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they may profit by demonstrations and lectures. So much for reaching the adults.

In order to reach the children, teachers must be trained. Several agricultural colleges are conducted in connection with the provincial normal colleges, and will tend to change the country school from the city type. Gradually the teachers trained in these places will change nature study to elementary agriculture. In time, possibly, the school garden and the school farm will be regarded as necessary as any other laboratory.

Canada is beginning to do systematically what we in the United States have been doing spasmodically and fragmentarily. Some day rural art, rural architecture, rural society and social customs will have dignity and distinction. But first we shall have to build as foundation, with educated minds as material, a sound rural economic system.

A DEMOCRATIC ARISTO

CRAT

During the last two weeks of this month the International Council of Women is holding at Toronto its fourth quinquennial meeting. The Council is a federation of a score of National Councils formed in various countries for the promotion of unity and mutual understanding between all associations of women working for the common welfare of the community. It seeks the highest good of the family and the State by furthering the application of the Golden Rule to society, custom, and law." It provides a means of communication among the organized women of different countries; it secures an interchange of information, suggestion, and thought, and encourages mutual sympathy and co-operation among women everywhere who are working for a common end.

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The Council has been fortunate in having for its President for the past five years, and before that from 1893 to 1899, the Countess of Aberdeen. Lady Aberdeen is unassuming and possessed of the sense

of humor to which her Irish blood entitles her. She is a representative of the best that the English anstocracy produces, or perhaps we should say British, for her Irish blood is mixed only with Scotch. During more than a quarter of a century Lady Aberdeen has been in public life because she is the wife of the Earl of Aberdeen, who has been twice Lord Lieutenant of Ireland and for five years was GovernorGeneral of Canada. It is hard to speak of Lady Aberdeen without her husband, or of Lord Aberdeen without his wife, for they have carried out in their lifework the ideal which Lady Aberdeen expressed several years ago at the University of Chicago. She deplored the tendency of men and women to organize on separate lines to accomplish common ends. The home, she said, is the world's safeguard, and men and women can protect it and develop its influence by working, not apart, but together, progress depends on the closeness of their relation to each other, morally and intellectually. this spirit Lord and Lady Aberdeen have administered the great public offices which they have held. Coming into Ireland for the first time at a critical moment in the history of its relation to England, their influence perhaps more than any other has softened the inborn antagonism of the Irishman toward his rulers. The tact and skill of Lord Aberdeen and the graciousness and broad human sympathy of Lady Aberdeen won the hearts of the Irish people. In Canada the same generous qualities met with the same personal and official success. At their home in Scotland, where broad acres and hundreds of tenants have afforded them a more intimate but no less vital opportunity, they have shown that even the feudal system as it survives to-day need not be incompatible with the democratic spirit. By an irony of birth, Lord and Lady Aberdeen belong to what is called England's leisure class; but if there are two harder workers in the United Kingdom, they would be difficult to discover. They work without regard to any eight-hour rule or attempt at limitation of output; but they work for their fellow-men.

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Look forward and not back.

Look out and not mi

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T

HE whole community suffers in the death of such an

upholder and stanch advocate of sweetness and light, the liberal but truly religious spirit, Christian charity and tolerance, the brotherhood of man and the fatherhood of God. William H. Taft

F

OR more than sixty years he had been a great and honored figure in the life of Boston, of Massachusetts, and of the country. He dies with all that should accompany old age: "Honor, love, obedience, troops of friends." Yet he never really grew old. He was ever young in the warmth of his affections, the energy of his mind, the beneficent activity of his life. His distinction as a preacher, his brilliancy as a writer, are well known, but that which will be longest remembered will be his unwearied and unwearying service to his fellow-men. Henry Cabot Lodge

CONSECRATION

BY RUTH MCENERY STUART

Were I a crevice in a crumbling wall,

Mayhap some bird would let me hold her nest; O blessed consciousness of home and rest! I'd feel the throbbing of her tender breast And hear her answer to her fond mate's call. Or, failing this, I'd be the empty space;

'Twere better than a fullness less than best, And reverent longing for a homeless guest Would fill me, till my emptiness were blest: Where welcome waits is ne'er a cheerless place.

To be the darkness when the lamp is out-
To free tired eyes from tyranny of light
Which limits them to trivial things of sight-
To hold the kiss of Love and know no fright—
O blessed darkness, thou art Love's redoubt!

I'd be the dark, earth's confidence to own;

The venerable darkness, first to hear

God's spoken word, and, trembling, disappear; The first His clemency to know-to wear, In equal reign with Light, a star-gemmed crown.

I'd be the silence, rather than the song—

The stillness which abides when it is sung; And, better than the sun, its moons among, I'd be the azure space in which are flung All constellations which to God belong.

I'd be that last abstraction which abides,

Diffused, invisible, through time and spaceWhich thinks the roses-holds the stars in place Which shines in radiance from a mother's face, And, shy as opal flame, illumes the bride's.

I'd be the stir of life within the clod

When it conceives the image of a flower; I'd be the throbbing secret of the bower; Yes, I'd be Love-my nothingness all power: But wait!

How dare one say, "I would be GOD!"

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