dren, to the achievements of your great ancestor, as
reported by the Encyclopedia. "A. Madden--promoter of civilization and
progress, chiefly known by his excellent theory entitled The Number of
Cells in a Human Brain compared to the Working Powers of Man, and that
remarkable essay, headed by this formula: Given--10,000,000 laboring
men, to find the number of loaves of bread in the world." Here,
children, take these works. Progressimus, you may have the theory, while
Civilizationica reads the essay. Then change about. Ponder them well,
and while we walk to the Museum later, tell me their errors. Then I will
show you the preserved ears of the first man found in Boshland by P. T.
Barnum, jr.' Oh, bosh," said Mae suddenly, letting fly her streamers,
"what a dry set of locusts you nineteenth century leaders are. You are
devouring our green land, and some of us butterflies would like to turn
our yellow wings into solid shields against you, if we could. There,
I've made a goose of myself again on the old subject. Edith, there's the
lunch bell. Take me down before I say another word." Exeunt feminines
all.

"Where did the child pick up all that?" queried Albert.

"'All that' is in the air just now," answered Norman. "It is a natural
reaction of a strong physical nature against the utilitarian views of
the day. Miss Mae is a type of--"

"O, nonsense, what prigs you are," interrupted Eric, "Mae is jolly. Do
stop your reasoning about her. If you are bound to be a potato yourself
to help save the masses from starvation, don't grumble because she grew
a flower. Come, let us go to lunch too."

Conversation was not always of this sort. One evening, not long after,
there was a moon, and Edith and Albert were missing. Eric was following
a blue-eyed girl along the deck, and Mae and Norman wandered off by
themselves up to this same hurricane deck again. The moonlight was
wonderful. It touched little groups here and there and fell full on the
face of a woman in the steerage, who sat with her arms crossed on her
knee and her face set eastward. She was singing, and her voice rose
clearly above the puff of the engine and the jabber below. There was a
chorus to the song, in which rough men and tired looking women joined.
The song was about home, and once in a while the girl unclasped her arms
and passed her hands over her eyes. Mae and Norman Mann looked at her
silently. "I suppose we don't know when we make pictures," said Mae.
"Don't we