In This Our World The wood-box hath no sanctity; No glamour gilds the coal; But the Cook-Stove is a sacred thing To which a reverent faith we bring And serve with heart and soul. The Home’s a temple all divine, By the Poker and the Rod! The Holy Stove is the altar fine, The wife the priestess at the shrine —Now who can be the god? The Mother’s Charge. She raised her head. With hot and glittering eye, “I know,” she said, “that I am going to die. Come here, my daughter, while my mind is clear. Let me make plain to you your duty here; My duty once — I never failed to try —But for some reason I am going to die.” She raised her head, and, while her eyes rolled wild, Poured these instructions on the gasping child: “Begin at once — don’t iron sitting down —Wash your potatoes when the fat is brown — Monday, unless it rains — it always pays To get fall sewing done on the right days —A carpet-sweeper and a little broom —Save dishes — wash the summer dining-room with soda 160 — keep the children out of doors —The starch is out — beeswax on all the floors —If girls are treated like your friends they stay — They stay, and treat you like their friends—the way To make home happy is to keep a jar —And save the prettiest pieces for the star In the middle — blue’s too dark — all silk is best — And don’t forget the corners — when they’re dressed Put them on ice — and always wash the chest Three times a day, the windows every week — We need more Flour — the bedroom ceilings leak — It’s better than onion — keep the boys at home — Gardening is good — a load, three loads of loam — They bloom in spring — and smile, smile always, dear —Be brave, keep on — I hope I’ve made it clear.” She died, as all her mothers died before. Her daughter died in turn, and made one more. A Brood Mare It is a significant fact that the phenomenal improvement in horses during recent yearn is accompanied by the growing conviction that good points and a good record are as desirable in the dam as in the sire, if not more so. I had a quarrel yesterday, A violent dispute, With a man who tried to sell to me A strange amorphous brute; 11 161