I have no fears for the women of America. They will never content themselves remaining stationary in methods or in policy, much less sound a retreat in their splendid warfare against the saloon in law and in politics. The tides of the mother’s heart do not change; we can count upon them always. The voice of Miriam still cheers the brave advance, and all along the line we hear the battle cry: “Speak unto the children of Israel, that they go forward.” THE CATLIN PAINTINGS. BY O. T. MASON. If you will enter the National Museum at Washington, and give your cane or umbrella to the venerable gentleman at the stand, you will see some wonderful old pictures. Turn abruptly to your right, cast a patriotic glance at the clothing and camp furniture of the Father of his Country, and a few steps will bring you into the museum lecture room, whose east, south, and west walls are covered with quaint sketches of American aboriginal life, mounted in the dingiest possible black frames. This is the Catlin Collection, by far the most celebrated Indian paintings in the world, since the dreadful fire in the Smithsonian Institution burned up the Stanley portraits in 1864. A few words about this wonderful painter would certainly interest you before you begin to look at his pictures. George Catlin was born in Wilkesbarre, Luzerne county, Pennsylvania, in 1796. His father was a lawyer, and, naturally, took every pains to educate his son for that profession, sending him at last to Yale College to finish his course. But that which has often happened to boys was true in George’s case—he loved fishing and painting more than he loved the bar. His law practice lasted two years, after which he established himself in New York and Philadelphia as a portrait painter. In the year 1832 he saw a delegation of Indians from St. Louis, a town of 25,000 inhabitants, then headquarters for the Central Superintendency (see painting 311), and was so overwhelmed by their appearance that nothing could overcome his desire to visit them in their homes. Convinced that the noble savage would rapidly decline before the advance of civilization, and realizing as if by inspiration the value which a pictorial history of the dying race would possess to future students of primitive history, he set out alone for St. Louis, with pen and brush, to accomplish this noble design. Here he became acquainted with Mr. Chouteau, a gentleman thoroughly conversant with the Indian country and character, who secured for the painter a free ride to the mouth of the Yellowstone in a little, rude steamer called the “Yellowstone.”