BRAIN AND BREECHES. 
The following poem by Mrs. O. F. Sex¬ 
ton, is reprinted from January 31, 1891, 
by request: 
While a child,in the old village church I was taught 
How the wonderful gift of salvation was brought; 
That all who do right were rewarded at last, 
No matter what nation, what age, sex or caste. 
At school, too, I learned that worth was the test 
The prizes were passed to the one that wrought 
best. 
Those bright happy schooldays flew onward, alas! 
While up to the ranks of a teacher I passed ; 
And I found it was brain that decided our grade. 
And supposed that accordingly all would be paid. 
But I found that it was breeches that wielded the 
palm. 
Half wages to woman, full wages to man ; 
So I taught the same schools and performed the 
same task 
For just half the price that the breeches would ask. 
Did I write for the press? It was ever the same— 
Full price paid to breeches, half price paid to 
brain. 
And I asked a kind publisher once in my need— 
For my rosy-lipped chiidren my efforts must feed— 
Why a half price to woman was paid for each page 
And a full price to men, but he flew in a rage— 
“Why breeches need tobacco and whisky,” said he, 
“While brain needs but water or only weak tea.” 
Disgusted, disheartened, on a farm far away 
I inquired of a farmer what wages he’d pay, 
“ I board men every month and pay thirty dollars, 
I pay women accordin’. I want workers, not 
scholars.” 
So I tolled in his kitchen from morning till night. 
Was up every day long before it was light. 
Churning, washing or baking—that great house I 
swept 
From garret to basement while hired men slept. 
Sometimes it was midnight ’ere the mending was 
o’er. 
But the men went to bed just at dark or before. 
On rainy days, too, hired men went to town. 
Or out in the barns on the hay loafed around. 
While I did the mopping, cleaned house. Ironed 
clothes. 
The farmer and hired men sat down to a doze. 
There I worked till the harvest and haying were 
o’er. 
The thra.shing all done I was wanted no more. 
“And now,” said the farmer, “I’ll pay up your bill. 
You lost one whole day when your children were 
ill. 
You went home to see ’em. I’ll not count that 
thoxigh 
For you saved all my lambs that got chilled in the 
snow. 
Nigh three hundred dollars you saved me, by gxim. 
So I make you a present of that day at hum. 
Them sorrel colts, too, that the hired man run 
'rhattlme he was off four days on a bum. 
I was offered eight hundred for them colts last 
spring, 
But he stove ’em up so not a dollar they’d bring. 
But your fussin’ and bathin’ and rubbin’ ’em so 
Has brought them round right and I very well 
know 
They’d bring me nine hundred dollars to-day on 
the track ; 
I’ll reward you for this, you deserve something 
back 
So your trunk to the depot for nothin’ I’ll carry. 
It’s most train time now, we had better not tarry.” 
“But my pay. Farmer Jones, of that I must speak.” 
“Yes,” said he, “you have earned ’bout a dollar a 
week.” 
“Four dollars a month ! Why you promised to pay 
According to men’s wages when you hired me that 
day.” 
“Thirty dollars a mouth I pay all my men. 
Dollar a week’s ’bout accordin’ to what I pay them. 
But of course their lost time I don’t dare to dock 
For fear they would break things or damage my 
flock.” 
The political field I have cared not to enter, 
I knew that was rotten from circle to center. 
But I wonder sometimes if the women of brain. 
Whose lives and whose motives are free from a 
stain. 
Wouldn’t vote just as wise as the breeches who 
come 
Fi’om the slums of the orient, all reeking with rum. 
From the cellars and attics and criminal docks 
They cast in their ballots in droves and in flocks ; 
They respect not our Sabbath, our Bible, our 
schools. 
But our vile politicians all use them as tools. 
Tools for what? To forge fetters for Liberty’s feet. 
Our national bondage they soon will complete. 
Then I thought of the church of the people of God. 
Whose long row of martyrs sleep under the sod. 
Sure that was the spot of all others the best, 
I there should find comfort, protection and rest. 
I united with them while my full heart ran o’er 
With love for my Maker as never before. 
And I rose up in church just to tell of my joy. 
When out spoke the Deacon, my bliss to destroy. 
Said he, “My dear sister, pray have you not heard 
That women in church should speak not a word? 
For don’t you remember the words of dear Paul, 
Who said that the women must keep silence all?” 
And I answered him hotly, “Paul made us endure 
More than Arabs and heathens have done, I am 
To degrade every woman he wrought out this plan. 
For Paul was a bachelor—just half a man. 
And from this harsh statement I cannot refrain, 
Paxxl showed by such teachings more breeches 
than brain.” 
Next I came to the Orange and I found to my joy 
Its precepts and principles without alloy. 
There woman stands forth the true equal of man. 
As it was intended in God’s all-wi.se plan. 
Long flourish the Grange, the one spot on earth 
Where brain and not breeches decides our true 
worth. 
“LACKOFKITCHEN CONVENIENCES.” 
ABE THE WOMEN TO BLAME FOB THE TIGHT 
PUBSE STBINGS ? 
AY MAPLE’S article, page 702, 
under the above heading, brings 
to mind an illustration. One morning 
last July, I called at a farm house just 
after five o’clock. I found everything in 
running order with a full head of steam 
on. Breakfast had been eaten ; the 30 
high-grade Jersey cows milked and 
turned to pasture ; two men were grind¬ 
ing mowing machine knives ; another 
was riding a machine in the meadow 
close by, while the proprietor was busy 
doing the chores of the morning. I saw 
the morning’s milk and that of the night 
before, all set in deep shot-gun cans. I 
said, “Do you not think that you are los¬ 
ing a good deal of butter fat by cream¬ 
ing your milk in that way ? ” 
“ May be, but we are nearing the 300 
pounds of butter notch per cow, so I 
think we get most of it.” 
We went into the kitchen, and I sat 
down because I wanted to talk to the 
care-worn looking woman who was hard 
at work over a hot range on which was 
a boiler of steaming clothes. 1 said, 
“ How often do you churn ? ” 
“ Every day except Sundays.” 
“Who skims the milk and washes those 
cans; the men folks ? ” 
“No; 1 do it and the churning, too, 
unless it happens to be a rainy day, and 
some of the men folks can be spared.” 
“ Well I am going to propose a better 
way, said I. It is this : Buy a 325-pound 
cream separator, and relegate those deep 
cans to the sugar house over there in the 
woods ; they will do better service as sap 
catchers next spring than they do now. 
You will save all the work of washing 
and caring for those buckets, and wall 
have the milk, in an hour, 12 hours fur¬ 
ther along on its journey to the butter 
package, while the work will be no 
harder. ” 
‘ ‘ What do they cost ? ” 
“Such a one as I spoke of wdll cost 
about $125.” 
“ We cannot afford it; besides that, 
who’s going to turn that crank, if we 
get a machine, I’m not strong enough, 
and none of the men w’ould do it.” 
“ I can easily arrange all that for you 
When you get the separator, order a 
small dog tread power, which will cost 
$12. Put that lazy mastiff who has 
nothing to do but patrol the door yard 
into the tread power and make him pay 
for his breakfast. When through sepa¬ 
rating the milk, bring out the churn, 
and belt that on to the power, and allow 
the dog to pay for his dinner. tJet a 
washing machine and hitch the power to 
that, and again to the grindstone and 
fanning mill, if you have one, and inake 
him pay for his supper and lodging. He 
is big enough to run ‘ double headers ’ 
all ’round. You try it, and my word for 
it, when I next see you, you will look 
like a young girl instead of an almost 
worn-out woman.” 
“ But such an arrangement would soon 
wear out the dog and the power, and we 
would have to go back to the old way.” 
“ Well !” said I, rising to go, “ every 
one should know best about his busine.ss; 
but it seems to me that dogs and powers 
are more easily replaced than bright, in¬ 
telligent, hard-working women ; that 
they will be found plentiful when such 
women are all sleeping over there in the 
cemetery. Good morning !” 
She made no answer, merely saying, 
“ Good morning ” in reply. 
Does any one believe that that woman, 
had .she “ put her foot down,” could not 
have had her way about it ? The family 
—for farmers—is well off, and the farm 
one of the best. But she seemed more 
than willing to keep on in her work of 
making ready for the grave, because a 
change would “wear out the dog and the 
tread power.” c. w. jennings. 
IN WASHINGTON STATE. 
OOD fires and plenty of warmth 
make a cheerful wife ; poor fires, 
a very cross one. We depend here, prin¬ 
cipally, on fir and cedar for fires. I can 
imagine that I hear you say, “Well! 
what better does any one want ? Cedar, 
why ! here in the East we .save the 
smallest piece we can find for kindling.” 
At this very moment, my oven is full 
of that detestable cedar, baking and 
roasting that I may have wood dry 
enough to get dinner with. And if I 
want to bake bread, pie or cake, that 
oven is kept going pretty lively all the 
morning to get enough wood ahead for 
the purpose. Even green fir burns fairly 
well, but the ranchers sell it when they 
can for lumber, and it gets burned up 
first if it is used for firewood. 
If there is an Eastern farmer’s wife 
discontented with her lot, when she has 
her lovely oak or hickory w’ood-pile, or 
coal, she would better not try to better 
her lot by coaxing her husband to go 
West. 
It is amusing to read the articles in the 
various farm papers about the husband 
sharing equally with the wife. Why, 
bless your heart ! all that most ranch¬ 
ers here have to depend on, is butter and 
egg money. It must provide food, cloth¬ 
ing, shoes, etc., and beyond a few vege¬ 
tables sold during the summer, the new 
farmer in this State has no income be¬ 
yond what he earns at hard day’s labor 
in some mill, or in cutting shingle bolts, 
clearing land or maybe helping some 
older farmer cut his hay or dig his pota¬ 
toes. To be sure, it is not so everywhere 
here ; there are fine wheat farms, fine 
fruit farms, fine hay farms, but they be¬ 
long to old pioneers, and are the result 
of much time and labor. He needs all 
the smiles, cheering words and bountiful 
dinners a wife can give him to keep up 
his courage, for if there is a way in this 
world to cheer a man, ’tis with a good 
square meal. A wise wife will never 
place rich food before her husband, for 
in the end it produces dysjiepsia ; and I 
say most emphatically deliver me from 
a dyspeptic husband. More of fruit, less 
of pie and cake ; more of vegetables, less 
rich fried meats and rich gravie.s. That’s 
what we want. Stomach trouble is un¬ 
known in our house and we mean to keep 
it .so. .MABEL H. MON8EY. 
THE REAL ENJOYMENTS OF LIFE. 
USIC, fishing and watermelon eating 
are the real enjoyments of life, 
all other pleasures being more or less 
visionary, elusive, undefinable. These 
three contribute, I believe, the greatest 
enjoyment to the greatest number. What 
the world would be without music, is 
past reckoning ; and we need not stop 
to consider the ouestion, for Nature has 
furnished a host of musicians among the 
feathered tribe, whose sweet voices will 
delight us forever, accompanied by the 
sighing winds and the murmuring waves. 
Sidney Lanier wrote: “ To make a home 
out of a household, given the raw mate¬ 
rials—to wit, wife, children, a friend or 
two, and a house—two other things are 
necessary. These are a good fire and 
good music. And inasmuch as we can 
do without the fire for half the year, I 
may say music is the one es.sential. Late 
explorers say they have found some na¬ 
tions that had no God, but 1 have not 
read of any that had no music. Music 
means harmony ; harmony means love ; 
love means—God ! ” Among all the na¬ 
tions of the earth, even among the rud¬ 
est, uncivilized tribes, music will be 
found to form an important part of their 
most sacred ceremonies as well as of their 
most frivolous amusements. I place music 
as the highest, purest, sweetest enjoy¬ 
ment known to man or the angels. 
A Sportsman's Pleasure. 
To mention fishing after music, may 
seem to many, a leap from the sublime 
to the ridiculous ; but fishing is a true, 
honest enjoyment—also for the greatest 
number. From the boy who runs away 
from school, to go fishing with a hickory 
limb, a bit of cord and a bent pin, to 
the statesman or millionaire with his 
private yacht and elaborate outfit, there 
is no difference in their enjoyment, and 
no doubt about its reality—if the fish 
are biting ! 
Oh, gently to east a line far o’er the 
rippling water, to feel the little nibble 
at the bait, to grow suddenly scientific, 
and play the wily bass with yards and 
Highest of all in Leavening Power.—Latest U. S. Gov’t Report 
ABMUUTEEV PUBE 
A HOMEMADE CHEESE ORATER. Flo. 214. 
sure. 
