A traveller and a native met upon the streets of Tokio, Japan. In the course of their conversation upon this wonderful land of the “Rising Sun,” the native exclaimed: “But have you seen It?” “It,” repeated the traveller, “what do you mean by It?” “Ah: you would not ask had you seen It.” They met again a few weeks later, after the American had beheld the glories of the wonderful, indescribable “It” of Japan,—the Holy Mountain, the marvelous Fujiyama, which rises thousands of feet above the level plain, snow-capped, reflecting the rays of the sun in a thousand varied shades, alone, majestic, incomparable, in its grandeur and beauty. Little wonder that the admiring natives call it the “It” of Japan. It might as truly, among its kind, be called the It of the world. There were few words exchanged, but the native was satisfied. The It was understood and appreciated by the traveller. Months after the Japanese visited America, and from the Pacific to the Atlantic was eagerly searching for anything that would compare in natural beauty, with this marvelous Holy Mountain of his own land. The Yosemite, the majestic Rockies, the National Park, Niagara, all were visited, but nowhere could he find the one thing worthy the name. As he became known, the homes of America were thrown open to him. At last he awoke one day and exclaimed in his delight, “I have found it, the It of America, and it is greater than that of my beloved land. The It of America is her homes.” To this beautiful figure I would add but one word. The It of the home is the mother. Shall I prove it from the lips of a child? Willie, aged five, bounded into the house one day, exclaiming as he hung his hat in the hall, “This is my home.” A lady visitor said, “The house next door is just like this, Willie, suppose you go over there and hang your hat in the hall, that would be your home as much as this, wouldn’t it?” “No ma’am,” said the little fellow. “Why not?” asked the lady. “’Cause my mother does not live there,” was the triumphant reply. Truly the mother is the home, and as well, although unconscious of it, she is the barometer of the home. “Mamma, what makes it look so dark, is it going to storm?” said my little one. “Why, darling, it isn’t dark,” I answered; “the sun shines beautifully.” He ran to the window and came back exclaiming, “Why so it does, mamma, but it seems so dark here. May I go out in the sunshine?” And then I was startled with the knowledge that the little one was under the shadow of my face, for gloomy thoughts had held me all the morning, and I had given myself to their companionship. “Yes, my darling,” I said, “you may go out and mamma will go with you.” When we came back laughing and cheery, my baby added unconsciously another rebuke, “How lovely the house is now, mamma, and how it makes you smile.”