The last query is the easiest answered. Picketing is a survival of the childish instinct in the human heart. It represents the play-spirit about which modern educators talk so glibly, and which we are bidden to cherish and preserve. A society of “American Women Pickets” (delightful phrase!) is out to enjoy itself, and its pleasures are as simple as they are satisfying. To parade the streets, to proffer impertinent instructions, to be stared at by passers-by, and to elude the law which seeks to abate public nuisances--what better sport could be asked either for little boys and girls, or for Peter Pans valiantly refusing to mature? Mr. Harding was pursued in his day by picketing children, and Mr. Coolidge has probably the same pleasure awaiting him. Even the tomb at Mount Vernon has been surrounded by malcontents, bearing banners with the inscription, “Washington, Thou Art Truly Dead!” To which the mighty shade, who in his day had heard too often the sound and fury of importunate counsels, and who, because he would not hearken, had been abused, like “a Nero, a defaulter and a pickpocket,” might well have answered from the safety and dignity of the tomb, “Deo gratias!” When a private citizen calls at the White House, to “frankly advise” a modification of the peace treaty; when a private citizen writes to the American Bar Association, to “frankly advise” this distinguished body of men to forbear from any discussion of public affairs at their annual meeting; when a private citizeness writes to the Secretary of War to “frankly advise” that he should treat the slacker of to-day as he would treat the hero of to-morrow, we begin to realize how far the individual American is prepared to dry-nurse the Nation. Every land has its torch-bearers, but nowhere else do they all profess to carry the sacred fire. It is difficult to admonish Frenchmen. Their habit of mind is unfavourable to preachment. We can hardly conceive a delegation of little French girls sent to tell M. Millerand what their mothers think of him. Even England shows herself at times impatient of her monitors. “Mr. Norman Angell is very cross,” observed a British reviewer dryly. “Europe is behaving in her old mad way without having previously consulted him.”