Another year has gone, another year has dawned, and you are in the same old rut of ordering and cooking meals and clearing up after they have been eaten, sweeping, dusting, making and mending clothes, washing, dressing and training children, and the thousand and one nameless tasks that fritter away strength, leaving nothing to show for the waste.
"God help us on the common days, The level stretches white with dust!" prays Margaret Sangster.

You would cry out in the pain of retrospection and anticipation, that all the days of the years of your life are common days--"only that and nothing more." If this be so, you need the Help none ever seek in vain more than those to whom varied and exciting scenes are alloted.
The angel of death who had said upon entering the plague-stricken city that he meant to kill ten thousand people, was accused on the way out of having slain forty thousand.
"I kept my word," he answered.

"I killed but ten thousand.

Fear killed the rest!" If work slays thousands of American women, American worry slays her tens of thousands.

Work may bend the back and stiffen the joints.