The teacher is honored and respected in the home, and the reason why this respect and interest does not oftener find expression in the hearty hand-grasp, is simply that it is "crowded out." Not a sufficient reason, I admit, for we should always make room for the best things; yet for the sake of your indulgent consideration I would fain make you understand how much there is behind it. Mothers are housekeepers, and to catalogue the innumerable and infinitesimal duties required of us would be an endless task. We are in bondage to details, which not merely follow each other in close succession, but are constantly lapping over in a way that paralyzes systematic effort, and robs resolution of its energy. I have sometimes thought that if I could write up the history of a single day it would be a satisfaction; and I was so much entertained by a mother's statistical annual report—the only one I ever saw — that I am tempted to give it to you as a sample summary for the average mother; the only question as to its verity being raised by the query, “How did she ever find time to write it down?" It purports to be an answer to the question of a foolish, innocent man, "How do women kill time?" by a woman who had one husband, two children, two servants, and lived in a house of nine rooms. Here it is: Number of lunches put up. 1,157: meals ordered, 963; desserts made, 172; lamps filled, 328; rooms dusted, 249; times dressed the children. 786; visits received, 897: visits paid. 167; books read, 88; papers read, 553; stories read aloud, 234; games played, 329: church services attended, 125; articles mended, 1.236; articles of clothing made, 120; fancy articles made, 56; hours in gardening. 49; sick days, 44: amusements attended, 10. "Besides the above, I nursed two children through measles, twice cleaned every nook and corner of my house, put up 75 jars of pickles and preserves, made seven trips to the dentist's, dyed Easter eggs, polished silver, and spent seven days in nursing a sick friend, besides the thousand-and-one duties too small to be mentioned. yet taking time to perform." Please notice that she had two servants, whereas the majority of families can afford only one, or none at all. We know that she had no direct relations to the public school, because her children were too young to dress themselves, and was therefore uninitiated in the wear and tear of one of the liveliest hours of the day, from 8 to 9 A. M. A teacher has told me that she is weary of that maternal whine, "You can't appreciate the feelings of a mother." We are glad she cannot; and furthermore, we fear if the pressure and excitement of the "getting-ready-forschool" process could be borne in upon her mind, she would be too forgiving toward the culprit who was thirty seconds late, or without written excuse for yesterday's delinquency. It's all very fine to talk about "taking time by the forelock," but only the mother of a rollicking half-dozen can appreciate the number of things to be done at the last minute - the fresh surprises that greet you in a shower — the joints in the colts' harness which give out all at once. In the school-room, children are supposed to stay in place, and ought to be clean. Out of school, they ought for the most part to be dirty; and this is one of the "oughts" that takes care of itself. Natural affinity for Mother Earth begets that close communion which results in an even smear, but when it comes to communion with soap and water there is no evenness about it, and no amount of persistent drill will insure you against the glaring annoyance of seeing "spots on the son." After the tableau vivant of "You Dirty Boy" has been several times enacted, there follows an equal number of tussles with the hair-brush. "Harper's Young People" furnishes a double cut, giving front and back view of the boy who brushed his own hair. It does not illustrate the argument needed to convince him that his success in pasting down the forelock, makes only more conspicuous the rebellion in the rear. Having at last secured the buttons, sewed up the rips, put on the neckties, distributed the pocket-handkerchiefs, the slate-rags and the kisses, and dispatched them with the warning to hurry lest they be late, the tired mother draws a long breath, and audibly exclaims, "Thank God for the public schools, and the faithful teachers who take these young irrepressibles into line!" Then turning to collect the debris left in their wake, she hastens to the kitchen to take up the discouraging task of training the "dumb Swede" by pantomime and object lessons to quickly assert her independence and become mistress of the situation. Human life has its limitations in every direction, and are we altogether sinners because we trust you to do your work without our supervision? We know you are doing it ten-fold better than we could do it ourselves. We believe you could do it better still if you knew us better, and our children through us, for "character is hand-made," and there is no lumping process in saving souls. It is also in your power to help us know our children; for while our time and energy are absorbed in the demands of the physical and material, there are unexplored regions and undeveloped resources in their natures which we have no time and ingenuity to cultivate. There may be evil tendencies and habits which reveal themselves to the teacher's observation and are overlooked by the parent, and on the other hand a word of confidential explanation from a mother may often give the needed clue to some perplexity which will not yield its secret in the school-room. In stating the hinderances in the way of visiting the school, I draw the inference from my own experience that a parent's visit is often an embarrassing ordeal to the children themselves; and this not of necessity because they are ashamed of their record, but rather that in the precision of the school-room a visitor seems to be an innovation. Sometimes when I have remarked, "I think I will come to school to-day," the child would reply, “Oh, mamma, don't come; you visit the school more than anybody else." One child in my family was, from a baby, so distressingly bashful, that I had a trial in reconciling her to going to school at all, and after she grew to a state of "harmonization with her new environments," it was sure to upset her if I looked in. Her tears were a mystery to the teacher, but I understood they were caused by sheer embarrassment. Under the circumstances it seemed unkind to disturb her equilibrium, but I suppose there was no other way to get her used to it. Usually in the lower grades, however, they are pleased and proud to have me know about their school by a personal visit. As they get farther on and outgrow the sweet unconsciousness of childhood, the pleasant wonderment as to what mother will think of the school, gives way to the embarrassing query as to what the school will think of mother. And now I am conscious that what I have offered has been little more than an apology for remissness of duty on the part of the parents. In fact, I have had a suspicion that the invitation to discuss the relations between parent and teacher, in this presence, was in itself a call to the confessional. As such I render my confession in true sincerity, and with the purpose, that so far as in me lies, I will lay aside every weight, and the sin of omission which so easily besets me, and come into more demonstrative and closer relations to those who are doing such valued service for my children. To bring you advice would hardly be consistent with my penitential mood. Time was when I had opinions of my own. Theories are easily formulated on a narrow experience, but they become marred with use, and weather-beaten in the storms of life, and in the place of our positive convictions we acquire much practical ignorance. This surely does not indicate a softening of the brain, but a softening of the disposition rather, toward those who differ from us. You will allow me, however, in closing, the privilege of re-reading with you Mary Howitt's sweet familiar verses, called — |