can earn the money, she buys a
nice, new, glorified Mother Hubbard; and, if she can't get it, she
throws the old one into the surf and washes it out, puts a new wreath of
fresh flowers in her hair, and starts out to enjoy the morning and the
breezes thereof.

"They are not earnest workers; they haven't the slightest idea that they
were put upon earth to reform the universe,--they're just happy. They
run across great stretches of clear, white sand, washed with resplendent
purple waves, and, when the little brown babies roll in the surf, their
brown mothers run after them, laughing and splashing like a lot of
children. Or, perhaps we see them in gay cavalcades mounted upon
garlanded ponies, adorned by white jasmine wreaths with roses and pinks.
And here in this paradise of laughter and light hearts and gentle music,
there's absolutely nothing to do but to care for the children and old
people and to swim or ride. You couldn't start a 'reform circle' to save
your life; there isn't a jail in the place, nor a tenement quarter, and
there are no outdoor poor. There isn't a woman's club in Honolulu,--not
a club. There was a culture circle once for a few days; a Boston woman
who went there for her health organized it, but it interfered with
afternoon nap-time, so nobody came."

When, hereafter, we talk about worrying women, we must take into
account our Hawaiian sisters, if we will average up the amount of worry
_per capita_, in our nation.

A WEATHER BREEDER.

It is probably quite within bounds to say that one out of three of our
American farming population, women and men, never enjoy a beautiful day
without first reminding you that "It is one of those infernal weather
breeders."

Habitual fretters see more trouble than others. They are never so well
as their neighbors. The weather never suits them. The climate is trying.
The winds are too high or too low; it is too hot or too cold, too damp
or too dry. The roads are either muddy or dusty.

"I met Mr. N. one wet morning," says Dr. John Todd; "and, bound as I was
to make the best of it, I ventured:

"'Good morning. This rain will be fine for your grass crop.'

'Yes, perhaps,' he replied, 'but it is very bad for corn; I don't think
we'll have half a crop.'

"A few days later, I met him again. 'This is a fine sun for corn, Mr.
N.'

"'Yes,' said he, 'but it's awful for rye; rye wants cold weather.'

"One cool morning soon after, I said: 'Thi