“How’s your mother, Carrie?” asked a friend of a twelve-year-old city girl whose mother was a well-known worker in various organizations for social betterment. “I haven’t seen mother for ten days,” replied Carrie. “She isn’t up when I go to school, and she doesn’t come home till after I’m in bed at night; but I guess she’s all right.” Evidently there is something wrong in that household. Miss McCracken, in her recent article on “The Woman on the Farm,” puts her finger on the evil. She points out an important advantage which the country child has over the city child. Schools may not be so long or so good in the country, and opportunities for books and music and pictures may be few and far between. But mothers in the country are mothers indeed. “You see,” says the little girl from the farm, “I’ve seen my mother almost the whole time ever since I was born. I almost always could do everything that she did, and go everywhere she went. It was so unusual when I couldn’t that I always heard afterward every word about what happened. Now, my cousin, who lives in the city, doesn’t do that way with her mother. They couldn’t! Her mother goes to too many places and does too many things that, she says, aren’t for children, and it takes her so much time to do them that she wouldn’t have time to tell about them, even if her daughter wanted to hear, which she doesn’t much.” There is the problem sharply stated. Its solution is not so easy; but it is certain that there is no public service which a woman can render so vitally important to the future of the race as just this very “mothering.” Only in the sort of love which penetrates the whole life of the family, and makes it sweet and sound and loyal, can be found the remedy for the social and domestic unrest which is more dangerous to our country than foreign fleets or political dissensions.—Youth’s Companion.