r governor or for the ringleaders of your city
government, the job isn't worth while. But that's where you differ from
Homeburg. We men vote for President and get a good deal of fun out of
the campaign. It's a favorite masculine amusement, and the women don't
interfere with us. But it's not important. I mean it's not important to
Homeburg. We stand up all summer and tear our suspender buttons off
trying to persuade each other that Homeburg's future depends on who
reviews the inaugural parade at Washington; but it isn't so, and we know
it.

The really burning question in Homeburg is the make-up of the next
school board. That is the election which paralyzes business, splits
families, and sours friendships. And let me just convey to you in a few
brief words, underscored with red ink, the fact that women vote in the
Homeburg school elections. If you want to see real, concentrated
politics with tabasco sauce trimmings, go to Homeburg or some other
small town which is fond of its school system and watch the women
getting out the vote.

Don't waste your time by coming the day before election. Don't even
expect to see any excitement in the morning. We don't smear our school
election troubles all over the almanac. We have the convulsion quickly
and get over it. You could stray into Homeburg on the morning of a
school election and not suspect that anything was going on except,
perhaps, a general funeral. Absolute quiet reigns. People are attending
to business with the usual calm.

You can tell that there is an election on by the little flags stuck out
a hundred feet from the engine-house doors, but that's the only way.
Inside the judges sit waiting for business about as successfully as a
cod fisher on the banks of the Mississippi. Now and then some one strays
in and casts a vote. By noon half a dozen are in the ballot box. The
nation is safe, the schools are progressing satisfactorily, the ticket
is going through without a kick. Even the candidates stop standing
around outside peddling their cards, go home to dinner and forget to
come back.

Pretty placid, eh? You bet it is. You know all about the calm before
the storm and the little cloud the size of the man's hand which comes up
about eight bells and does a general chaos business without any advance
notices. Well, that cloud in our school elections is impersonated by
Mrs. Delia Arbingle, and she usually arrives at the polls about three
P.M. with a new ticket, twenty warlik