learn the difference between a calf and a pig; to have a whole new set of objects before their eyes and mind. The country is a bit of heaven to such children. They catch a new life from it; they bring back into town a better tone of mind, body and morals.” Such had long been the conviction of a woman whose name is synonymous with every advance that has been made in wise dealing with social problems, and who, as she came and went in the narrow streets and stifling heat of Philadelphia, yearned always more and more, to give the children some hint of what lay almost within their reach, yet inaccessible as the poles. At the meeting of Progressive Friends in 1876, one of the earliest addresses, and one of the most powerful in its effects, made an impassioned appeal for an end of dreaming and theorizing, and a life of action—action which should mean help to every human soul in need of help. There was a flutter of interest and excitement as the speaker ended, but no one made suggestion as to what form such action might take. Great issues were apparently ended. To a gathering made up in great part of veteran Abolitionists, any other struggle seemed weak and puerile, and they looked doubtfully at one another as the words ceased. The wise woman saw her time, and when the afternoon meeting brought them together, rose in her place, and in few words told what her eyes had seen and her heart desired. A buzz of interest and of opposition was heard at once. One and another stated objections; objections made by many since then, but that have proved no obstacle to the progress of the work. Such children would bring in their train, dirt, disease, vermin, foul language and general demoralization for every child in the neighborhood who came in contact with them. “Such things are all possible, and may all be anticipated,” said the wise woman, who had already in her own experience demonstrated that each and all could be overcome, “but I think you will find that there are ways of meeting them.” Still objections were made, and a warm argument was under way, when a Quaker wife whose eyes flashed from the shade of the close bonnet, and whose voice held a ring not unknown even to Quaker gentleness, rose before the debating broad-brims: “I’m going to have two of those children, if I have to tie my own to a tree,” she said, and said no more. More was not needed. The tide had turned, and one and another volunteered to open the doors and at least make an experiment. And now, curiously enough, came a difficulty not even imagined; the difficulty of securing children for the offered and waiting places. Fathers and mothers looked with dark suspicion on the people who requested the loan of the children. “Shure it’s none o’ mine ye’ll be gettin’,” said one of them. “Makin’ out it’s for play ye’s want ’em, an’ settin’ them to work soon as our eyes is off of ’em.”