ers,
and it might be well to put in a paragraph;" but I am cheerfully
willing to write a whole book on the subject, provided that a mere
modicum of readers can be assured me. I fairly ache to talk to
fathers, having a really great ideal of them, and whenever a class of
them can be induced to take up a correspondence course I shall be glad
to conduct it.

Joking aside, however, I truly feel that the saddest lack many of our
children have to suffer is the lack of fathers; and the saddest lack
our men have to suffer is the lack of children. So little are most men
awake to this subject that I am perfectly convinced that much of the
prevalent "race suicide" is due to their objections to a large family,
rather than to their wives'. Upon them comes the burden of support.
They get few of the joys which belong to children, and nearly all of
the woes. Seldom do they share the games of their offspring, or their
happy times; and almost always the worst difficulties are thrust upon
them for solution. Not that they often solve them! How can we expect
it?

There is Edgar growing very untruthful and defiant. We have concealed
all the first stages of the disease for fear of bothering poor tired
papa. At last it reaches such a height that we can conceal it no
longer. We fling the desperate boy at the very head of the bewildered
father, and then have turns of bitter disappointment because the
remedies that are applied may be so much cruder, even, than our own.
Here is a boy who gets close to his father only to find the proximity
very uncomfortable; and a father who becomes acquainted with his son
only through the ugly revelations of his worst faults.

Not but that the fathers are somewhat to blame, too. Without urging by
us, they ought, of course to take a spontaneous interest in the lives
for which they are responsible. They ought to, and they often do; but
the interest is sometimes ill-advised, and consequently unwelcome.
There are fathers whose interest is a most inconvenient thing. When
they are at home, they run everything, growl at everything, upset, as
like as not, all that the mother has been trying to do during the day.
I know wives who are distinctly glad to encourage their husbands in
the habit of lunching down-town, so that they can have a little room
for their own peculiar form of activity. And maybe we all have times
of sympathizing with the woman in this familiar story: There was a man
once who never left the house with