its original character so that beholders disparagingly exclaim: "Why, it's only a little brown hen! Hardly worth the trouble of hunting."

But among the pheasant and the trout of the ideal hunting-fields the true relation between home and school flits ever along the horizon, a very sea-serpent. Every one has heard of it. Some have pursued it. Some even vow they have seen it. Almost any one is ready to describe it. Expeditions have gone forth in search of it, and have come back empty-handed or with the haziest of kodak films. And the most conservative of insurance companies would consider it a safe "risk."

In every-day and ordinary conditions this relation between home and school is really a question of mother and teacher, with the child as its stamping-ground. Two very busy women, indifferent, hostile, or strangers to each other, are engaged in the formulated and unformulated education of the child. To the mother this child is her own particular Mary or Peter. To the teacher it is the whole generation, of which Peter and Mary are such tiny parts.

The ideal teacher is as wise as Solomon, as impartial as the telephone directory, as untiring as a steam-engine, as tender as a sore throat, as patient as a glacier, as immovable as truth, as alert as a mongoose, and as rare as a hen's tooth. But her most important qualification is the power to combine her point of view with the parental one, and to recognize and provide for the varieties of character, temperament, mentality, and physical well-being of the children intrusted to her care.

The average teacher—nearly as elusive as the ideal—is, to a surprising and ever-increasing extent, learning to do this. It is, in fact, a very large part of the law and the prophets in modern pedagogy. The teacher is expected to know, and she generally does know, what, in hospital parlance, is called the "history" of her pupils, and the newer schools are equipped with apparatus for making thorough physical examinations upon which the pupil's curriculum will largely depend.

As rare perhaps as the dodo-bird is the mother who takes an intelligent and helpful interest in the school life of her offspring. She generally regards the school as a safe house of detention, a sort of day nursery of larger growth. Mrs. O'Rourke will send Tim and Pat and Biddy and Jimmy and Mike and Delia, so that she may have leisure to take care of the twins and the baby, and to do the washing; while Mrs. Fitz-Jones will send Robert Albert Walter Fitz-John Fitz-Jones, so that she may be—to quote Browning, and since he's dead whatever he wrote must be considered proper—"safe in her corset lacing," ere she sallies out to bridge. Occasionally the two powers for good and evil in the child's world meet. A large mother will drag a reluctant boy to school, and loudly bewail herself for that she can do nothing with him. He has been dismissed as unteachable by another teacher.

"He ain't, so to speak, bad, miss. He's just naturally ugly an' stoopid. Look at him now," and she directs the general attention to the writhings of her victim. "Would you think I just washed and combed him an' came around—leavin' my housework, too—to ask you to try him? He don't appreciate nothin' I do for him. Just naturally ugly and stoopid."

It may take a week to undo the effects of this introduction and to gain the little chap's confidence. Then the teacher wheedles him through the physical examination and seeks further speech with the mother.

"Your little boy—" she will begin.

"He's been botherin' you, too, most likely. Him and me will have a settlin' this afternoon——"

"No, not that, please. I hardly know how to tell you. I'm afraid you have—we all have—been misjudging him. But have you ever had his eyes examined?"

"What fur?"

"His sight. He is—I hope you will be strong and brave about it—very nearly blind in his left eye, and the right is affected, too."

It has, on several occasions, been my unhappy duty to make some such announcement, and never has it been received twice in the same way. Some ladies entirely disbelieve, and set it down to the natural officiousness of teachers—"buttin' in where they ain't got no call." Others will fall away into hysterics. Yet others will remark that their own eyes were unsatisfactory in earlier stages: "It's just growin', I guess. I outgrew the trouble before I was twelve." One mother accepted the facts frankly, took the child to an oculist, bought the glasses he prescribed, and applied the drops he recommended, until she inadvertently used the dropper to fill her fountain-pen. Soon the boy lost his glasses, and the incident was closed.

Ears and teeth, tonsils and adenoids, frequently furnish stumbling-blocks to education, but the teacher who reports them to the home authorities does so at the risk of wasting her time, or of being accused of causing or inventing the conditions. Recently the boards of education in the larger cities have been legislating for appropriations to be applied to free glasses, free dentistry, free professional services of all kinds to the children of the public schools. And the gratitude of the parents—whose duties are being attended to—takes fearful and wonderful forms.

Philosophers, in their slow and doddering way, may question the exact part played by heredity in the formation of human character. Not so the mother. She has reduced the problem to a formula. All that is bad, hateful, and spiteful in the child is the direct contribution of his father or his father's house. All that is appealing, lovable, interesting, and most especially all that is "cute," is directly inherited from the female side. The only exception to this rule is the half-orphan. In his case one or two good qualities may be inherited from the deceased parent.

Once I taught a Gwendolin. She was a peculiarly abominable individual, as, poets to the contrary notwithstanding, a child may sometimes be. The class was large, the school was a public one, and the curriculum prescribed from on high. There was no time for private instructions, and Gwendolin lagged far in the rear. She was late by habit; lazy by nature; and tearful by policy and experience. I spent hours which should have been devoted to the common good in setting down Gwendolin's tardiness, listening to her excuses, and drying her tears. Finally I sent for the mother, and a large, blonde, lackadaisical person responded to my call. She came, contrary to regulations, during class hours, and Gwendolin promptly began to howl at sight of her. It is, by the way, noted by most teachers and explained by few parents, that the sight of a face from home will generally produce hysterics.

Well, I allowed Mrs. Marks to undo the effect of her appearance, and with Gwendolin almost buried in the exuberances of the maternal costume and figure, she proceeded to explain that dear Gwendolin was always deliberate. It was her nature. We all, she hoped, were entitled to our natures. Gwendolin's dear father was always late for breakfast, and they never did, by any chance, see the first act of a play. She thought she would step around and explain this to me, knowing that I would make allowances for the sweet child. "For I always tell her," she beamed on me, "that her dear teacher would rather have her late every day in the year than ruin her stomach by eating too quickly." And as to her crying, well, Mrs. Marks opined, it was a very strong commentary on the manners and natures of the other children in the class. Of course Gwendolin cried. Her mother cried. On the