Charlotte Anna Perkins Gilman

Whatever is we only know As in our minds we find it so; No staring fact is half so clear As one dim, preconceived idea -- No matter how the fact may glow. Vainly may Truth her trumpet blow To stir our minds; like heavy dough They stick to what they think — won’t hear Whatever is. Our ancient myths in solid row Stand up — we simply have to go And choke each fiction old and dear Before the modest facts appear; Then we may grasp, reluctant, slow, Whatever is.

Are you content, you pretty three-years’ wife? Are you content and satisfied to live On what your loving husband loves to give, And give to him your life? Are you content with work, — to toil alone, To clean things dirty and to soil things clean; To be a kitchen-maid, be called a queen, — Queen of a cook-stove throne? Are you content to reign in that small space -- A wooden palace and a yard-fenced land -- With other queens abundant on each hand, Each fastened in her place? Are you content to rear your children so? Untaught yourself, untrained, perplexed, distressed, Are you so sure your way is always best? That you can always know? Have you forgotten how you used to long In days of ardent girlhood, to be great, To help the groaning world, to serve the state, To be so wise — so strong? And are you quite convinced this is the way, The only way a woman’s duty lies -- Knowing all women so have shut their eyes? Seeing the world to-day? Having no dream of life in fuller store? Of growing to be more than that you are? Doing the things you know do better far, Yet doing others - more? Losing no love, but finding as you grew That as you entered upon nobler life You so became a richer, sweeter wife, A wiser mother too? What holds you? Ah, my dear, it is your throne, Your paltry queenship in that narrow place, Your antique labours, your restricted space, Your working all alone! Be not deceived! ‘Tis not your wifely bond That holds you, nor the mother’s royal power, But selfish, slavish service hour by hour -- A life with no beyond!

A Sestina You who are happy in a thousand homes, Or overworked therein, to a dumb peace; Whose souls are wholly centered in the life Of that small group you personally love; Who told you that you need not know or care About the sin and sorrow of the world? Do you believe the sorrow of the world Does not concern you in your little homes? — That you are licensed to avoid the care And toil for human progress, human peace, And the enlargement of our power of love Until it covers every field of life? The one first duty of all human life Is to promote the progress of the world In righteousness, in wisdom, truth and love; And you ignore it, hidden in your homes, Content to keep them in uncertain peace, Content to leave all else without your care. Yet you are mothers! And a mother's care Is the first step toward friendly human life. Life where all nations in untroubled peace Unite to raise the standard of the world And make the happiness we seek in homes Spread everywhere in strong and fruitful love. You are content to keep that mighty love In its first steps forever; the crude care Of animals for mate and young and homes, Instead of pouring it abroad in life, Its mighty current feeding all the world Till every human child can grow in peace. You cannot keep your small domestic peace Your little pool of undeveloped love, While the neglected, starved, unmothered world Struggles and fights for lack of mother's care, And its tempestuous, bitter, broken life Beats in upon you in your selfish homes. We all may have our homes in joy and peace When woman's life, in its rich power of love Is joined with man's to care for all the world.

There was once a little animal, No bigger than a fox, And on five toes he scampered Over Tertiary rocks. They called him Eohippus, And they called him very small, And they thought him of no value -- When they thought of him at all; For the lumpish old Dinoceras And Coryphodon so slow Were the heavy aristocracy In days of long ago. Said the little Eohippus, “I am going to be a horse! And on my middle finger-nails To run my earthly course! I’m going to have a flowing tail! I’m going to have a mane! I’m going to stand fourteen hands high On the psychozoic plain!” The Coryphodon was horrified, The Dinoceras was shocked; And they chased young Eohippus, But he skipped away and mocked. Then they laughed enormous laughter, And they groaned enormous groans. And they bade young Eohippus Go view his father’s bones. Said they, “You always were as small And mean as now we see, And that’s conclusive evidence That you’re always going to be. What! Be a great, tall, handsome beast, With hoofs to gallop on? Why! You’d have to change your nature! Said the Loxolophodon. They considered him disposed of, And retired with gait serene; That was the way they argued In “the early Eocene”. There was once an Anthropoidal Ape, Far smarter than the rest, And everything that they could do He always did the best; So they naturally disliked him And they gave him shoulders cool, And when they had to mention him They said he was a fool. Cried this pretentious Ape one day, “I’m going to be a man! And stand upright, and hunt, and fight, And conquer all I can! I’m going to cut down forest trees, To make my houses higher! I’m going to kill the Mastodon! I’m going to make a fire!” Loud screamed the Anthropoidal Apes With laughter wild and gay; They tried to catch that boastful one, But he always got away. So they yelled at him in chorus, Which he minded not a whit; And they pelted him with cocoanuts, Which didn’t seem to hit. And then they gave him reasons Which they thought of much avail, To prove how his preposterous Attempt was sure to fail. Said the sages, “In the first place, The thing cannot be done! And, second, if it could be, It would not be any fun! And, third, and most conclusive, And admitting no reply, You would have to change your nature! We should like to see you try!” They chuckled then triumphantly, These lean and hairy shapes, For these things passed as arguments With the Anthropoidal Apes. There was once a Neolithic Man, An enterprising wight, Who made his chopping implements Unusually bright. Unusually clever he, Unusually brave, And he drew delightful Mammoths On the borders of his cave. To his Neolithic neighbours, Who were startled and surprised, Said he, “My friends, in course of time, We shall be civilized! We are going to live in cities! We are going to fight in wars! We are going to eat three times a day Without the natural cause! We are going to turn life upside down About a thing called gold! We are going to want the earth, and take As much as we can hold! We are going to wear great piles of stuff Outside our proper skins! We are going to have Diseases! And Accomplishments!! And Sins!!!” Then they all rose up in fury Against their boastful friend, For prehistoric patience Cometh quickly to an end. Said one, “This is chimerical! Utopian! Absurd!” Said another, “What a stupid life! Too dull, upon my word!” Cried all, Before such things can come, You idiotic child, You must alter Human Nature! ” And they all sat back and smiled. Thought they, “An answer to that last It will be hard to find!” It was a clinching argument To the Neolithic Mind!

The people people work with best Are often very queer The people people own by birth Quite shock your first idea; The people people choose for friends Your common sense appall, But the people people marry Are the queerest folks of all.

1. One girl of many. Hungry from her birth Half-fed. Half-clothed. Untaught of woman’s worth. In joyless girlhood working for her bread. At each small sorrow wishing she were dead, Yet gay at little pleasures. Sunlight seems Most bright & warm where it most seldom gleams. 2. One girl of many. Tawdry dress and old; And not enough beneath to bar the cold. The little that she had misspent because She had no knowledge of our nature’s laws. Thinking in ignorance that it was best To wear a stylish look, and -- bear the rest. 3. One girl of many. With a human heart. A woman’s too; with nerves that feel the smart Of each new pain as keenly as your own. The old ones, through long use, have softer grown. And yet in spite of use she holds the thought Of might-be joys more than, perhaps, she ought. 4. One girl of many. But the fault is here; Though she to all the others was so near; One difference there was, which made a change. No wrong thing, surely. Consequence most strange! Alike in birth. Alike in life’s rough way. She, through no evil, was more fair than they. 5. So came the offer, “Leave this story cold Where you may drudge and starve till you are old. Come! I will give you rest. And food. And fire. And fair apparel to your heart’s desire; Shelter. Protection. Kindness. Peace & Love. Has your life anything you hold above?” 6. And she had not . In all her daily sight There shone no vestige of the color White . She had seen nothing in her narrow life To make her venerate the title “Wife.” She knew no reason why the thing was wrong; And instinct grows debased in ages long. 7. All things that she had ever yet desired All dreams that her starved girlhood’s heart had fired All that life held of yet unknown delight Shone, to her ignorance, in colors bright. Shone near at hand and sure. If she had known ! But she was ignorant. She was alone. 8. And so she - sinned. I think we call it sin. And found that every step she took therein Made sinning easier and conscience weak. And there was never one who cared to speak A word to guide and warn her. If there were I fear such help were thrown away on her. 9. Only one girl of many. Of the street. In lowest depths. The story grows unmeet For wellbred ears. Sorrow and sin and shame Over and over till the blackened name Sank out of sight without a hand to save. Sin, shame, and sorrow. Sickness, & the grave. 10. Only one girl of many. Tis a need Of man’s existence to repeat the deed. Social necessity. Men cannot live Without what these disgraceful creatures give. Black shame. Dishonor. Misery & Sin. And men find needed health & life therein.

She raised her head. With hot and glittering eye, ‘I know,’ she said, ‘that I am going to die. Come here, my daughter, while my mind is clear. Let me make plain to you your duty here; My duty once — I never failed to try— But for some reason I am going to die.’ She raised her head, and, while her eyes rolled wild, Poured these instructions on the gasping child: ‘Begin at once — don’t iron sitting down— Wash your potatoes when the fat is brown— Monday, unless it rains — it always pays To get fall sewing done on the right days— A carpet-sweeper and a little broom— Save dishes — wash the summer dining-room With soda — keep the children out of doors— The starch is out — beeswax on all the floors— If girls are treated like your friends they stay— They stay, and treat you like their friends — the way To make home happy is to keep a jar — And save the prettiest pieces for the star In the middle — blue’s too dark — all silk is best— And don’t forget the corners — when they’re dressed Put them on ice — and always wash the chest Three times a day, the windows every week— We need more flour — the bedroom ceilings leak— It’s better than onion — keep the boys at home— Gardening is good — a load, three loads of loam— They bloom in spring — and smile, smile always, dear— Be brave, keep on — I hope I’ve made it clear.’ She died, as all her mothers died before. Her daughter died in turn, and made one more.

(After Kipling) When the traveller in the pasture meets the he-bull in his pride, He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside; But the milch cow, thus accosted, pins the traveller to the rail -- For the female of the species is deadlier than the male. When Nag, the raging stallion, meets a careless man on foot, He will sometimes not destroy him, even if the man don’t shoot; But the mare, if he should meet one, makes the bravest cowboy pale -- For the female of the species is more deadly than the male. When our first colonial settlers met the Hurons and Choctaws, They were burned and scalped and slaughtered by the fury-breathing squaws; ‘Twas the women, not the warriors, who in war-paint took the trail -- For the female of the species is more deadly than the male. Man’s timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say As to women, lest in speaking he should give himself away; But when he meets a woman -- see him tremble and turn pale -- For the female of the species is more deadly than the male Lay your money on the hen-fight! On the dog-fight fought by shes! On the gory Ladies Prize-fight -- there are none so fierce as these! See small girls each other pounding, while their peaceful brothers wail -- For the female of the species is more deadly than the male. So in history they tell us how all China shrieked and ran Before the wholesale slaughter dealt by Mrs. Genghis Khan. And Attila, the Scourge of God, who made all Europe quail, Was a female of the species and more deadly than the male. Red war with all its million dead is due to female rage, The names of women murderers monopolize the page, The pranks of a Napoleon are nothing to the tale Of destruction wrought by females, far more deadly than the male. In the baleful female infant this ferocity we spy, It glares in bloodshot fury from the maiden’s dewy eye, But the really deadly female, when you see her at her best, Has two babies at her petticoat and a suckling at her breast. Yet hold! there is Another! A monster even worse! The Terror of Humanity! Creation’s direst curse! Before whom men in thousands must tremble, shrink and fail -- A sanguinary Grandma -- more deadly than the male!

The American public is patient, The American public is slow, The American public will stand as much As any public I know. We submit to be killed by our railroads, We submit to be fooled by our press, We can stand as much government scandal As any folks going, I guess, We can bear bad air in the subway, We can bear quick death in the street, But we are a little particular About the things we eat. It is not so much that it kills us -- We are used to being killed; But we like to know what fills us When we pay for being filled When we pay the Beef Trust prices, As we must, or go without, It is not that we grudge the money But we grudge the horrid doubt. Is it ham or trichinosis? Can a label command belief? Is it pork we have purchased, or poison? Is it tuberculosis or beef? There is really a choice of diseases, To any one, little or big; And no man really pleases To die of a long dead pig. We take our risks as we’re able, On elevator and train, But to sit in peace at the table And to be seized with sudden pain When we are at home and happy -- Is really against the grain. And besides admitting the poison, Admitting we all must die, Accepting the second-hand sickness From a cholera-smitten stye; Patiently bearing the murder, Amiable, meek, inert, — We do rise up and remonstrate Against the Packingtown dirt. Let there be death in the dinner, Subtle and unforeseen, But O, Mr. Packer, in packing our death, Won’t you please to pack it clean!

Here is the House to hold me — cradle of all the race; Here is my lord and my love, here are my children dear — Here is the House enclosing, the dear-loved dwelling place; Why should I ever weary for aught that I find not here? Here for the hours of the day and the hours of the night; Bound with the bands of Duty, rivetted tight; Duty older than Adam — Duty that saw Acceptance utter and hopeless in the eyes of the serving squaw. Food and the serving of food — that is my daylong care; What and when we shall eat, what and how we shall wear; Soiling and cleaning of things — that is my task in the main — Soil them and clean them and soil them — soil them and clean them again. To work at my trade by the dozen and never a trade to know; To plan like a Chinese puzzle — fitting and changing so; To think of a thousand details, each in a thousand ways; For my own immediate people and a possible love and praise. My mind is trodden in circles, tiresome, narrow and hard, Useful, commonplace, private — simply a small back-yard; And I the Mother of Nations! — Blind their struggle and vain! — I cover the earth with my children — each with a housewife's brain.