ble to
stir up the mud in the fountain of life (doubtless, to medicinal ends) but
unable to bring it clear again. An eternal enigma herself, woman is
eternally in love with enigmas. Like a child, she loves any one who will
show her the 'works' of existence, and she is still in that inquisitive
stage when one imagines that the inside of a doll will afford explanation
of its fascinating exterior. It is no use telling her that analysis can
never explain the mystery of synthesis. Like an American humourist, she
still goes on wanting 't'know.'

Even more than man, she exaggerates the value of the articulate, the
organised. She has always been in love with 'accomplishments,' and she
loves natures that are minted into current coin of ready gifts and graces.
She cares more for the names of things than for the things themselves. Of
things without names she is impatient. Talkative as she is said to be, and
in so many modern languages, she knows not yet how to talk with
Silence--unless she be the inspired Simple Woman--for to talk with Silence
is to apprehend the mystic meanings of simplicity. For this reason,
mystics are more often found among men than women--a fact on which the
Pioneer Club is at liberty to congratulate itself. What advanced woman
understands that saying of Paracelsus: 'who tastes a crust of bread tastes
the heavens and all the stars.' Else would she understand also that the
'humblest' ministrations of life, those nearest to nature, are the
profoundest in their significance: that it means as much to bake a loaf as
to write a book, and that to watch over the sleep of a child is a liberal
education--nay, an initiation granted only to mothers and those meek to
whom mysteries are revealed. It has always been to the simple woman that
the angel has appeared--to Mary of Bethany, to Joan of Arc. Is it impious
to infer that the Angel Gabriel himself dreads a blue-stocking? What
chance indeed would he have with our modern viragoes of the brain, the
mighty daughters of the pen?

THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

Other people's poetry--I don't mean their published verse, but their
absurdly romantic view of unromantic objects--is terribly hard to
translate. It seldom escapes being turned into prose. It must have
happened to you now and again to have had the photograph of your friend's
beloved produced for your inspection and opinion. It is a terrible moment.
If she does happen to be a really pretty girl--heavens! what a rel