I stood, the other day, in a sawmill. The powerful circular saw was revolving at a high rate of speed. I saw the workmen roll a huge oak log onto the carriage, and I saw the carriage approach the swiftly rotating saw. I heard the saw give out a sound like a hum of defiance as the log approached, I heard the shriek of determination as it went eating its way through thirty inches of solid wood, I heard the yell of triumph when it passed out at the other end of the log.

Then I

reflected on the amount of force required to drive the saw through the log, and I asked myself, whence came this force? My first thought was, from the engine. But when I

went below to the engine room I was reminded that the engine alone could never have done the work; but intimately associated with it was the ponderous fly-wheel, many feet in diameter, light at the hub and heavy at the rim, which stored up the waste energy of the engine, and which in the time of need could carry on the work.

Again. A street car is passing along the street. A little child is playing near the track. When the car gets nearly to him the child starts across the track ahead of it. The motorman sees the danger, and quick as thought throws off the current and sets the brake; the car stops instantly. The passengers are

piled in a heap in the front end of the car, but, joy to tell, the child is saved! Yonder are two loaded passenger trains approaching each other on the same track. As they round the curve both engineers see their danger, both reverse their engines and apply the air-brakes, but, too late! the trains like infuriated beasts rush on; a crash, a shriek, a groan, and both trains are wrecked and a dozen souls are hurried into eternity. Now, I ask why in the name of science didn't the trains stop when the motive force was removed, and the brakes applied? The street car obeyed the will of the motorman instantaneously, why didn't the steam cars? And science gives us the answer-the steam cars, being heavier, were stored with more momentum, and this could not be overcome in an instant.

Such is the force of momentum in the physical world, stored-up energy. How does it apply in the teacher's profession? I see a company of earnest men and women, teachers, assembled in convention enthusiastically debating various problems that they have met with in actual experience. What does it mean? Exchanging ideas? Yes, and more. They are storing up a surplus of moral energy which will stand them well in hand when they return to the arduous duties of the school-room.

But if momentum is needed by the teacher, how much more is it an absolute requirement on the part of

the student? The Committee of Ten said some very wise things, and made many very valuable suggestions; but the recommendation that struck me with most force, as being the best single suggestion in the whole report, is one that has seemingly escaped the eye of the critics entirely; at least I have not, in my limited reading, run across any comments thereon. I refer to that part of the report of the conference on History, which recommends a year of intensive study. What would a year of this kind of work mean? It would mean a mastery of some epoch of history. It would mean a close scrutiny of all the details leading up to it. It would mean a study of the correlated history of other countries, of all countries. It would mean a tracing of cause and effect in history. It would mean the collateral reading of cotemporaneous and descriptive literature. It would mean the acquiring of such momentum on the part of students that history would thereafter be an entirely different subject. Perhaps the teacher will urge, "I have not time to teach history thus in detail as I should like, I must give outlines and trust to the pupil's future life to fill in the rest." I very much doubt the genuineness of this plea. I am inclined to think if children are to study history but one year that time would be better spent on one epoch, say from 1783 to 1800, or from 1776 to 1783, or from 1861 to 1865, or

from 1865 to 1879, than in going over mere outlines, though the entire field of the world is covered. But if we grant that the whole year can not be devoted to one epoch, still much force might be concentrated on one event. For instance, the careful study of the biography of Henry Clay, or of Daniel Webster would be equal to the study of half a century of history. If pupils would study one campaign, or even one battle a month, or two or three months, until they knew what a battle is, they would be better equipped for future reading than they would be if they could name every officer above colonel on both sides during the Rebellion, without this intensive study.

A gentleman of my acquaintance is remarkably well versed in the history of the Rebellion. He can describe any battle of importance, the position of the different commands, almost as well as if he had planned the campaign on either side. himself. I asked him how he became possessed of so much information. He replied, in substance, though this was some years before the Committee of Ten was heard of, by intensive study. He said that by accident he got possession of a very good three-volume history of the Battle of Gettysburg. He studied this carefully, and became so familiar with the plan that when he first visited the scene he could go all over the ground and locate every point of interest without a guide or

guide book. This gave him an idea and a taste for studying the details of history, and he had only to indulge his desires in this direction to become thoroughly conversant with the whole history of the war.

This, then, is what I understand the Conference on History to mean when they recommend a year of intensive study of history, and I desire to reiterate that to my mind this is one of the most valuable suggestions in the whole report.

If this suggestion is valuable in History, it may have a still further application of great moment. Is it not possible that we are dissipating energy by scattering our forces? The average college student, a man with a man's faculties and powers of endurance, pursues three or at most four studies at a time; the high school pupil has four to six; the grammar grade pupil has not less than eight; while primary children must take from eleven to fourteen studies if they would move on abreast with the times; and I suspect that by the time we get free kindergartens our four-year-old children will begin work in every department of a university course. Lest my statement with regard to number of studies in primary schools should be challenged, I will enumerate the branches they are expected to pursue Spelling, reading, writing, arithmetic (we call it number work), music, geography, physiology, language, nature studies, memory gems, sewing, physical culture, drawing.