hink of his Willie, at her age; and
Uncle Charles says he has no fault to find with her, for she has her
mother's beautiful eyes, and wears her hair "like folks."

* * * * *

A CALL TO MY COUNTRY-WOMEN.

In the newspapers and magazines you shall see many poems--written by
women who meekly term themselves weak, and modestly profess to represent
only the weak among their sex--tunefully discussing the duties which the
weak owe to their country in days like these. The invariable conclusion
is, that, though they cannot fight, because they are not men,--or go
down to nurse the sick and wounded, because they have children to take
care of,--or write effectively, because they do not know how,--or do any
great and heroic thing, because they have not the ability,--they can
pray; and they generally do close with a melodious and beautiful prayer.
Now praying is a good thing. It is, in fact, the very best thing in the
world to do, and there is no danger of our having too much of it; but if
women, weak or strong, consider that praying is all they can or ought to
do for their country, and so settle down contented with that, they make
as great a mistake as if they did not pray at all. True, women cannot
fight, and there is no call for any great number of female nurses;
notwithstanding this, I believe, that, to-day, the issue of this war
depends quite as much upon American women as upon American men,--and
depends, too, not upon the few who write, but upon the many who do not.
The women of the Revolution were not only Mrs. Adams, Mrs. Reed,
and Mrs. Schuyler, but the wives of the farmers and shoemakers and
blacksmiths everywhere. It is not Mrs. Stowe, or Mrs. Howe, or Miss
Stevenson, or Miss Dix, alone, who is to save the country, but the
thousands upon thousands who are at this moment darning stockings,
tending babies, sweeping floors. It is to them I speak. It is they whom
I wish to get hold of; for in their hands lies slumbering the future of
this nation.

The women of to-day have not come up to the level of to-day. They do not
stand abreast with its issues. They do not rise to the height of its
great argument. I do not forget what you have done. I have beheld, O
Dorcases, with admiration and gratitude, the coats and garments, the
lint and bandages, which you have made. Tender hearts, if you could have
finished the war with your needles, it would have been finished long
ago; but stitching does not