Take the daily life of any one of our thousands of little school girls and see how much chance she has to know the science of home-making or even to acquire respect for housework. She is born with the controlling desire to copy. She sees high-heeled shoes on another’s foot; she longs for and saves until she gets shoes like them. Her tight skirt, her big hat, her very walk, are seen first and admired somewhere else, and so the home, whether it is perfect or imperfect, and the school, and the teacher, and what the teacher stands for, make the same vivid pictures in her mind; and some day she is going to grow up and copy as nearly as she can. This little girl wakes in the morning in one of our crowded tenement houses, wakes to the vivid blue walls, to rooms filled with feather beds which have been thrown all over the floor the night before for the family and the possible boarders to occupy. The dusty carpets, stuffed furniture, long lace curtains and draped mantle meet her eye, and in this home of unrest there is always the crying baby, the naturally cross father and the demand (so well known to every little girl) to hurry up and go to the store and buy breakfast. Poor little tenement girl, she does not even know that in well-managed homes breakfast is bought the day before. She may learn to respect the energy in her home, but she will never forget the disorder, the picture of congestion and confusion and of overwrought, tired nerves that has been stamped forever upon her mind. And no right idea of home is given her to correct this wrong impression. Everyone knows the way work is done in our tenement homes; how the beds are so large that it is impossible to move them out in the small rooms and make them properly, and how the bed clothes are pushed across, often with a broom handle kept for the purpose; how often the small income makes it necessary to rent out the beds in the day time to night workers, so they are always occupied and never aired. And every one knows how all these things make a girl lose respect for her home, then for her family and, finally, for herself; and how the street seems a peaceful place in comparison. Ideals of right home-making should in the school correct the home mistakes, but as it is now, not until she reaches the seventh grade does this little tenement girl get her first idea that making a home is a part of education. After she leaves home in the morning she gets only a picture of a schoolroom with forty or fifty desks; of a teacher who in no way is associated in her mind with any house, who, as I heard Mrs. Kelley say not long ago, often brings her lunch in a music roll so that no one will suspect that it is food.