the little American girl from censuring her mother whenever it is
necessary. Often, indeed, feeling that a rebuke conveyed in the
presence of others is more truly efficacious than one merely
whispered in the quiet of the nursery, she will call the attention
of perfect strangers to her mother's general untidiness, her want
of intellectual Boston conversation, immoderate love of iced water
and green corn, stinginess in the matter of candy, ignorance of the
usages of the best Baltimore Society, bodily ailments, and the
like. In fact, it may be truly said that no American child is ever
blind to the deficiencies of its parents, no matter how much it may
love them.

Yet, somehow, this educational system has not been so successful as
it deserved. In many cases, no doubt, the material with which the
children had to deal was crude and incapable of real development;
but the fact remains that the American mother is a tedious person.
The American father is better, for he is never seen in London. He
passes his life entirely in Wall Street and communicates with his
family once a month by means of a telegram in cipher. The mother,
however, is always with us, and, lacking the quick imitative
faculty of the younger generation, remains uninteresting and
provincial to the last. In spite of her, however, the American
girl is always welcome. She brightens our dull dinner parties for
us and makes life go pleasantly by for a season. In the race for
coronets she often carries off the prize; but, once she has gained
the victory, she is generous and forgives her English rivals
everything, even their beauty.

Warned by the example of her mother that American women do not grow
old gracefully, she tries not to grow old at all and often