There was an old dairyman, I once knew, not far from Melbourne, who kept a dozen or so cows, milked them himself with the help of a boy, tended them himself, and drove his own carts to town. He was a peasant to the backbone—and that’s no bad thing to be, better by far than any half and half—a delightfully genial old son of the soil, while his wife, who had probably never been in bed later than six any morning during her entire life—unless she was ill—and would not have dreamt of expecting the duties of her tiny household to be done by anyone but herself—washing, cooking, sweeping, scrubbing, making, and mending from dawn to dark—was just the same homely sort of old body as her husband. Still the boy who helped the old man with the cows was not theirs, but a mere, ever-changing hireling. Humble and contented as the old couple were, they yet cherished a wider ambition for their son, who had in truth nobly fulfilled their expectations; passing from the State school on to college; training for a doctor; walking the hospitals; passing all his examinations with flying colours; and, finally, with the old man’s help—help that had been made possible only by infinite never-ending toil—bought a country practice, and took his place among the professional classes. A thing like this is very fine. It stirs one’s pulse, and warms one’s heart even to think of the self-denial of those two dear old people, and the gallant success of the boy. But there is another side to the question, a prosaic, matter-of-fact side. If there had been ten sons, instead of one, there would have been no money to spare for extra education; there would have been less care possible, less thought, less food for every individual member of the family, and therefore less chance of development. The ten sons would have become milkmen, dairy-hands, labourers, or artisans—and a good doctor have been lost to the State. But still, which is the most needed? Now when the vast empty spaces of the Continent are crying out for population and subsequent cultivation? The small families, which are the almost inevitable rule among the better sort of people—the weak-minded and undesirable breed as freely here as elsewhere—may be for the good of the individual, but they are certainly not good for the State, where quantity is required more than quality—apart from that of good sound bodies—and where there is already almost too much “cleverness.” The art, the literature, the general quickness of comprehension, the business methods, they are all clever—they are not profound or intellectual; neither are they plodding. They are the outcome indeed, for the most part, of the adored only child, whose every word and action is a miracle. Australia needs larger individual families, producing a deeper subsoil of hard-working people, without too many ideals, while as the mother of a nation it needs to open its arms, to enlarge its sympathies, and to get rid, once for all, of