THE machinery of life and life itself are continually getting mixed up, both in our theories and also in our practices, and it is frequently difficult to say of a given act whether it is a part of life itself or whether it is just a means of preparation for life. It was this fact, I suppose, that Henry Drummond had in mind when he said that, even at the worst, the struggle for life was really life itself. He applied this, to be sure, to the fierce struggles for food and other necessaries of life in which, during early stages of development, human beings engaged for the purpose of self-preservation. It is just as applicable, however, to our present struggle for life, for the care and the foresight that we must exercise in order to secure the food and the shelter and the fresh air and the sunlight which are necessary simply as preparation for what we consider our life work really involve just the thought and the exercise of reason that make life for us as distinguished from mere existence. Thus the fact that the harder we must struggle for life the greater is that mental activity which is an essential part of life itself is the first source of consolation for the fact that we have to struggle.

But there is another and a greater source of consolation. It was Drummond, I think, who originated the expression, the struggle for the life of others, making it cover all the activities to which we are prompted by love. Of these activities the most important is home-making, and it is the opportunity that home affords for merging the struggle for life into the struggle for the life of others that takes the sting from the work necessary for self-preservation. Thus, in providing a shelter to protect himself from the elements and to keep him in condition for work, man, if he be a home-maker, performs the same service for those he loves; and in providing for herself food that shall fit her to be an efficient working member of society, woman, if she be a home-maker, performs the same service for those who are bound to her by affection. Herein lies the second source of consolation for the fact that the greater part of our time and energy must be given to securing and caring for the machinery of life.

In getting ready to live, and in helping others to get ready to live—in these two ways we spend the greater part of our lives. But there are some activities in life which are simply a part of living. Of these, or of part of them, Browning makes David sing in “Saul”:

To the pleasures which are here suggested, and which are chiefly those of the senses, should be added, if we are to have anything like a complete list, those pleasures which come from going to the theater, from listening to music, and from looking at works of art, providing, of course, we do not take any of them too seriously; those pleasures which come from social intercourse with friends, and which are not dependent upon “improving conversation,” but which spring from the opportunity to be near and to talk with those we love; and those pleasures which come from meditation on life and its meaning, but which do not involve any effort to straighten out its tangles. “Improving” conversation and efforts to achieve artistic appreciation and to make the world better are parts of life, but they are also parts of its struggle, and therefore must be excluded from “the joys of mere living.”

If these pleasures that are ends and in no sense means are a legitimate part of life, they must be taken into consideration not only in adjusting the machinery of our own lives so as to have time for them, but also in adjusting the machinery of home-making so as to secure them for others. I know a woman who has four of the healthiest and happiest children in the country. She is also the fortunate possessor of horses and a carriage. If the day dawns bright and the woods seem to call for her, she has the horses harnessed, bundles the children into the carriage, puts a basket under the seat, and starts off down the street. On the way she picks up a congenial spirit or two, and stopping at the market fills her basket with bread and fruit and cooked meat or other kinds of food that can be bought ready for eating. Then, with no more ado than this, she is off for a whole day of “the joys of mere living” in the woods. This she is able to do because she has simplified the machinery of her home-making by excluding useless decorations from furnishings and clothing. Nor is it to be understood that she has thereby traded off the pleasures of beautiful home surroundings for the joys of frequent glimpses of nature. Her windows command broad views of lake and lawn, in the presence of which elaborate draperies would seem like impertinences, and her children have bright eyes and clear skins and well-developed figures, which plain clothing sets off better than ruffles and flounces.

In passing, we must not fail to note that this woman has done something more than to simplify housekeeping. She has also simplified the machinery of picnics—a great art. We have not, all of us, horses and carriages, but we can get some kind of conveyance—an electric car, if nothing better—and we can pick up on the way to the picnic food which will taste just as good in the open air as that over which we frequently wear ourselves out before starting.

It is interesting to see how things work themselves out in this world. We used to clean house in the spring. Although spring is violet time, and a season of enormous possibilities in the way of real living, yet this custom for many years worked little hardship, because most people lived reasonably near to nature all the time. Later, however, life became so artificial that we really needed occasional excursions into the country. Then, too, the kindergartens began to teach the children to see and to enjoy nature. Then, just in the nick of time, just as we had encountered the need of and the incentive to trips into the country, the necessity for “spring cleaning” was taken away. We began to have hardwood or painted floors, which made it possible to do housecleaning a little at a time all the year around. Thus there is now no great piece of work left to be done in the spring, when we really ought to be in the woods.

Perhaps the most interesting of the recent movements in the direction of simplifying housework is that in favor of sun-dried underwear, towels, bed linen, etc. This stands for another “working together for good.” When life became complex we began to begrudge the time necessary for ironing, and sometimes, if we thought we could use our time more profitably than in ironing, we used our clothes “rough-dried.” But now we no longer speak of “rough-dried” clothes, because that suggests only their negative advantage in saving work; but we say “sun-dried,” because hygienists have told us that articles that contain in their meshes fresh, sunned air are more healthful than those that contain the impure air of kitchen or laundry. They have told us, also, that because air is a poor conductor of heat, and because clothes that have not been pressed contain more air than those that have, we can get more protection from a given weight of underwear that has been sun-dried than from the same weight of that which has been ironed.

But no one is going to make effort to get time for “the joys of mere living” until he sees a prospect of getting them. For a long time we have recognized the possibility of getting these pleasures in large quantities in the summer time, during our vacations, but we have not recognized half the chances that lie about us all the year. Of all seasons the winter seems most unpromising, and yet I have experienced more joy from simply being alive in the winter than at any other time. On the greater part of the west shore of Lake Michigan there is a bluff. This serves to protect the shore from the west winds which prevail in that part of the world, and it also receives and reflects the morning sun. In cold weather the sand is hard and as easy to walk upon as a cement walk. On winter mornings, even when the thermometer is below zero, one can walk along the shore in perfect comfort in clothing that is light enough to make walking pleasurable. It is possible, also, with perfect comfort, to stop and build a fire, make coffee, and eat a lunch. And the lake and the sky present constant but ever changing beauties, and the sun sparkles on the ice that is heaped up near the shore. It is indeed good to be alive on the west shore of Lake Michigan of a bright winter’s morning, and yet, although I have spent hours walking on the shore on Saturday mornings, I have never seen a person besides those who were with me. Where are the mothers? Why don’t they bring their children down there? Don’t they know the fun of tramping up the shore and building fires and having little camp lunches, and of watching the winter landscape? This is but one instance of joys that are within the reach of all, and yet are undiscovered. Doubtless each one of us knows of some others such as these, and wonders why others do not avail themselves of them. If so, let’s tell each other about them.

But we lose joys in life not only by failing to find them and by complicating the machinery of life, but also by making machinery of those things which are really ends in themselves. There is bathing, for example. We take baths so many times a day or week in order to keep clean and healthy. We might, if we arranged things properly, forget about the necessity for health and cleanliness, and jump into the bath just for the sake of “the cool, silver shock of the plunge.” We perfunctorily “change the air” in our homes so many times each day, but it is possible to get so enamored of living out of doors as to find even the stillness of the air in the house unbearable. When one has reached that point an open window is no longer a means to health, but a part of the joy of living, because it brings the sensation of moving air.

What a difference, too, between a walk and a “constitutional”! I shall never forget a woman whom I saw one summer at a resort in one of the most beautiful parts of the Adirondacks. She used to come forth of a morning after breakfast and, with a set, determined look upon her face, walk so many times around the veranda, and then retire to the parlor for the rest of the day. Poor lady! I suppose she never saw that woodsy path that led up the hill behind the house, nor knew the joys of “leaping from rock up to rock” in order to get to the top of the hill, nor dreamed of the beauties of the moss-covered rock at the top, with the red-berried bush hanging over it. She never knew the pleasures of getting lost in the cranberry bog and having to wade the stream to get out. Poor, poor lady!

As for the joys of social intercourse with those we love, we lose them partly by letting them get mixed up with the machinery of education. Study clubs are all very well in their way and in their place, but there is such a thing as having too many of them. It is possible to get more profit as well as more pleasure from reading a masterpiece of literature for half an hour, and then talking with a friend for an hour and a half, than from listening to a rehash of the masterpiece for an hour and then talking with a lot of people we only half like for another hour. It is possible, also, to lose the pleasures of the expression of friendship by sacrificing them to formalities. If we give dinners and receptions simply for the sake of discharging social obligations, we are bound to throw away time which for the sake of the joy of living ought to be given to those we love.

But it is possible, also, to lose the pleasures of friendship by allowing them to interfere with the machinery of daily life, and to come to a time when we have to sacrifice either social intercourse or business. Perhaps there is no means of entertaining which yields so much satisfaction with so little interference with that regularity in the daily program that is necessary for health and work as the afternoon tea. By this I mean, not the large reception which sometimes goes by the name of “tea,” but the little, informal tea drinking. The food that is served at such a time is not a means of life, but simply an addition to the dietary made for the sake of refreshment and pleasure. It is not, therefore, necessary to serve enough to sustain life from one meal to another. Moreover, it is possible to buy ready prepared all the materials—the biscuits, the wafers, and the candies—and to have them always on hand. If busy people have it understood that they drink tea at a certain hour when at home, and that their friends are always welcome to drink with them, they are likely to get visits with real friends which they could never get in any other way.

But there is another occupation which may be an end in life without at the same time being a means. That is meditation on life and its meaning. To stand off from life and to view its follies, its foibles, and its inconsistencies, its pathos, its humor, to see all sides of it—this is one of the joys of mere living. Perhaps the best time for this is during a walk in town, and it is the chance to see life that can change a constitutional upon city pavements from a means to life to a part of life itself. He who is too busy with the machinery of life to get a chance to look upon life itself, as upon a drama, loses half the joy of living.

To stretch the muscles, to breathe deeply, to feel the blood circulate rapidly, to feel the wind blowing in one’s face, to love and to express love, to stand off and see life from afar—these are joys for which it is worth while to simplify the machinery of life.

WE all seek beauty. We want the beauty of form and of color which appeals to the eye, but we want also the greater beauties which, because they belong, not to material, but to immaterial things, make their appeal to the conscience and to the intellect, rather than to the senses. We want the beauties of lives in harmony with their physical and their social environment.

Esthetics is the philosophy of beauty. A narrow conception of its province makes it concern itself exclusively with the beauties of material things. A broader and better conception brings into its province all beauties, including those of life and of character and of harmonious human relations.

Home Economics, like Esthetics, finds a large part of its interest in material things. The objects of its concern, the common articles of every-day use, such as chairs, tables, beds, and bureaus, present the beauty problem in many, if not all, of its phases. Being material, they are capable of beauty of outline and color. Being tools for the expression of the tastes of their owner or user, and for the satisfaction of his desires, they are capable of giving to his life the beauty of harmony with its material surroundings. Being made and sold and oftentimes cared for by others than the user, they are capable of giving beauty by bringing his life into accord and into sympathetic relations with other lives. There are, then, places where Home Economics and Esthetics overlap.

As there is a narrow and also a wide view of Esthetics, so there is a narrow and also a wide view of Home Economics. The former makes it deal exclusively with the details of household management; the latter makes its chief concern the problem of the adjustment, through home life, of the individual to society.

Where Home Economics and Esthetics, considered in their restricted senses, meet, we have a field of inquiry legitimate in itself, but fearfully liable to suffer by losing connection with life and with vital interests. This common ground we call the art of House Decoration. It concerns itself with the form, color, and ornamentation of articles of house furnishing and with the problem of so arranging them as to please the eye.

But House Decoration is not the only common ground between Home Economics and Esthetics. Considered broadly, the two subjects present an overlapping territory coextensive almost with life itself. On this field, which no one has ever named, there present themselves for investigation not only the finer articles of household utility—the furniture, the curtains, and the draperies—but also the meaner and commoner articles—the pots, even, and the pans. Each one of these demands to be studied, not only with reference to its power to give esthetic satisfaction through the sight, but also with reference to its fitness to serve the purpose for which it was created, with reference to its usefulness in the particular life with which it is associated, and with reference to the possibility of there being anything in the circumstances of its manufacture or sale or in the conditions of its care—anything of injustice or oppression—which has the power to destroy the beauty of the life of the user by throwing it out of harmony with that of the maker, or of the seller, or of the caretaker.

The desire to make home beautiful we have always with us. At times it gets planted where it can draw nourishment only from that part of the field of Household Decoration which is not only narrow, but, because it is cut off from connection with life, is shallow also. Planted there where there is no deepness of earth it sprouts with fearful rapidity. Many housekeepers seem to have planted it in such spots about the middle of the last century. The result was a prodigious growth—three sets of curtains in every window, sofa pillows upon which no one was ever allowed, and no one ever wished to lay his head, grill work for archways, plaques, and sometimes even embroidered banners and painted tambourines to hang upon the wall. At intervals, fortunately, new fashions arose and turned their blazing rays full on these marvelous growths, and because they were not rooted in utility they withered away and were sent to the junk shop or were given to the poor. The soil was then ready for another crop.

But better times came. Great thinkers and teachers and artists, including the founders of the Arts and Crafts movement, began to concern themselves with the beauty of the common things of life—with the lesser arts. They taught people to consider in the selection of house furnishings, not only color and form and design, but also the welfare of the maker and the possibilities of his development through his work. They suggested that even the seller, the cleaner, and the caretaker should be considered. Those who listened to their teachings and followed their example learned to plant deep the desire for beauty in material surroundings; and because they knew that they had much to learn and many lives to consider, they adopted a form of house furnishing whose chief characteristic was simplicity. It was a tiny growth which was put forth by those who had caught the spirit of the Arts and Crafts movement, but it was sturdy, and in time it grew large enough to attract the attention even of the thoughtless. They, being ever ready for something new, looked upon the material output of the Arts and Crafts Societies, and, failing entirely to appreciate the spirit lying back of the work, seized upon simplicity as an end in itself.

The result was another prodigious growth of house furnishings, this time very simple ones. Thus simplicity, which in the mind of William Morris stood for sincerity and for beauty of life, became a mockery, being manifested only in the outward form and finish of articles that had been made under conditions that had crushed out life and hope and had damaged character. There probably never was a greater travesty on a righteous movement than much of the stuff now sold as “Arts and Crafts” furniture.

And so simplification has become the motto of the unthinking as well as of the thinking, and is at present the butt of the ridicule of the funny man, and threatens to become as much of a stumbling-block to the mind, if not to the feet, as the passion for decoration was a few years ago. For this reason it seems fitting, in a series of articles which deal with the home problem in relation to the problem of more life for all, to inquire whether simplification can be the means of expanding life by increasing beauty.

The greatest stumbling-block, perhaps, which simplification has laid in our way is the temptation to think of it as an end in itself. This it never is and never can be. The flowers, with their bewildering complexity of structure; the birds, with their brilliant plumage; the cathedrals of the Old World, with their elaborate ornamentation, laugh at the very suggestion. I may take down curtains, because by so doing I can sit in the house and watch the clouds float by, or lie in bed and look at the stars, or get time to make excursions to see the sun set over the lake or the moon rise; but that does not necessarily mean that life would not be richer with both the curtains and the natural beauties. I may, feeling that I am not educated in form and in the principles of ornamentation, buy a table with straight and absolutely plain legs, because I know that such a table fulfills the first law of beauty for articles of utility, that of fitness to purpose, and because I prefer not to trust my judgment further; but that does not mean that a table of some other form and more ornate might not serve its purpose as well and be more pleasing to the eye. I may select one kind of pottery in preference to another infinitely more beautiful in form and finish and decoration, because I know that by buying the first I give some one a chance to express himself and to gain happiness and development through work, while by buying the second I am simply putting money into the pocket of some one who is exploiting for gain the talents of others. In each one of these cases the simplification was not an end in itself, but the result of recognizing and accepting a limitation, arising in one case from lack of time and energy, in another from lack of knowledge, in another from unjust social conditions.

Since real, true, purposeful simplification involves self-sacrifice, no person may force it upon another. Each person must decide for himself, in the light of the conditions of his own life, how much of the beauty which appeals to the eye he ought to sacrifice for the greater beauties of harmony and social justice. One may, however, remind another that simplification may bring with it beauties of form, of color, and of design, as well as those of lives in harmony with their social environment.

Simplification in manner of life, in dress, and in house furnishings may bring the greatest of all material beauties—that of the human form. One of the most melancholy sights in the world is that of a sallow, wizened lady, befrizzled and befurbelowed. When that same woman is set down amid the bric-a-brac which has helped to wear her out, the sight becomes pathetic as well as melancholy. One cannot help wondering what the effect would be if such a woman should wear plain gowns and dispose of the bric-a-brac, and spend the time saved in lying out in the fresh air, and the saved money on eggnogs and cream and cocoa and other easily digested, fattening foods. It is probable that if the modern tuberculosis cure in all of its details respecting rest and fresh air and sunlight and food should be taken for six months by all the women who could take it without sacrificing more than the purchase of a spring suit or a pair of curtains, the world’s supply of beauty in the form of bright eyes and pink cheeks and rounded figures would be increased ten and possibly a hundredfold.

The increase of enjoyment of the beauties of nature which comes with reduction of care has been spoken of so often that in spite of its importance it need not be again mentioned here. The reduction of care is not the only way in which simplification brings natural beauty, however. Plain, uncarved woodwork and furniture reveal the natural beauties of the wood. Unpolished surfaces make it possible to have plants here, there, everywhere, on window sills or tables, wherever they can be most often seen and most easily cared for.

Next, simplification may lead to increase in the beauty of house furnishings themselves. If we go through the house and challenge every article to prove that it is worthy of its care—worthy to be taken down and dusted three hundred and sixty-five times every year or fifty-two times, as the case may be—and dispose of all those which do not pass muster, thus getting down to rock bottom in our possessions, there are likely to be two results. The first will be the revelation of the uglinesses of the rock bottom; the second will be time to learn how to beautify it. And beauty in the rock bottom—in floors and walls and in necessary furniture—is very little trouble to care for, and frequently destroys the craving for superficial decorations. By the use of all sorts of ornaments we have blinded ourselves to the possible structural beauty of a room, a beauty due to proportion, and to the proper placing of openings, and of the necessary fixtures. Most of us need time to study good architectural forms, and some of us can get that time only by relieving ourselves of the care of knickknacks.

Sometimes the removal of one article of questionable beauty will bring to light others that may be the source of esthetic enjoyment. A table crowded in among other pieces of furniture and covered with a cloth may be ugly without any one’s being the wiser. If we uncover it and make it stand out in bold relief its ugliness will come to light. Under these circumstances, however, we may discover that its outlines are really beautiful, but are spoiled by machine-turned trimmings. A little judicious use of a saw or a plane, a little attention to the finish, and we may have a thing of real beauty.

Finally, simplification gives us time to study the conditions under which the articles in use in our home are made, sold, cared for, and cleaned; and the willingness to have few things may make it possible to know that those we have were made under conditions that favored the health and happiness of the maker, and that those who care for them are neither overworked nor under-paid. In the light of this knowledge the barest and plainest of houses appears beautiful, because it becomes the expression of harmony between the life within and the life without.

Simplification, then, though not an end to be sought for itself alone, may be the means of elaborating life by increasing the beauty of the human body, by bringing in the beauties of nature, by inspiring us to, and giving us time for, the study of the principles of true art, and by bringing our lives into sympathetic relations with other lives.

MORE pleasure for the producer of household stuff! And who is he or she? He used to be the village cabinet maker at work in a little shop, with a few friends, making furniture for his neighbor’s use. She used to be the housewife working at home, with her daughters, at spindle or at loom, making tablecloths and napkins, bed furnishings, and carpets for use in her own family. Now the cabinet maker, having deserted his little shop, has moved up to town and become an employee in a great manufacturing establishment; and the housewife, having ceased entirely from producing, is trying to content herself with buying and with using. The producer of household stuff today is neither housewife nor village cabinet maker, but a factory “hand.”

The producer of old had pleasures of which the producer of the present knows not. He had the quiet and safety and healthfulness of a small shop. He had common interest with fellow-workers and apprentices in village politics or in church affairs. Best of all, perhaps, there was a personal quality in his work, because it was done for friends or for acquaintances, and an ever present sense of its importance, because it met needs which he had seen and recognized and which his own manner of life, similar to that of the consumer and on the same social plane, prepared him to understand. He had, for example, possibly known for months that his neighbor was saving money with which to hire him to make the chest of drawers upon which he was working, and there was a zest and a delight in his labor because he knew just how much she needed the piece of furniture, just where it was to stand, and just what purpose it was to serve. The favorable conditions of the work, the pleasant surroundings, the personal quality of labor, the feeling of its direct usefulness, were intensified in case of the housewife who worked in her own house with and for those she loved.

Now conditions are different. The factory hand spends his working day in a great, dingy shop, with the maddening din of machinery in his ears. His associates are strangers, with whom he has little or nothing in common besides his work. He labors for an indefinite, far-away consumer whose manner of life is unknown to him. He has with this consumer neither the fellow-feeling which comes from sharing life in the same community, nor its only substitute, the ability which comes from broad education and from travel to project one’s self in imagination across space and to put one’s self in the place of a stranger and to realize his needs.

The industrial changes which have taken from the producer a large part of his pleasure in work have not, of course, been without their compensating advantages. Of these the chief, perhaps, has come to the housewife, and consists in the opportunity to buy, ready made and at low cost, most of the articles which it used to be necessary for her to make at home. This advantage, with its corollary, increased leisure, comes to her, however, in her capacity as consumer and not in that of producer. When we consider the amount of pleasure which it is possible to derive from one’s own useful, well-directed labor, compared with that which comes from buying and using the results of other people’s work, we know that the permanent substitution of the consumer’s advantage for the producer’s joy in labor cannot be a part of progress. If the world is to move forward, the consumer’s leisure, which is the chief advantage of the present system of production, must be made the means of restoring the maker’s pleasure in his work.

Without attempting to analyze all the changes which resulted in the worker’s present hapless condition, it may be said that the loss of his joy in labor was directly due to loss of sympathy between him and the consumer of his wares. This loss of sympathy was in turn due to a separation which was partly physical and partly spiritual. The physical separation took place when the producer went to live in a factory town or in a city district devoted to manufacturing interests, and when the consumer sought refuge in a suburb or in a city district boasting of its freedom from factories. Ignorance on the part of each of the daily life and needs of the other was the inevitable consequence of this form of separation. The separation in spirit took place when the world divided itself sharply into two groups—brain workers, on the one hand, who joined themselves with the leisure classes to form a consuming public; and manual laborers, on the other, who assumed all the handwork of production. With the difference in the character of work and the loss of common interests and aims which followed this division, there came an estrangement more profound than that which mere distance has power to effect.

If the producer is again to have delight in his work, sympathy between him and the consumer must be restored. This will never take place so long as the latter contents himself with good-natured, patronizing expression of interest. The two must again know the fellow-feeling which can come only from sharing a common life, common associations, and common aspirations.

At present, when the workers are huddling themselves together around the factories, and the buyers and users are withdrawing themselves to country homes, while part of the consuming public is actively hostile to the welfare of the producer, while another part is indifferent, and while still another part, though neither hostile nor indifferent, is handicapped by poverty and the pressure of daily needs, and almost compelled to buy commodities in the cheapest market, without reference to the conditions of their production, it seems idle to talk about restoring sympathy. And yet, in spite of the apparent hopelessness of the present situation, there is an occasional promising sign which points to a better state of things in the future.

Encouragement lies not so much in what has already been accomplished as in certain conditions and circumstances which provide that ever happy and hopeful combination, the will and the way. The will is shown in the growing disposition of the home-maker, who of all consumers exercises greatest control over the producer, to assume responsibility not only for the one who labors in her kitchen or sewing room, but also for the one who works for her in the far-off factory. The way has already appeared in the rough in the form of leisure, and it is interesting to note that certain changes which are taking place in society are smoothing out the path and giving the home-maker a fair chance of accomplishing something when she chooses to devote her leisure to the effort to restore sympathetic relations between the makers and the users of household stuff.

The first condition of sympathy is knowledge. The housekeeper used to get acquainted with the one who made the articles in use in her home naturally and in the course of her ordinary daily occupations. Now she can get acquainted only by an effort independent of her regular work. This effort must usually take the form of reading and study. Here, of course, is where the advantage of her new-found leisure appears, but even the desire to learn and the time in which to learn would avail little if it were not for the fact that the means of securing information are continually improving. The student of social conditions has come out of his library and is living among men as well as among books. He is going down where the industrial war is being waged most fiercely, and is gaining at first hand knowledge concerning the toiling masses. The information thus secured he is giving to the public partly through his college class work. There was a time, even after colleges were opened to girls, when knowledge so given would have been unavailable for the housekeeper. Now no one is ever too old to go to school, and no one feels out of place in school. But the woman who cannot take systematic courses in economics and sociology still has a chance to learn. She can get information by residence in settlements, from books and periodicals, and through summer assemblies and university extension lectures. Thus the will which is manifested in a quickened social conscience is finding the way in improved methods of spreading information.

It is not, however, enough for the consumer to know the producer. The latter also must have opportunity to get acquainted with the world for which he labors. If he is to feel the usefulness of his work he must have a good general education and a broad outlook. These no boy or girl has at the age of ten or even fourteen, and few are able to obtain if taken from school at that early age. The years of childhood must, as Mrs. Kelley says, “be held sacred to the work of education and free from the burden of wage-earning.” A second hopeful sign of the times lies in the fact that women are uniting in the effort to extend and to enforce laws against child labor and in favor of compulsory education, and are striving to improve the public school system and to adapt it to the needs of the children of those whom we call “the working classes.”

But if children are to become intelligent and joyful workers they must have good physical and mental and moral inheritance and good home care. They must have healthy and wise mothers. Among the means of producing such mothers we may not include night work in factories for women and girls, nor long hours of day work, nor even short hours at certain harmful and dangerous occupations. The investigations which are being made in the United States at present into the conditions of women’s work are most significant. To encourage such investigations and the legislation for the protection of future mothers, which will inevitably follow, is as much the duty of the home-maker as to provide a comfortable room for her household helper. Her home profits by the work of women in factories quite as much as it does by that of domestic servants.

But second-hand information concerning the toilers can lead to nothing further than measures for the alleviation of their woes. If real fellow-feeling is to be restored, producer and consumer must get acquainted through actual contact. They must share the same life. This immediately suggests, of course, life for the consumer under the pall of factory smoke. But the conditions under which commodities are made ought not to be so hideous as they are. There is no place too beautiful to be the workshop of a human being. Our ideal for the future must be for every man to have a little plot of ground, and to live and to work where he can say: