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WOMAN IN ART Home," "Life on the Ocean Wave," "Give Me a Cot in the Valley I Love," "Strike the Harp Gently," "Schubert's Serenade." Yes, it was by candle light or fire light. Do not forget the power of association. Sing to the children, sing with them, sing the songs they love, of "the snow-bird sitting close by on a tree," sing of the "Naughty Kitten," sing of the "Morn Amid the Mountains," of "Angels Ever Bright and Fair"; teach them the "Merry, Merry Bells," till they grow up to the angel trio "Lift Thine Eyes," "Come Unto Me, All Ye That Labor," till they have the best and will not brook any other.

Tell them stories, exquisite stories of folk lore. True, there are more books, charming books for children than ever before. No stories delighted us children more than those that came in answer to our eager importunings, "Oh, tell us about you when you were a little girl, grandmother."

Such stories are the connecting links between the past and the future. Our forests vanish into lumber, and the smoke of home and forest fires; radiators supplant the big fire place, and piped gas or oil has crowded out the fragrant beech and hickory logs, and the rich moss has ceased to wrap itself on the north of the leafless trees that sway snowy branches as you pass under them. There is to be less and less of rich experiences and yearly happenings. Art is doing much but not enough, not enough of the best. There is need of the human touch, human sympathy, the real must electrify the heart and imagination.

"Little Mothers" are a great institution; while helping mother in caring for the younger children they are being educated. "La Papillon" (The Butterfly), by Alfred Guellon, was one of the attractive paintings in the Paris Salon a few years ago. She was a little mother of France before the dreadful war. She has taken the baby into the pasture to relieve the busy mother indoors. Chickens and geese are wandering yonder, picking for their living—as if they knew that feed was five dollars a sack; a sheaf of grain is the baby's bed and sister is a good knitter, a motherly accomplishment. Could you see the soft pink that sleep has tinted on the baby face, you would not wonder that the hovering butterfly had mistaken its beauty for a flower. Sister has forgotten her knitting, watching to see if La Papillon alights on baby's cheek.

Motherhood is a generic term, like leaves, flowers, or fruit. No one can tell how many kinds, how many colors and tints, there are. So with gleanings from art, like gathered flowers during a ramble by garden, hedgerow, and upland, one gathers for the beauty or helpful power each may have.

"Margaret Donegan" was a new discovery in art, a few years ago. You 255