wouldn't go. 
 I don't see any fun in it." Tom had more 
 of the marauder's spirit when the time arrived 
 for his testing. " Papa," he said, " the boys 
 asked me to get pears off of Mr. Greene's 
 trees, but Don put in his oar, and then the 
 thing was all up. Mr. Greene's a stingy old 
 thing anyway, and the pears are all rotting 
 like anything 'cause he's gone away anyhow, 
 and his folks have gone off with him. A 
 few pears won't hurt him. We weren't going 
 to take many anyway. Don better keep his 
 mouth shut next time." 
 
 Fred seldom, if ever, remonstrated with 
 the children ; if he had had such a habit they 
 never would have revealed themselves to him 
 in this free fashion. He quietly now com- 
 menced to talk of Mr. Greene as if he had 
 no opinion in the matter different from that of 
 Tom. He did not know that Mr. Greene 
 had gone, or any of his family ; he was sorry 
 to hear of his stinginess. Questions followed. 
 
 When 
 
 [80
 
 The Tlother- Artist 
 
 When had the Greenes set off, and for what 
 place? In what particular cases that Tom 
 knew of personally had Mr. Greene acted in 
 a stingy way ? The outcome was that Tom 
 admitted, one by one, that all the stated facts 
 about the gentleman were hearsay, wholly. 
 " The fellers said " this, that and the other, 
 until the final proof was that " the fellers 
 said " it all ; and further conversation brought 
 to light the fact that Mr. Greene and several 
 of his family had been seen in town late that 
 afternoon, with not the least appearance of 
 going on a journey or of having been on one ; 
 also, that Mr. Greene, far from being stingy, 
 had borne himself in several noted cases as 
 a remarkably liberal-hearted person. Then 
 with the same skill, the father drew out the 
 child's opinion that life in the community 
 involves necessity for respect for the property 
 of others ; and that there is no third course, 
 middle between the taking and the not taking 
 of a neighbor's goods. The end was that 
 Tom saw, as if from his own thought, that 
 " there isn't much fun in stealing, after all." 
 
 He 
 
 8l]
 
 The Tlother- Artist 
 
 He had not called it stealing at the first, and 
 when he got to that you knew that he was 
 safe. He never showed an interest in ma- 
 rauding afterward. 
 
 So it has been throughout. Analysis of 
 life's questions with the children, considered 
 from the principles of right, is leading them 
 to do the same, unconsciously, for themselves. 
 As a rule, they are respectful, affectionate, 
 kind to one another, helpful and thoughtful. 
 Donald naturally leads in judging of prin- 
 ciples, and the others follow, learning step 
 by step. You are right in being satisfied 
 that all this conduces to their growth far 
 more than " discipline." 
 
 [8 a
 
 The Mother-Artist \ 
 
 VII. The Working Out of Natural Law 
 
 For thorns nature returns us thorns, not blessings
 
 The Mother-Artist 
 
 VII. The Working Out of Natural Law 
 
 THERE is a difFerence, however, between 
 the " discipHning " of a child for inad- 
 vertent errors or for his natural excite- 
 ment under wounded feehng, and the meeting 
 wisely his deliberate disobedience, lying, or de- 
 ception. The purpose, rightly, of all punish- 
 ment is to impress upon him the great law 
 that results inevitably follow action. You will 
 never forget how faithfully you and Fred stud- 
 ied to apply this law when penalty was neces- 
 sary. Perhaps the severest case that you ever 
 had was the escapade of little Tom when he 
 was less than nine years old. His was the most 
 venturesome spirit of all your children, and 
 it was natural that among other tests of the 
 resources which life presented to him, he 
 
 should 
 
 8s] 
 
 \
 
 The 7i other- Artist 
 
 should try to find what lying and deceit 
 might bring to him of profit ; and this, 
 though in the depths of his heart he was 
 honest as the daylight. One Saturday he 
 said to you that Mr. Long had asked him 
 to come that afternoon to see his little son, 
 who was about Tom's age. Invitations to 
 the Long home had been given before for 
 parties, and though you were surprised that 
 Tom should be invited alone, as no particu- 
 lar intimacy existed between your two fami- 
 lies, it did not cross your mind to doubt his 
 word. When he came home you asked 
 about his visit, and he gave you an account 
 in quite minute detail of the good time 
 h^ had had with Oscar Long that after- 
 noon, and what they had been playing. It 
 flashed upon you once, for a moment, that 
 he looked very flushed and more be-tumbled 
 as to hair and clothes than such a quiet visit 
 seemed to warrant; but Tom was always one 
 of the much be-tumbled kind, and so the 
 momentary thought made no permanent im- 
 pression. He seemed, however, rather se- 
 
 nous. 
 
 [8 6
 
 The N other- Artist 
 
 rious, and went to bed quite early, another 
 curious happening; for he was usually the 
 one who fought off sleep the longest, and 
 resisted the bed hour as his most deadly 
 enemy. 
 
 Mr. Long was not a frequent visitor, but 
 happening to pass that Sunday afternoon, 
 next day, he dropped in for a call. As he 
 was leaving Tom chanced to come into the 
 room, and Mr. Long asked, pleasantly : 
 " Can't you come over some afternoon, Tom, 
 to see Oscar ? You needn't always wait to 
 be invited to a party, need you ? " 
 
 Tom blushed and stammered out a 
 "Thank you," and ran away. Mr. Long 
 laughingly remarked upon the bashfulness 
 of children, and took his leave. You were 
 bewildered, and sent immediately for Tom, 
 and summoned Fred as well. The child 
 stood before you with hands in pockets, head 
 hanging down, working uneasily upon the 
 carpet with the toe of his boot. He told the 
 story now which evidently was the true one. 
 A boy, Ralph Norris, whose father was 
 
 away, 
 
 87]
 
 The Mother-Artist 
 
 away, had begged Tom and two other boys 
 to come to the pasture where the Norris 
 horses were feeding and try their luck with 
 an unbroken colt. This was a strictly for- 
 bidden thing to Ralph, and so more attrac- 
 tive to all the boys. He assured them that 
 his father did not know how tame the colt 
 was, that there was no danger, not the least. 
 They evidently had not needed much over- 
 urging. They went and tried their luck. 
 They all were thrown in turn, but boys are 
 made of India rubber stuff, as everybody 
 knows, and they were not greatly hurt. Per- 
 haps what saved them finally from doing 
 more daring things than they had yet at- 
 tempted was a slight cut which Ralph got 
 on the forehead, and the consciousness that 
 cuts must be accounted for at home suggested 
 that perhaps the wiser way would be to dis- 
 continue this especial pastime for the after- 
 noon. 
 
 This was the tale, in boy's version, that 
 Tom told, and when he had finished there 
 was silence for awhile; he shamefaced, you 
 
 and 
 
 [88
 
 The 71 other- Artist 
 
 and Fred nonplussed with the so suddenly 
 revealed depravity of the hitherto, as you had 
 known it, honest baby heart. At last Fred 
 spoke : " Do you think your mother and I 
 would have lied to you, Tom, as you have 
 lied to us? Was it treating us fair, as we 
 have always treated you ? " 
 
 " No," slowly answered Tom, his face 
 flushing a deeper shade, "I know it. It 
 was pretty mean behavement." 
 
 "Yes," replied his father, his voice more 
 stern even than he intended from the fear of 
 smiling at Tom's unusual word, " it was. 
 And you will suffer for this, Tom, and I am 
 sorry for you. That's all, now. You may 
 go." And Tom, surprised that if he was to 
 suffer he was not told how, looked up doubt- 
 ingly, and then slowly left the room. 
 
 You and Fred in talking of the matter 
 came to a decision which was summed up in 
 his words : " The way to make an impression 
 on him, a real one, is to watch our opportuni- 
 ties, and when a chance comes for some pleas- 
 ure which he could have had if we could have 
 
 trusted 
 
 89]
 
 The Toother- Artist 
 
 trusted him, to refuse it because we cannot 
 know whether he is telHng the truth or not. 
 This is the legitimate penalty which follows 
 lying, — loss of the confidence of others." 
 
 You saw the danger possible to result in 
 the crushing of the child's spirit by making 
 him feel that he was always under penalty for 
 this one fault, even when he told the truth ; 
 but on further talking you found the way for 
 meeting this phase of the difficulty, and then 
 you waited for your opportunity. 
 
 It was not long before it came. One 
 morning, just as Fred was leaving for the 
 city, Tom ran in : " Oh, mamma, Mr. Carey 
 (the next door neighbor) says I may have a 
 ride in his automobile if I will come down 
 to his store at five o'clock. May I ? He 
 wants me to tell him before he goes, in an 
 hour." This was in the first days of auto- 
 mobiles, and Mr. Carey's was the only one in 
 your town. 
 
 Fred turned to you, and under cover of a 
 second good by, he said : " Now stand firm, 
 dear. Don't let your sympathies run away 
 
 with 
 
 [9
 
 The ?I other- Artist 
 
 with you. It will never have to be done again 
 if you do it thoroughly this time. I can't stay, 
 and besides, you can manage better alone." 
 
 " May I go ? " Tom repeated eagerly, as 
 his father left the room. 
 
 " Come to me, Tom. How can I know 
 that Mr. Carey has asked you to ride in his 
 automobile?" 
 
 Tom looked at you, puzzled : " Why he 
 did, mamma. You can ask him. He's right 
 there on his piazza." 
 
 " Do you think that I want him to know 
 that I can't trust my little boy's word ? " 
 
 The child gazed still more earnestly at you, 
 as if trying to think what you might mean ; 
 and then the boy face flushed as the con- 
 sciousness came that you were doubting him 
 because of his doings of a certain afternoon. 
 
 " I am telling the truth now, mamma." 
 
 "How do I know it? 1 thought you 
 were that other day, and all that you told me 
 were big lies." 
 
 " This isn't ; truly, truly, mamma." 
 
 " Perhaps not, but I don't know how to 
 tell the difference. How can I ? " 
 
 The 
 
 91]
 
 The Nother -Artist 
 
 The look was anxious now. 
 
 " But, mamma, can't I go ? " 
 
 " I don't see any way. I should be ashamed 
 to ask Mr. Carey whether he really invited 
 you." 
 
 " But he didy mamma, he did ! Let me 
 go, please, mamma. I never rode in an 
 automobile in all my life. Mamma, cant I 
 go ? " The tone grew more alarmed and 
 excited as the impossibility of making you 
 believe him came to him with the full force 
 of all it meant to him. 
 
 " What way can there be for me to be sure 
 that this is not just like your telling me that 
 Mr. Long had invited you to go to see 
 Oscar?" 
 
 The child stamped with excitement and 
 grief. " You might let me go ! You know 
 he invited me ! " 
 
 " Do I, Tom, dear ? I am longing to trust 
 you. Tell me how I can know what the 
 difference is between this and the other 
 time." 
 
 The child for one short moment searched 
 
 your 
 
 [9 2
 
 The N other- Artist 
 
 your face in agony and then threw himself 
 upon the floor and cried out between deep 
 sobs, " When I do tell — the truth — you won't 
 — believe — me ! He did ask me; he did ! " 
 
 You let his grief expend itself while you 
 were thinking rapidly. As the sobs grew 
 quieter, Tom called, " Mamma." 
 
 " Well, Tom." 
 
 "Are you always going to think I'm 
 lying? Have I got to stay at home from 
 everywhere if you don't hear folks ask me to 
 go? 
 
 " Come here, dear ; " and when he came, 
 you pushed the brown hair back from the 
 hot little face. "We can fix it for another 
 time, but not this ; there is no way for you to 
 go to-day. Hush, dear, listen. Have you for- 
 gotten what papa said to you that Sunday when 
 we found out how you had deceived us ? He 
 told you that sometime you'd suffer for what 
 you had done that day. He knew that there 
 would be a time when something just like 
 this would come up ; for of course we can't 
 trust you again till we know you don't de- 
 ceive 
 
 9 3^
 
 The Mother- Artist 
 
 ceive any more. Now we will do this : You 
 go to Mr. Carey and tell him that mamma 
 can't let you go riding to-day, and thank him 
 for asking you ; then the next time I meet 
 him I shall thank him besides, and then I 
 shall know by his answer whether he really 
 invited you. And if you will promise me 
 to be a more truthful boy in the future, and 
 I find this is true, I will trust you next time 
 and always, as long as you tell me the truth." 
 
 Tom leaned his head against your shoul- 
 der, and the tears flowed fast again, but 
 quietly. Finally, he said, "If you believe 
 my promise if I stay at home, why can't you 
 believe it and let me go \ " 
 
 But since the time of Donald's sophistries 
 about the sugar you had cultivated a habit of 
 shunning this kind of argument; therefore 
 you had no difficulty in answering: "I can- 
 not talk with you about that now, Tom. 
 Dry your eyes ; Mr. Carey will be going 
 soon. You must go over to tell him im- 
 mediately." 
 
 Once more he gave way. His arms went 
 
 round 
 
 [94
 
 The Nother- Artist 
 
 round your neck. " Isn't there any other 
 way, mamma? I'll stay shut up alone all 
 day to-morrow if you'll let me go this 
 afternoon." 
 
 " No, dear, there's no more to be said. 
 Will you go ? " 
 
 But again he appealed : " Mamma, won't 
 you go tell him ? Then you will know right 
 away that I have told you the truth." 
 
 " Yes, I will go if you say so. But just 
 think for a moment. Only yesterday you 
 were reading of soldiers, and wished you 
 could be one, so that you might have the 
 chance to be brave. Now if you can do 
 this that I ask, you will be just as brave as 
 any man soldier who ever went into the 
 battle and faced all the guns of the enemy. 
 Wouldn't you like it, Tom, dear, to be 
 strong and a hero ? " 
 
 The tears stopped now, and Tom looked 
 at you with an expression on his face of a 
 new-wakened thought. " Would it, mam- 
 ma ? " he said eagerly. " Would I really be 
 a brave soldier if I did this ? " 
 
 **Thc 
 
 95]
 
 The Toother- Artist 
 
 "The best kind of one, mv brave soldier 
 boy!" 
 
 " Then I'll do it. You watch me at the 
 window, mamma, and see me march up to the 
 enemy." He laughed now, and seized his 
 hat and set off on his soldier duty. 
 
 You watched, as he had asked, and you 
 saw him marching to the time of a tune he 
 whistled, with steady step ; but when he 
 neared the house he faltered for a moment, 
 and then braced up and went up the steps 
 and gav^e his message. His head was held 
 erect, and he looked without flinching into 
 the tace of the gentleman who sat on the 
 piazza with his newspaper. Tom evidently 
 made his words as few as possible, but you 
 saw the gentleman cordially shake him bv 
 the hand ; and then the boy ran home as 
 fast as possible, and right into your arms, 
 and cried again, quietly, but deeply. Your 
 own nerves, overstrained, gave way now 
 that the victory was gained, and there was no 
 more need ot hiding your real feelings from 
 Tom from fear that he would think that he 
 
 could 
 
 [96
 
 The Toother- Artist 
 
 could use them to gain his end ; and you 
 leaned your cheek against the tumbled-up 
 brown hair, and did not try to check the 
 tears that came almost as freely as his own. 
 Suddenly he looked up. " Are you crying, 
 mamma? What for?" 
 
 " Don't you know that it hurts mamma to 
 deny you a pleasure, and to feel she cannot 
 trust vou ? " 
 
 The loving spirit of the impetuous child 
 was fully roused at this new view of the mat- 
 ter, and he said quickly : " Don't cry any more, 
 mamma. I didn't know you cared like that. 
 You can trust me, mamma ; I never shall tell 
 a lie again. I felt awful mean all the time I was 
 doing it. Wasn't it funny, I couldn't look 
 right at you when I came home that afternoon, 
 and I went off to bed as soon as I could be- 
 cause you kept looking at me, and it almost 
 seemed as if you knew that what I told vou 
 wasn't true." 
 
 " Why did you do it, Tom ? " 
 
 " I don't know, mamma. I guess 'twas 
 because I thought it v>-ould be such awful 
 
 good 
 
 9 7 ]
 
 The H other- Artist 
 
 good fun to try a colt that Ralph's father said 
 would break our necks if we got on his back. 
 It was awful good, fun." Tom drew a long 
 breath, as if renouncing with a last regret one 
 of the highest sweetnesses of life. " But I 
 won't ever lie to you again. It don't pay, 
 does it?" 
 
 " You surely can never be happy in doing 
 such things. It is dreadful to feel that you 
 can't look mamma in the face, and papa, and 
 that you are mean to us when we have al- 
 ways been honest with you. And besides 
 you have to lose many pleasures like this of 
 to-day just because we can't tell whether or 
 not you are speaking the truth. I shouldn't 
 think riding a colt that might break your neck 
 at any moment would pay for all that." 
 
 Tom looked very serious. Suddenly he 
 said : " It's just like the boy who cried 
 * Wolf,' isn't it ? Nobody believed him when 
 the wolf really did come. I'm just like him. 
 But I never will be again, mamma, never." 
 
 [98
 
 The Mother-Artist x 
 
 VIIL Cares, Confusion, Disorder 
 
 The baby's toys left by him on the floor 
 Have more of living art in them than all 
 The galleries of all the world
 
 The Mother-Artist 
 
 Vni. Cares, Confusion, Disorder 
 
 IT is true that you always say that your 
 married Hfe has been a happy one, but 
 generally you add that many cares have 
 somewhat thrust the happiness aside, even \ 
 
 altogether at times, and the noise of children 
 and confusion of their chatter and childish 
 heedlessness have wearied nerves already worn 
 upon by duties crowded into too small time 
 and space. But, little mother, it is so the 
 artist works, — the painter, sculptor, music- 
 maker and the poet. You are the greatest 
 artist of them all, for what you work upon 
 is human life. The noise and the disorder 
 of the children, they disturb you, do you 
 say ? Why is it, then, that you enjoy the 
 bustle of a suburban dwelling place ? For 
 
 often 
 
 I O I ]
 
 The Mother- Artist 
 
 often you have said that you would Hve in 
 this, your chosen town, upon a crust, rather 
 than in the quiet of the country. Yet here 
 the rattle of the street car is not wholly want- 
 ing either day or night. The venders and 
 the newsboys make the morning hideous 
 with their cries. Yet, when you are longing 
 for a day of pleasure, toward what do your 
 thoughts turn ? To the quiet country place, 
 where birds and bees make all the sounds, 
 except for an occasional reaper in the field 
 or whirr of mill ? Oh, no, this is not what 
 you think of, for you are a born lover of the 
 city. You crave a day of leisure in New 
 York without the shopping of your usual 
 trips. But even with that you always pass 
 the hours quite happily, although you do 
 grow weary in the end. You never heed the 
 din that fills the air of the metropolis. Often 
 you have longed to spend the months of 
 winter in the city ; you have declared that 
 this would be the perfect life, — the city win- 
 ter and suburban summer. Yet, though you 
 lived away from busy centers, in quiet parts. 
 
 vou 
 
 [102
 
 The N other- Artist 
 
 you would have more noise, perhaps, than 
 in your suburbs. Are not the merry sounds 
 of children at their play more musical than 
 city noises ? and even children's discord than 
 clang of trolley bell and shriek of engine and 
 the wagon's rattle over stony streets ? 
 
 And the disorder; v.hat is it you call that? 
 The baby's toys upon the floor ? Why be 
 ashamed of them when Mrs. H., your friend 
 of wealth and elegance, calls at your home ? 
 The Noah's animals one day were all spread 
 out by baby's matchless art. The lifeless 
 things had taken on themselves something 
 of baby-life, imparted by the little hand. A 
 grace had fallen over them ; how, you did not 
 know. If an adult had fixed them so, they 
 would have been no more than ill-formed 
 wooden things; but the abounding joy of 
 baby in his play had somehow altered them, 
 and being left here now, when he had gone out 
 for his daily ride, they still kept with them 
 much of his sweet grace. As they caught the 
 eye one involuntarily felt the glow that baby 
 presence always brings to any woman's being 
 
 who 
 
 103] 
 
 \
 
 The Hother- Artist 
 
 who is at heart a mother. Would vou de- 
 prive your friend of that ? 
 
 You do not see, for no one yet has known, 
 the highest value of the homely floor. It is 
 not merely to be walked upon ; it is, still 
 more, for baby and his toys. It is so long 
 and wide, — magnificently large for every 
 baby need. Guarded by its walls, there is 
 no danger of his falling off. Adults have 
 selfishly monopolized the floor, as they have 
 many another gracious thing, and always to 
 their own hurt. If we would have the glad- 
 ness that God sends with every baby who is 
 born, we must retrace our steps and share 
 with babyhood the things that are by right 
 its own. Then shall we know the gifts they 
 have for us. We think that babies come 
 with empty hands ; oh, no, they bring us 
 overflowing wealth. Just as of old, the en- 
 voy, when he traveled, came " bearing gifts " 
 from his great master's court, so baby comes 
 from God's own courts with treasures for the 
 courts of earth ; but we, in our blind zeal for 
 selfish " order," destroy these gifts, and lose 
 
 the 
 
 [104
 
 The Mother- Artist 
 
 the grace and tenderness and peace that 
 would be Hke the air and sunshine to our 
 souls and baby's. So we are stunted in our 
 growth, and he as well. 
 
 In that new future we all love to think of, 
 when we shall understand the worth of life's 
 best things, the architect will no doubt plan 
 the floors with thought direct upon the 
 baby's needs. They will be comfortable 
 and hygienic in their build for this very 
 purpose. Every mother may, even now, 
 hasten on that time of greater good by 
 recognition of the dignity which baby and 
 his toys confer upon the floor on which he 
 plays. When you show a caller through 
 your garden it does not offend her dignity 
 or yours that she must step with care along 
 the paths which happen to be narrow, and 
 you lead her around the plants that block 
 her way and feel no shame. No more need 
 you when baby's toys are scattered all about. 
 When the guest enters, your air of graceful 
 ease may tell how deep the recognition is 
 that baby is a blessing in the home, as you 
 
 say, 
 
 105]
 
 The Mother- Artist 
 
 say, "We all know that where a baby lives 
 the floor belongs to him as much as to any 
 other of the family." 
 
 You will say, perhaps, that it is the 
 nursery floor that is his own. Yes, if you 
 choose to have one, and a maid or any person 
 to^stay with him there ; if not, the blessing 
 is an added one which gives the baby's 
 presence to the family life. Why be ashamed 
 of him before a guest? If you had on your 
 wall a picture of a baby playing with his 
 toys upon the floor by a Millet, and there 
 were no copies of it, your callers would con- 
 sider it a boon to be allowed to walk over 
 any kind of object, and even over each other, 
 to get a glimpse of it. Is a picture of more 
 value than the life which it portrays ? 
 
 You sometimes speak self-pityingly of the 
 care of your little family as so absorbing, so 
 full of anxious thought. It is absorbing, 
 yes ; but is not that delightful ? What could 
 give more beauty to one's life than an ab- 
 sorbing interest in great work ? And your 
 work is one of the greatest in the world. In 
 
 what 
 [ I 06
 
 The Hother- Artist 
 
 what does value of the Hfe consist ? Is it not 
 in feeling, as one wakens in the morning, 
 that something large depends upon one's 
 self, which no one else is set apart to do ? 
 And this is care, — the care without anxiety, 
 which every person of character seeks and 
 welcomes. For is it not delightful to 
 know the value that we are to this great 
 world ? Think — your portion is one part of 
 the highest work that can be done by woman, 
 and you are solely appointed to perform it ! 
 What would you have ? a lower service, like 
 that of lecturer or business woman, or the 
 grade of artist who works only with material 
 things to give mankind the beautiful con- 
 ceptions of her spirit ? Would these less 
 noble tasks, moreover, be free from care if 
 you were faithful to them ? Not that they 
 are not noble, every one, and good for 
 women who have not the highest, or who 
 have finished motherhood with children. 
 They are all most worthy of a woman's life ; 
 but there are ranks in nobleness of work, and 
 you have been allowed the highest. Your 
 
 care. 
 
 107]
 
 The N other- Artist 
 
 care, if It is in truth a greater than the 
 others, is likewise gladder, more worth 
 while. 
 
 But the anxiety in all, — the feeling that if 
 your children come short of what you think 
 they should, or go astray, you are responsi- 
 ble. Ah, stop one moment ; here you over- 
 step the limits of your humanhood. God is 
 the keeper of your children's souls, not you. I 
 Beyond the limits of your best endeavors 
 you have no further right ; and when you 
 take upon yourself anxiety you vitiate all 
 the work it is your part to do. Anxiety 
 itself will ruin your child's life as nothing 
 else can. The atmosphere you make around 
 you is the strongest influence upon him for 
 good or harm that you can bring ; stronger 
 than all your teaching ; stronger than any- 
 thing you can do. Mere words and deeds 
 may be forgotten ; but your atmosphere 
 permeates the being of your child, just as 
 the air does his body. If it is happy, one in 
 which you meet him in glad companionship 
 and peaceful striving for his highest growth 
 
 in 
 
 [ I o 8
 
 The Tiother- Artist 
 
 in all his God-sent powers, then are you 
 doing everything that a mother can for his 
 welfare. But if you let anxiety come in, it 
 blasts his faculties as truly as does the deadly 
 breath of the sirocco the bodies of men and 
 beasts. The simoon is not poisonous, you 
 remember, except for its great heat and dust. 
 Exactly thus, anxiety is the mother's love 
 intensified to morbid temperature, and min- 
 gling with itself, from the fierce dread of what 
 may happen, clouds of fine dust of trivial 
 exactions as precautionary measures which 
 stifle life. 
 
 Your weariness, just as you claim yourself, 
 comes largely from this artificial weight, this 
 sense of responsibiHty not your own. It is 
 unworthy ; it stunts your soul's growth and 
 harms your child. You need not for one 
 moment claim for motherhood this burden 
 of anxiety as normal. It is as artificial as all 
 unwholesome cares ; they are man-made. 
 God sends us only gladness in every walk of 
 life ; the burdens we make largely for our- 
 selves, or else we increase or fail to throw 
 aside those made for us by others. 
 
 Therefore 
 109]
 
 The "Mother- Artist 
 
 Therefore your real cares are only bless- 
 ings, for they are your portion of the world's 
 great work, and this it is which gives your 
 life its value. Without them you would be 
 a nonentity, a mere cumberer of the earth. 
 The confusion, — it is but the happy life of 
 childhood, the gladdest of all things. It is 
 not sound alone, like the street noises ; it is 
 the pure outpouring of life in living music. 
 It is only harmony, if you will hear it so. 
 It is the fine-toned orchestra accompanying 
 the living drama. The small bickerings, 
 too, of these small folk are nothing serious, 
 if you will meet them rightly ; they are your 
 chance for teaching them one of the greatest 
 truths, for they are the beginnings of the 
 struggles which may be not unhappy if you 
 will show the children how to meet them. 
 Almost every struggle of our lives may be 
 transformed into the mere learning how to 
 live, as an apprentice or a student struggles 
 for his education. You may show your 
 children that these same experiences may be 
 met with constant avoidance of the pain, and 
 
 I I o
 
 The N other- Artist 
 
 so the serious side of life may come to be 
 to them only the painless training of the 
 muscles of their characters. 
 
 And the disorder, — there is no such thing 
 within the household of a well-poised 
 mother. It is not order to have everything 
 in a place you have artificially appointed as 
 its own. External order is the fitness of 
 material things for spiritual life. As a large 
 principle to start upon, it does consist in 
 having some place assigned for each article 
 of household use and for the dress of all 
 the members. But it is rank disorder to 
 insist that everything shall always stay in 
 this appointed place ; for, many times some 
 temporary resting place for it saves time and 
 thought and higher life. It is a part of 
 growth in every person's character to make 
 the balance true between a real and artificial 
 order ; to cast away the kind which hinders, 
 and cherish that which makes for higher 
 living. The leaves upon the ground, the 
 birds upon the window sill, and children's 
 small belongings about the house, at times 
 
 when
 
 The J^other -Artist 
 
 when they are fitting, out of their usual 
 places, are all a part of care-free nature's 
 beauty. 
 
 This mode alone of taking those things 
 which have been a trouble would make them 
 blessings, even without considering how much 
 they are modified by your richest gifts of all. 
 Other artists work with dead materials, which 
 give forth no response except what the artist 
 feels replying to him out of the spirit he has 
 himself put into the work. But your artistic 
 materials are living. Every day, and many 
 times a day, the soft arms around you teli you 
 of their love. The sweet tones caress your 
 ear in every " mamma " that strikes upon 
 them. The confidence of these fresh hearts 
 in your superior wisdom, — it is all a stimulus 
 of life on life. And then, your husband, — 
 you have advice from him in your perplexi- 
 ties, comfort in hard places, and personal love 
 and admiration. Your motherhood itself 
 wakens in him the manhood's tenderness. 
 We read in novels of the lover's deep-souled 
 passion; it is as moonshine unto sunshine 
 
 compared 
 
 [ I I 2
 
 The Mother- Artist 
 
 compared with the husband's love for the 
 wife when she is to become or has become a 
 mother. 
 
 Are all these gifts to be regarded as nothing 
 to a woman, or taken as a matter of course, 
 and not to be cherished and so made a power 
 in your own doing of your part? Do you 
 not know, little woman, wrapped as you are 
 within the warmth which all of husband's care 
 and love can give you, and all that which 
 comes from all your children, protected, 
 sheltered, from the chills that reach those who 
 have no one they may call their own in any 
 special sense, — can you not see that women 
 without marriage never have the strengthen- 
 ing for their weariness that you may have, if 
 you will take it, from these daily gifts of love 
 and trust and appreciation and companion- 
 ship ? Should not these go for something 
 toward counteracting the fatigue, so that at 
 least you should not regard your motherhood 
 as more a weary round than single life ? 
 
 113]
 
 J
 
 The Mother-Artist 
 
 IX. Limited Means 
 
 " Mamma, are we poor? " asked the child, gazing 
 with new-awakened thought upon the modest beauty of 
 the little home 
 
 ''''No, dear,'' the mother answered, " for lue have 
 everything we need "
 
 The Mother-Artist 
 
 IX. Limited Means 
 
 YOU think that if you had larger means 
 you could do more for your children, 
 and with less weariness to yourself. 
 One of your anxieties for them comes from 
 the inability to get all that you think they 
 need which only money can command. You 
 are right to an extent in your main thought 
 that money is necessary to the best growth, 
 but wrong in your estimate of the amount it 
 takes to gain that end. You must have 
 money to supply them with the material 
 things needful to their highest growth. 
 IMaterials are the tools with which we work; 
 and other things the same — the finer tools the 
 finer workmanship. Moreover, the tools 
 need ornamentation ; for a part of this same 
 
 growth
 
 The Mother- Artist 
 
 growth is that in knowing the value of the 
 beautiful. Recreations also should have full 
 place, for they give exercise to powers that 
 are idle when one works. The dance, for in- 
 stance, brings into play some muscles which 
 are not called upon by any kind of toil ; and 
 much more, rouses joyous spirits such as 
 work, nor study, nor even mental fun can 
 waken. What pity there is not more danc- 
 ing, — informal, and in every-day attire, with 
 early hours, — and that it is left so wholly to 
 the children and the young folks ! This 
 sombre corner of our world would be a place 
 more inspiring to the highest human hfe if 
 adults never left off dancing until because 
 they must from weakening of the body, in- 
 stead of because they have lived for twenty 
 and a few odd years. One's thoughtful adult 
 life needs freshening every little while, as 
 much as that of younger people ; and this 
 cannot be gained in fullness except by letting 
 be quiescent, at needed intervals, that portion 
 of the brain which thinks and plans, and giv- 
 ing rein to that other part possible to be ex- 
 hilarated 
 
 [ I I 8
 
 The Mother- Artist 
 
 hilarated only by joyous movements of the 
 body. 
 
 A comfortable amount of money is needed 
 for getting much of the beautiful and the rec- 
 reative ; but you mistake when you suppose 
 that this demands great fortune. The differ- 
 ence in the good things that one can get with 
 a large income more than with moderate 
 means is difference, mostly, in costliness and 
 superabundance. A thing in plain fashion 
 often gives the same return in all that is of 
 value, as the expensive, and oftener than not 
 a healthier one. In a carriage from the stable 
 you have all the comfort, the same scenery, 
 and fun far beyond that Mrs. Lofty can se- 
 cure within her wealth-bound equipage. Your 
 children have not all attended dancing-school^ 
 but those who have, have taught the rest ; and 
 the home dancing, with their little mates called 
 in to join, is one of the enjoyments the most 
 highly prized within your children's circle. 
 The teaching of the younger by the elder 
 was the beginning of all those gay times. 
 They have gained, not lost, by your finding 
 
 it 
 
 I I 
 
 9]
 
 The H other- Artist 
 
 it extravagant, in your circumstances, to afford 
 the lessons for the little ones. Your furni- 
 ture is of refined taste, and not too good to 
 use ; the family clothing is comely, and not 
 too good to wear ; which means that furniture 
 and clothes are suitable for fun and frolic, and 
 can, if injured, be easily replaced without un- 
 due strain upon the family purse. What 
 better could a great fortune give you ? The 
 stiffnesses and restrictions which large wealth 
 Inevitably brings when it is used for things 
 needed in common life which must be " kept 
 nice," and for doing things that society says 
 must be done, hamper the growth of child- 
 hood and cramp the life. This cramping, 
 like that of Chinese women's feet, lasts alwavs 
 to the end of earthly days. You have, ex- 
 cept in those few years of special struggle in 
 Fred's business, had everything that one could 
 need for free and healthful growing of your 
 children. 
 
 But you are right that sufficient means are 
 necessary to the highest life. They are the 
 natural right of every man and woman and 
 
 chUd. 
 
 [120
 
 The N other- Artist 
 
 child. That the economic system is in such 
 condition as to bring poverty to any willing 
 worker in a world full of resources, where 
 every person's healthful needs demand more 
 labor than he can do himself, consequently 
 where labor is by right abundant, shows that 
 the poverty is clearly the measure of man's 
 ignorance in knowing how to work the system. 
 Poverty is a race crime, and will be seen, re- 
 pented of, and put away in time. A person 
 may grow spiritually in spite of it, but not be- 
 cause of it, as an abnormal piety has been so 
 fond of preaching. Just as truly also are 
 poverty's accompaniment, enormous fortunes, 
 a hindrance. The possessor of one of these 
 is either burdened by it with unnatural 
 responsibility for using it wisely, or he is 
 enervated or ruined by yielding to its allur- 
 ments to a merely pleasure-seeking life. You 
 have had neither stunting poverty nor un- 
 healthful wealth, but the normal medium of 
 comfortable circumstances. 
 
 And even less easy circumstances than 
 yours have been in general, did not bring 
 
 loss. 
 
 I 2 I ]
 
 The N other- Artist 
 
 loss. You have not valued at their highest 
 worth those years when business difficulties 
 of your husband made it best for you to do 
 without a servant. You mourned because 
 you could not " do more" for your children ; 
 you could not pay for their tuition in a 
 private school. Why, you were giving them 
 an education in your home such as every 
 good private school now makes an essential 
 of their system, — a training in industrial 
 work ; and yours was real, while that of 
 schools is only practice. Your tiny ones 
 were in the kindergarten of real life. You 
 could not have secured for them anything 
 better at a thousand dollars a year. Have 
 you forgotten how skillful they became in 
 many kinds of handiwork ? Even little 
 Betty, only two years old, would beg a piece 
 of dough when you were molding biscuit, 
 and seated on the rug, would make one 
 looking much like yours. It was, to be 
 sure, some few shades darker, with a non- 
 practical grayness from her grimy little hands; 
 but that was no hindrance to her learning 
 
 the 
 
 [ I 2 2
 
 I'he ?I other- Artist 
 
 the art of molding and of molding biscuit; 
 the griminess dropped off in time with other 
 baby things. Fanny, three years older, 
 accomplished some neat sewing in her small 
 way. Do you not see how wasteful was 
 your unhappiness that you could not afford 
 the kindergarten for them ? And they 
 learned much besides. You have often 
 spoken of their self-helpfulness in those few 
 years, and their love for helping mamma 
 and saving mamma work. You have seen 
 that those years were fruitful to them in 
 conscious happiness of mutual service. How 
 much of weariness you would have saved 
 yourself if you could have lived in the in- 
 creasingly stimulating delight, to them and 
 yourself, of knowing that they were gaining 
 rather than losing in all that you imagined 
 you could not afford to give them. 
 
 In this life with your children, rich with the 
 deepest growth for your intellect and heart, 
 you have been losing joy and growth as well, 
 because you have been dwelling in the dark- 
 ness. On that side of life self-pity abides, 
 
 and 
 
 123]
 
 The ?I other- Artist 
 
 and you have made of her a boon companion. 
 Sometimes she has told you that you were 
 only a servant and a nursery maid ; in your 
 best moods she has convinced you that you 
 were a poor man's wife because you had not 
 millions. In a way, In spite of her mispre- 
 sentments, you have been brave. You would 
 not pain your husband by laying bare to him 
 the depths of your depression, and you have 
 talked cheerily to your children of the beauty 
 of home-making. But underneath you recog- 
 nized always your beautiful martyrdom, and 
 cultivated a not small admiration for yourself 
 in bearing it so uncomplainingly. You have 
 succeeded, too, in arousing in your husband 
 and your children this morbid admiration for 
 yourself. Believe me, you are a loser by it, 
 infinitely. A healthy, joyous, care-free spirit 
 would awaken an unspeakably greater depth 
 of the true tenderness than can this burden- 
 some pity they are taught it is their duty to 
 feel for you. Can pitv from a sense of duty 
 satisfy your longing for love from them as 
 would spontaneous affection and admiration 
 for your healthy-growing character? 
 
 Turn 
 [124
 
 The Hother- Artist 
 
 Turn around and face the light, dear little 
 woman. Remember the fatigue of that fine 
 musician who spends long hours daily at 
 her piano. Her weariness has always in it 
 the air of being worth while. Why should 
 not yours ? The mother acts upon fresh, 
 living nature instead of pounding upon ivory 
 keys; for even her material duties have in 
 them, as the real thing worked upon, the 
 growing soul of her God-given child. The 
 music she calls forth is finer than that of the 
 pianist, by just so much as the God-fashioned 
 handiwork is finer than dead metal strings. 
 So your own fatigue may be finer, purer 
 from what drags down and wears out mind 
 and body, than that of any other artist in 
 the world. 
 
 M]
 
 The Mother-Artist 
 
 X. Qain and More Qain 
 
 JVhy strive so painfully for what you gain of life, 
 When you may have the whole for the mere asking^
 
 The Mother- Artist 
 
 X. Qain and More Qain 
 
 YOUR discontent has not been wholly 
 loss. It is less bad than settling down 
 in satisfaction with your own small 
 interests. No person is made to live for 
 self, no family any more than individuals. 
 As long as you were blinded to the larger 
 life you might be leading, it was better to be 
 discontented with the thought of living for 
 the home alone. If you could not see how 
 to make the family life stretch out to touch 
 all the world beyond, then it were better you 
 should strive to bring the world to it, and 
 even grieve because you could not reach 
 more of it to fetch within your home. For 
 thus you have prevented your children's 
 growth into the false notion that, because 
 
 the 
 
 129]
 
 The Tiother- Artist 
 
 the home is dear, the rest of the world exists 
 for the sole purpose of administering to it^ 
 instead of the true order of its becoming a 
 ministering portion to the rest, reciprocally, 
 for service received. Your very longing for 
 a larger life has kept your children warm in 
 social sympathies and interest in all the vari- 
 ous interests of the great world, of which 
 they could get some childish comprehension. 
 Your discontent has rescued you and them 
 from several of the smaller kinds of narrow- 
 ness. You have been larger than you would 
 have been without it. But there is a still 
 larger life for you and yours than this. We 
 cannot bring the world successfully within 
 our doors ; it always is diminished when we 
 try to. We may, though, grow ourselves 
 so large that we can touch the boundaries 
 of the universe. And this is not done, as 
 you have mistakenly supposed, by spending 
 a very large part of one's time outside the 
 home, but by cherishing at all times, whether 
 within or outside of one's own doors, large 
 thoughts and understanding of what life may 
 
 mean. 
 [130
 
 The Hother-Artist 
 
 mean. You showed this larger thought when 
 you were not content to answer Donald that 
 his father's business was merely the means 
 of money-making for the family. Your in- 
 stinct, immediately, was to point out his 
 father's life to him as worthy the devotion 
 of a man of dignified and noble character 
 such as you knew Fred to be. And this 
 impulse revealed to you the need of an in- 
 dustrial system worthy, inherently, of all the 
 best in its best men. The largeness of your 
 thought saved you from belittling, in this 
 regard, the family life. It made the family life 
 stretch far away from its own personal limits 
 to become a part of the great world's dignity. 
 And so with many other things that you 
 have told your children, you have sought 
 out the whole, of which the case in question 
 was a part. Principally, your narrowness has 
 been in one direction, — in looking on your 
 motherhood as, at its best, something of 
 slavery. In this portion of your life you 
 have cramped yourself and all your dear 
 ones within the limits of a self-pitying per- 
 sonality. 
 
 131]
 
 The Tlother- Artist 
 
 sonality. This may have roused in them a 
 love for you, but there can be a healthier 
 love awakened in them, just as warm and 
 true, without the morbidness. It is not 
 your fault wholly that you have made this 
 mistake. You have simply yielded to the 
 spirit of the times, which, while it preaches 
 breadth of life for woman, too often looks 
 pityingly upon the narrowness of what will 
 always be her crowning glory, and may be 
 a more satisfying delight, constantly, than 
 women as a rule have made it. The large- 
 ness of the outlook of the modern day has 
 not yet come to its full size, large as it is. 
 It still regards the mother as a slave if she 
 has more than three children at the very 
 most. It has much to say about not having 
 more than one can care for well. This 
 would be good common sense if one point 
 were not almost invariably overlooked, 
 which is the inestimable education that the 
 children give each other, the loss of which 
 no adult can any more compensate them for 
 than they can compensate each other for the 
 loss of father and of mother. 
 
 The 
 [132
 
 The Tiother- Artist 
 
 The teaching about the larger life of 
 women will never be as large as possible 
 until it shows that the mother is not the 
 slave, but only the hard-working artist. 
 Here you, little mother, have a noble work 
 which you can do. One woman like your- 
 self may help to free numbers of mothers 
 from the slavery of motherhood, and to in- 
 stall them in their rightful places as honored 
 workers in the greatest of the arts. If you 
 see the true nature of your work you can 
 take your stand, and by that alone you will 
 reclaim many of your sisters from their self- 
 imposed slavery. Claim your own position, 
 and nothing more is needed of you to help 
 to raise others now toiling in the dust to 
 their true dignity as artists of the world. 
 
 "^ZZ^
 
 The Mother-Artist 
 
 XL A Protest and the Answer 
 
 \ 
 
 7he angel still, within your child, pleads for com- 
 panionship; 
 
 For that angelic comrade and yourself 
 
 May master deadening wants, and fashion from your 
 cares 
 
 Rare forms of living beauty
 
 The Mother-Artist 
 
 XL A Protest and the Answer 
 
 THE MOTHER SPEAKS 
 
 I HAVE listened amazed to all this that 
 you have been saying. I never have been 
 such a wonderful mother as you represent 
 me. The experiences which you have re- 
 called are most true, to be sure, but they were 
 mere incidents, not anything more than that. 
 I have always tried to be faithful, and bring 
 up my children as well as I knew how to do. 
 And they are good children ; you have made 
 no mistake about that. But I seem to have 
 had very little to do with their being so. I 
 know that the love they have brought and 
 have wakened in me has been very beautiful. 
 I know, as you say, that all my intellect has 
 been demanded and strengthened in meeting 
 their questions. But oh ! how far short I 
 
 have 
 
 I 3 7]
 
 The Hother- Artist 
 
 have fallen of what I have wanted to do for 
 them ! I never had time to give them really 
 the instruction I longed to give them. No 
 doubt 1 have grown in trying to guide them 
 in growing ; but I could have grown so 
 much more if I could have had the time 
 needed to train them more carefully. I see, 
 too, what you say of the babies as being my 
 teachers. I have said something like this to 
 Fred very often ; but the form which it took 
 in my mind was that in trying to teach them 
 I learned for myself. This is true, but as 
 you say, the greatest gain to me was from the 
 lighting up of my thoughts by their inno- 
 cence, which showed me either the great or 
 the little worth of them. 
 
 No doubt what you say of disorder and 
 care and small income may be so. But, es- 
 pecially regarding the income, a mother must 
 want to provide for her children as others 
 do. No mother is willing to have other 
 women surpass her in what she can give to 
 her children of comfort and pleasure and 
 learning of all kinds. And 1 will confess 
 
 even 
 
 [138
 
 The Ti other- Arti St 
 
 even more — the style of one's living does 
 seem of some moment when the welfare of 
 children depends on it. Any mother desires 
 that her own shall have their surroundings as 
 good as their playmates can have. This is 
 no more than human, and if it is wrong I 
 can't help it. We all of us turn out the 
 devil, I think, from our motives and acts 
 when we find he is in them ; but a little of 
 the world and the flesh we must have as long 
 as we live in the body. We must care that 
 our children shall be dressed becomingly, 
 and that they shall have some of the lux- 
 uries, and that they shall be kept in freedom 
 from arduous drudgery. 
 
 You say I have pitied myself; yes, I have, 
 I acknowledge. I have thought it was hard 
 that I could not have time for self-culture, 
 which would benefit not only myself but the 
 children. All this education which you say 
 I have given them has been incidental and 
 scrappy. I never have seemed to be doing 
 for them what was of very much value. I 
 have tried to teach them good principles, 
 
 and 
 
 139]
 
 The ?lother- Artist 
 
 and to answer their questions with real in- 
 formation, and show them the genuine phil- 
 osophy of life as far as I knew it, and to 
 impress upon them if I could that true phil- 
 osophy is also religion; but I had not the 
 time to make this the real life I was leading, 
 as you have implied that I did. My real 
 life has been in the caring, first of all, for 
 their bodies. And oh! how it tired me, es- 
 pecially with the boys, when such care was 
 all new! It was not so hard with the oth- 
 ers, though always it took every power that 
 I had, both physical and mental. I used to 
 feel sometimes that I could not bear the 
 fatigue any longer. I even have wished I 
 could lie down and die rather than go on 
 with it. But in some way I always got 
 through it; and I cannot in honesty say that 
 my health on the whole has been worse for 
 it. At present I could not make plea as an 
 invalid, for there are not many women as 
 well as I am. 
 
 But in all of the way there has been more 
 of care for the bodies than even for the souls 
 
 of 
 
 [140
 
 The Hother- Artist 
 
 of the children. How could I help it? 
 The endless number of shoes and stockings 
 to be bought and kept whole, the under and 
 outer wear for them all, the constant renew- 
 ing demanded by their constant growing, and 
 all to be done in the most economical fashion 
 — how can even the growth of their souls be 
 more than secondary, when all these must be 
 attended to before anything else ? And con- 
 stantly accidents to some of the clothing, the 
 tearing and spoiling in one way or another, 
 keep the wardrobes in endless unfinish. The 
 mere daily task of getting them off to school 
 in the morning is not a small thing. And 
 this is not always a purely mechanical process, 
 consisting of finding stray caps, gloves and 
 books, and other of their special possessions, 
 and seeing them fitted to the heads and the 
 hands they belong to ; if this were all, it 
 might not be so fatiguing to body and spirit. 
 But though my children, as you have said, 
 are good children, and my husband as noble 
 a man as is living — God bless him — still no 
 one of them yet is an angel, and no more am 
 
 I; 
 
 I 4 I ]
 
 The Nother- Artist 
 
 I ; and when on some morning especially 
 crowded, Donald's stubbornness, Tom's fiery 
 temper, Fanny's vixenish love of teasing her 
 brothers, little Betty's imperiousness, and 
 baby's three-year-old babyishness all turn on 
 each other and form themselves into a whirl- 
 wind, and Fred stalks around the house like 
 some baffled giant (his stalkings would not 
 be quite so disturbing if he was not so big), 
 wishing Mary would let his desk alone when 
 she is cleaning his study, and my own not 
 large patience gives way in the general hub- 
 bub, — why the family atmosphere loses the 
 serenity you have implied that it had, as of 
 heaven, and seems to my senses more like 
 some other place considerably different. 
 
 Then when they are gone the baby must 
 be sent out for her airing, and when she 
 comes in there is more or less care of her 
 constantly. Then the forenoon is gone, and 
 the children come home from their schools, 
 hungry, and perhaps ragged and dirty ; and 
 the afternoon is spent in mending of mittens, 
 or coat, or torn frock; or at the dentist's or 
 
 dancing-school. 
 
 [142
 
 The Tlother- Artist 
 
 dancing-school. Without any warning, too, 
 come the sicknesses, little and big, the un- 
 restful nights and tired-out days with whoop- 
 ing-cough, chicken-pox, and the measles. 
 How can it be thought that a mother is doing 
 the work for her children which you have 
 ideally pictured, when really her life is one 
 long course in not much more than physical 
 duties ? 
 
 But if I could have got through even with 
 these with a constant sense of love to my 
 children, I should not appear to myself the 
 failure I am. Instead I have oftentimes felt 
 so overburdened, so crowded and pressed and 
 bewildered, that my heart seemed to turn 
 to stone toward them and my husband. God 
 forgive me ! I have felt at such moments 
 as if I never had loved them, nor ever should 
 love them ; all I longed for was just to get 
 off by myself in some corner and rest. You 
 did not know that I had been wicked like 
 this, or you would never have said all the 
 flattering things that you have of me. In 
 spite of it all, my husband and children do 
 
 love 
 
 143]
 
 I'he Mother - Artist 
 
 love me devotedly; but that is because they 
 are themselves so loving and kind, and do not 
 know me as I really am. 
 
 But you see that what you have told of 
 me is wholly ideal. It does not describe a 
 mother like me. A woman might have such 
 a life who had always been rich and had 
 brought up her children without any struggle, 
 but not one with a moderate income like 
 ours. 
 
 THE ANSWER 
 
 My picture is of one side of your life, and 
 yours is of the other. Mine is as true as 
 yours; you have acknowledged it. Your 
 error is in this — you look upon the hard, 
 external part as the important, and think of 
 the real things as incidental. Reverse the 
 two, and you will understand the true delight 
 of the hard-working artist. 
 
 You cannot, do you say? If you should 
 try it, month by month, and year by year, 
 success would come to you in time. 
 Because : — 
 
 Your dark and desperate feelings are not 
 those of motherhood alone. Every soul 
 
 that 
 [ I 44
 
 The Hother- Artist 
 
 that grows to anything more than the mere 
 external man or woman experiences the 
 same. Your husband, when the stress of 
 business strains his every nerve, and failure 
 seems to stare him in the face, has just such 
 cold and loveless feelings as yourself. There 
 is no man whose character is growing but 
 has encountered some form of these desper- 
 ate states, even to a degree which seems to 
 him at times completely hopeless in its enor- 
 mity. All women struggle with the same 
 kind of unhappiness, the rich and poor, the 
 married and the single. The wealthy mother 
 is often brought into the torture of despair 
 when she first realizes the snares with which 
 her wealth surrounds her children; the rich 
 woman, unmarried, is desperate because her 
 life is proving nothing but a failure, when 
 she discovers that with money and abundant 
 leisure she can make no visible impression 
 on the evils of the world, which bring its 
 untold horrors of the present, and threaten to 
 destroy its future welfare. The wage-earner, 
 single, when these states are upon her, feels 
 
 herself 
 
 145]
 
 The Jiother- Artist 
 
 herself a drudge and nothing more, for her 
 whole lifetime; and one cause of these dark 
 moods in single women and childless wives 
 is, whether they know of it or not, that most 
 of them are hungry for the love of little 
 ones they never will be blessed with as their 
 own — for the giving forth their mothering 
 service, which belongs by natural right to 
 every woman to do. Your especial trials are 
 from the abundance of your blessings; those 
 of the childless, from the deprivation of 
 them. Which is the most easily curable, 
 think you? 
 And because : — 
 
 The whirlwinds you describe, if wisely 
 thought about, are not the injury that they 
 seem to be. They furnish you examples 
 of the evil that might be if all of you in- 
 dulged in freedom in such tempers. They 
 are the means by which the children may 
 know something of the evils which make 
 havoc with the world. Some knowledge 
 of these evils is most necessary to every 
 person, for without knowing of their nature 
 
 one 
 
 [146
 
 The '?lother-A,rtist 
 
 one could never work to do his part in 
 overcoming them in the communal life. 
 Neither are your states of coldness harm- 
 ful to your children, as you suppose. They 
 come either from your physical fatigue or 
 are, as has just been said, the effect of spir- 
 itual struggles into higher life. Such striv- 
 ings are the means of final good to all ; the 
 temporary darkness and despair are only 
 shadows, and make no real impression on 
 your loved ones. 
 And because : — 
 
 Your longing for the time to give them 
 more instruction, and for your own better 
 growing, is an error. You are mistaken as 
 to the nature of human growing when you 
 think this. No growth can be so healthy 
 for one's self, and so large, as that gained 
 by the skillful hands when guided by the 
 skillful brain ; and this your work has been. 
 And for the verbal teaching of your children 
 which I have shown you that you did, and 
 you have said my words are true, no basis 
 could be so solid and so sure as this same 
 
 busy 
 147]
 
 The N other- Artist 
 
 busy life you have been leading. Rest- 
 ing on that, your words all have a meaning 
 which words without deeds never can ex- 
 press. What you call " scrappiness " is some- 
 thing the very opposite of what that word 
 implies. It is the leading of your children's 
 minds by God himself, which impels them 
 to ask about one thing at one moment and 
 another at the next. God has not bound 
 life into volumes of history, science, and 
 religion. He makes the mind open and 
 ready for all learning, and your children's 
 questions are from the exercise of their God- 
 fashioned souls. The schools have had too 
 much of the man-made "system of instruc- 
 tion." God save the homes from it! 
 
 Live in the real things as your real life, 
 and in your thoughts and feelings make the 
 buying of the shoes, however much there 
 is, the incidental. If you feel sure that this 
 cannot be done, prove by the trying, faith- 
 fully and long, whether or not this is only a 
 visionary dream. 
 
 [148
 
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