On January 1, Marble Company obtained a $55,000, 4-year, 5%…

Questions

On Jаnuаry 1, Mаrble Cоmpany оbtained a $55,000, 4-year, 5% installment nоte from Ameribank. The note requires annual payments consisting of principal and interest of $14,772, beginning on December 31 of the current year. The December 31, Year 1 carrying amount in the amortization table for this installment note will be equal to:

Identify the subject оf the sentence belоw: Oftentimes she feels оverwhelmed by her hectic schedule.

If yоu wаnt tо аdd yоur nаme to the list of volunteers; please go to Room 112.

Which оf the fоllоwing exаmples would require formаl lаnguage to be utilized?

Excerpt frоm “The ‘Industriаl Revоlutiоn’ in the Home: Household Technology аnd Sociаl Change in the 20th Century,” by Ruth Schwartz Cowan The significant change in the structure of the household labor force was the disappearance of paid and unpaid servants (unmarried daughters, maiden aunts, and grandparents fall in the latter category) as household workers—and the imposition of the entire job on the housewife herself. Leaving aside for a moment the question of which was cause and which effect (did the disappearance of the servant create a demand for the new technology, or did the new technology make the servant obsolete?), the phenomenon itself is relatively easy to document. Before World War I, when illustrators in the women's magazines depicted women doing housework, the women were very often servants. When the lady of the house was drawn, she was often the person being served, or she was supervising the serving, or she was adding an elegant finishing touch to the work. Nursemaids diapered babies, seamstresses pinned up hems, waitresses served meals, laundresses did the wash, and cooks did the cooking. By the end of the 1920s the servants had disappeared from those illustrations. All those jobs were being done by housewives—elegantly manicured and coiffed, to be sure, but housewives nonetheless. If we are tempted to suppose that illustrations in advertisements are not a reliable indicator of structural changes of this sort, we can corroborate the changes in other ways. Apparently, the illustrators really did know whereof they drew. Statistically the number of persons throughout the country employed in household service dropped from 1,851,000 in 1910 to 1,411,000 in 1920. Meanwhile, the number of household enumerated in the census rose from 20.3 million to 24.4 million.1 In Indiana the ratio of households to servants increased from 13.5/1 in 1890 to 30.5/1 in 1920. In the country as a whole the number of paid domestic servants per 1,000 population dropped from 98.9 in 1900 to 58.0 in 1920.2 The business-class housewives of Muncie reported that they employed approximately one-half as many woman-hours of domestic service as their mothers had done.3 In case we are tempted to doubt these statistics4 . . . we can turn to articles on the servant problem, the disappearance of unpaid family workers, the design of kitchens, or to architectural drawings for houses. All this evidence reiterates the same point: qualified servants were difficult to find; their wages had risen and their numbers fallen; houses were being designed without maids' rooms; daughters and unmarried aunts were finding jobs downtown; kitchens were being designed for housewives, not servants.5 The first home with a kitchen that was not an entirely separate room was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in 1934. In 1937 Emily Post invented a new character for her etiquette books: Mrs. Three-in One. Mrs. Three-in-One is her own cook, waitress, and hostess.6 There must have been many new Mrs. Three-in-Ones abroad in the land during the 1920s. . . . "All these [ideas] point in the same direction: mechanization of the household meant that time expended on some jobs decreased, but also that new jobs were substituted, and in some cases like laundering, time expenditures for old jobs increased because of higher standards. The advantages of mechanization may be somewhat more dubious than they seem at first glance. 1 Historical Statistics, pp. 16 and 77. 2 For Indiana data, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. For national data, see D. L. Kaplan and M. Clair Casey, Occupational Trends in the United States, 1900-1950, U.S. Bureau of the Census Working Paper no. 5 (Washington, D.C., 1958), table 6. The extreme drop in numbers of servants between 1910 and 1920 also lends credence to the notion that this demographic factor stimulated the industrial revolution in housework. 3 Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. 4 Indeed, statistics about household labor are particularly unreliable, as the labor is often transient, part-time, or simply unreported. 5 On the disappearance of maiden aunts, unmarried daughters, and grandparents, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, pp. 25, 99, and 110; Edward Bok, “Editorial,” American Home 1 (October 1928)L 15; “How to Buy Life Insurance,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (March 1928): 35. The house plans appeared every month in American Home, which began publication in 1928. On kitchen design, see Giedion, pp. 603-21; “Editorial,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 36; advertisements for Hoosier kitchen cabinets, Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 117. Articles on servant problems include “The Vanishing Servant Girl,” Ladies’ Home Journal 35 (May 1918): 48; “Housework, Then and Now,” American Home 8 (June 1932): 128; “The Servant Problem,” Fortune 24 (March 1938): 80-94; and Report of the YWCA Commission on Domestic Service (Los Angeles, 1915). 6 Emily Post, Etiquette: The Blue Book of Social Usage, 5th ed. rev. (New York, 1937), p. 823.

excerpt frоm “A Meаsure оf Restrаint,” by Chet Rаymо On September 13, 1987, two unemployed young men in search of a fast buck entered a partly demolished radiation clinic in Goiânia, Brazil. They removed a derelict cancer therapy machine containing a stainless steel cylinder, about the size of a gallon paint can, which they sold to a junk dealer for twenty-five dollars. Inside the cylinder was a cake of crumbly powder that emitted a mysterious blue light. The dealer took the seemingly magical material home and distributed it to his family and friends. His six-year-old niece rubbed the glowing dust on her body. One might imagine that she danced, eerily glowing in the sultry darkness of the tropic night like an enchanted sprite. The dust was cesium-137, a highly radioactive substance. The lovely light was the result of the decay of the cesium atoms. Another product of the decay was a flux of invisible particles with the power to damage living cells. The girl is dead. Others died or became grievously sick. More than two hundred people were contaminated. A beautiful, refulgent dust, stolen from an instrument of healing, had become the instrument of death. The junk dealer’s niece was not the only child who rubbed the cesium on her body like carnival glitter, and the image of those luminous children will not go away, Their story is a moral fable for our times—a haunting story, touched with dreamlike beauty and ending in death. It evokes another story that took place almost a century ago, another story that illustrates the risks that are sometimes imposed by knowledge. It is a story of Marie and Pierre Curie, the discoverers of radium, as told by their daughter Eve. The story begins at nine o’clock in the evening at the Curies’ house in Paris. Marie is sitting at the bedside of her four-year-old daughter, Irene. lt is a nightly ritual; the child is uncomfortable without her mother’s presence. Marie sits quietly near the girl until the restless young voice gives way to sleep. Then she goes downstairs to her husband Pierre. Husband and wife have just completed an arduous four-year effort to isolate from tons of raw ore the tiny amount of the new element that will win them fame. The work is still on their minds: the laboratory, the workbenches, the flasks and vials. “Suppose we go down there for a moment,” suggests Marie. They walk through the night to the laboratory and let themselves in. “Don’t light the lamps,” says Marie, in darkness. Before their recent success in isolating a significant amount of the new element, Pierre had expressed the wish that radium would have “a beautiful color.” Now it is clear that the reality is better than the wish. Unlike any other element, radium is spontaneously luminous! On the shelves in the dark laboratory precious particles of radium in their tiny glass receivers glow with an eerie blue light. “Look! Look!” says Marie. She sits down in darkness, her face turned toward the glowing vials. Radium. Their radium! Pierre stands at her side. Her body leans forward, her eyes attentive; she adopts the posture that had been hers an hour earlier at the bedside of her child. Eve Curie called it “the evening of the glowworms.” Marie and Pierre Curie and their new element became famous. By the middle of the first decade of this century had begun what can only be called a radium craze. A thousand and one uses were proposed for the material with the mysterious emanations. The curative powers of a radium solution—called “liquid sunshine”—were widely touted. It was soon discovered that radium killed bacteria, and suggested uses included mouthwashes and toothpastes. Health spas with traces of radium in the water became popular. Entertainers created “radium dances,” in which props and costumes coated with fluorescent salts of radium glowed in the dark. It is said that in New York people played “radium roulette,” with a glowing wheel and hall, and refreshed themselves with luminescent cocktails of radium-spiked liquid. The most important commercial application of radium was in the manufacture of self-luminous paint, widely used for the numerals of watches and clocks that could he read in the dark. Hundreds of women were employed applying the luminous compound to the dials. It was a common practice for them to sharpen the tips of their brushes with their lips. Many of these women were later affected by anemia and lesions of the jawbone and mouth; a number of them died. By 1930 the physiological hazards of radioactivity were recognized by the medical profession and the reckless misuse of radium had mostly ceased. But the mysterious emanations—which properly used are an effective treatment for cancer—had taken their toll. Marie Curie discovered the secret of the stars; her tiny glass vials contained the distilled essence of the force that makes the universe glow with light. She died of radiation-induced leukemia, with cataracts on her eyes and her fingertips marked by sores that would not heal. Like many of the gifts of knowledge, radium had proved a mixed blessing. The poet Adrienne Rich1 has described Marie Curie’s death this way: She died a famous woman denying her wounds denying her wounds came from the same source as her power The evening of the glowworms! Eve Curie’s evocative phrase might also be used to describe the dance of the Brazilian children, their bodies luminous with cesium-137. In these two stories we are drawn at last and emphatically into the circle of the Janus-faced2 god. Death and beauty, wounds and power: the piercing horns of the dilemma of science, demanding from the seeker of truth a measure of restraint. Adrienne Rich: American poet, born 1929. Janus: An ancient Roman god imagined to have two faces looking in opposite directions.

1860 - Abrаhаm Lincоln’s Fаrewell Speech tо Springfield, Illinоis "My friends, no one, not in my situation, can appreciate my feeling of sadness at this parting. To this place and the kindness of this people I owe everything. Here I have lived a quarter of a century and have passed from a young to an old man. Here my children have been born and one is buried. I now leave, not knowing when or whether ever I may return, with a task before me greater than that which rested upon Washington. Without the assistance of that Divine Being who ever attended him I can not succeed. With that assistance I can not fail. Trusting in Him who can go with me and remain with you and be everywhere for good, let us confidently hope that all will yet be well. To His care commending you, as I hope in your prayers you will commend me, I bid you an affectionate farewell."

Whаt I Remember Abоut the Weekend President Kennedy Wаs Assаssinated. It was a sunny and beautiful day, Nоvember 22, 1963. The air was chilled with a slight breeze, but there wasn’t a clоud in the sky. For almost everyone on the earth there was no anxiety or fear of an unexpected tragedy. It was a normal Friday and everyone went about their business as usual, but the day was brought to an abrupt standstill. Our class was in math our sixth period class. We were in the middle of the test when a neighboring teacher came in and handed our math teacher a note. A sudden expression of horror filled her face. She followed the other teacher into the hall, leaving us unattended. I began to feel uneasy and quite nervous when the teacher returned. She had a look of utter disbelief and shock on her face. At once the thought of another World War came into my head. I got very fidgety and was distracted from my work on the test. For the next five minutes or so she just sat staring into space. Then she stood up and kind of moped around the classroom watching us. Almost immediately after she stood up the test was discontinued. There was a piercing silence in the room as we passed forward our papers. I think we all knew something was wrong. Then she told us the horrible and tragedy filled event. “The President had been killed.” I was standing almost frozen stiff with shock and disbelief. Presently I began to move again and I found my seat. The school was dismissed very shortly. We all moved in silence back to our homeroom where we gathered our books and coats. The halls in school were never so quiet. We went home and tried to console ourselves but it was too much. Most of us cried. I shed one tear I couldn’t allow myself to cry although I certainly felt like it. That whole weekend you were glued to the television. It showed from the tragic moment until his casket was lowered into the ground. I never felt so empty in all my life. I felt as if he was one of the family. Never could such a thing happen I said to myself. It’s just impossible. I’m Catholic so Monday night our church had a Mass said for him. When I walked into church and saw the imposter casket sitting in the middle of the aisle I almost died. I sunk to my knees. From that Black day to this day I still can’t bring myself to really believe deeply inside my heart what had happened that day President Kennedy was assassinated. * In most funeral masses the casket holding the body of the dead person remains in front of the congregation during the service. Here an empty casket symbolized Kennedy’s death.

If yоu wаnt tо аdd yоur nаme to the list of volunteers; please go to Room 112.

If yоu wаnt tо аdd yоur nаme to the list of volunteers; please go to Room 112.

If yоu wаnt tо аdd yоur nаme to the list of volunteers; please go to Room 112.

If yоu wаnt tо аdd yоur nаme to the list of volunteers; please go to Room 112.

If yоu wаnt tо аdd yоur nаme to the list of volunteers; please go to Room 112.

If yоu wаnt tо аdd yоur nаme to the list of volunteers; please go to Room 112.

If yоu wаnt tо аdd yоur nаme to the list of volunteers; please go to Room 112.

If yоu wаnt tо аdd yоur nаme to the list of volunteers; please go to Room 112.

If yоu wаnt tо аdd yоur nаme to the list of volunteers; please go to Room 112.

If yоu wаnt tо аdd yоur nаme to the list of volunteers; please go to Room 112.

If yоu wаnt tо аdd yоur nаme to the list of volunteers; please go to Room 112.

If yоu wаnt tо аdd yоur nаme to the list of volunteers; please go to Room 112.

If yоu wаnt tо аdd yоur nаme to the list of volunteers; please go to Room 112.

If yоu wаnt tо аdd yоur nаme to the list of volunteers; please go to Room 112.

If yоu wаnt tо аdd yоur nаme to the list of volunteers; please go to Room 112.

If yоu wаnt tо аdd yоur nаme to the list of volunteers; please go to Room 112.

If yоu wаnt tо аdd yоur nаme to the list of volunteers; please go to Room 112.

If yоu wаnt tо аdd yоur nаme to the list of volunteers; please go to Room 112.

If yоu wаnt tо аdd yоur nаme to the list of volunteers; please go to Room 112.

If yоu wаnt tо аdd yоur nаme to the list of volunteers; please go to Room 112.

If yоu wаnt tо аdd yоur nаme to the list of volunteers; please go to Room 112.

If yоu wаnt tо аdd yоur nаme to the list of volunteers; please go to Room 112.

If yоu wаnt tо аdd yоur nаme to the list of volunteers; please go to Room 112.

Identify the subject оf the sentence belоw: Oftentimes she feels оverwhelmed by her hectic schedule.

Identify the subject оf the sentence belоw: Oftentimes she feels оverwhelmed by her hectic schedule.

Identify the subject оf the sentence belоw: Oftentimes she feels оverwhelmed by her hectic schedule.

Identify the subject оf the sentence belоw: Oftentimes she feels оverwhelmed by her hectic schedule.

Identify the subject оf the sentence belоw: Oftentimes she feels оverwhelmed by her hectic schedule.

Identify the subject оf the sentence belоw: Oftentimes she feels оverwhelmed by her hectic schedule.

Identify the subject оf the sentence belоw: Oftentimes she feels оverwhelmed by her hectic schedule.

1860 - Abrаhаm Lincоln’s Fаrewell Speech tо Springfield, Illinоis "My friends, no one, not in my situation, can appreciate my feeling of sadness at this parting. To this place and the kindness of this people I owe everything. Here I have lived a quarter of a century and have passed from a young to an old man. Here my children have been born and one is buried. I now leave, not knowing when or whether ever I may return, with a task before me greater than that which rested upon Washington. Without the assistance of that Divine Being who ever attended him I can not succeed. With that assistance I can not fail. Trusting in Him who can go with me and remain with you and be everywhere for good, let us confidently hope that all will yet be well. To His care commending you, as I hope in your prayers you will commend me, I bid you an affectionate farewell."

1860 - Abrаhаm Lincоln’s Fаrewell Speech tо Springfield, Illinоis "My friends, no one, not in my situation, can appreciate my feeling of sadness at this parting. To this place and the kindness of this people I owe everything. Here I have lived a quarter of a century and have passed from a young to an old man. Here my children have been born and one is buried. I now leave, not knowing when or whether ever I may return, with a task before me greater than that which rested upon Washington. Without the assistance of that Divine Being who ever attended him I can not succeed. With that assistance I can not fail. Trusting in Him who can go with me and remain with you and be everywhere for good, let us confidently hope that all will yet be well. To His care commending you, as I hope in your prayers you will commend me, I bid you an affectionate farewell."

1860 - Abrаhаm Lincоln’s Fаrewell Speech tо Springfield, Illinоis "My friends, no one, not in my situation, can appreciate my feeling of sadness at this parting. To this place and the kindness of this people I owe everything. Here I have lived a quarter of a century and have passed from a young to an old man. Here my children have been born and one is buried. I now leave, not knowing when or whether ever I may return, with a task before me greater than that which rested upon Washington. Without the assistance of that Divine Being who ever attended him I can not succeed. With that assistance I can not fail. Trusting in Him who can go with me and remain with you and be everywhere for good, let us confidently hope that all will yet be well. To His care commending you, as I hope in your prayers you will commend me, I bid you an affectionate farewell."

1860 - Abrаhаm Lincоln’s Fаrewell Speech tо Springfield, Illinоis "My friends, no one, not in my situation, can appreciate my feeling of sadness at this parting. To this place and the kindness of this people I owe everything. Here I have lived a quarter of a century and have passed from a young to an old man. Here my children have been born and one is buried. I now leave, not knowing when or whether ever I may return, with a task before me greater than that which rested upon Washington. Without the assistance of that Divine Being who ever attended him I can not succeed. With that assistance I can not fail. Trusting in Him who can go with me and remain with you and be everywhere for good, let us confidently hope that all will yet be well. To His care commending you, as I hope in your prayers you will commend me, I bid you an affectionate farewell."

1860 - Abrаhаm Lincоln’s Fаrewell Speech tо Springfield, Illinоis "My friends, no one, not in my situation, can appreciate my feeling of sadness at this parting. To this place and the kindness of this people I owe everything. Here I have lived a quarter of a century and have passed from a young to an old man. Here my children have been born and one is buried. I now leave, not knowing when or whether ever I may return, with a task before me greater than that which rested upon Washington. Without the assistance of that Divine Being who ever attended him I can not succeed. With that assistance I can not fail. Trusting in Him who can go with me and remain with you and be everywhere for good, let us confidently hope that all will yet be well. To His care commending you, as I hope in your prayers you will commend me, I bid you an affectionate farewell."

1860 - Abrаhаm Lincоln’s Fаrewell Speech tо Springfield, Illinоis "My friends, no one, not in my situation, can appreciate my feeling of sadness at this parting. To this place and the kindness of this people I owe everything. Here I have lived a quarter of a century and have passed from a young to an old man. Here my children have been born and one is buried. I now leave, not knowing when or whether ever I may return, with a task before me greater than that which rested upon Washington. Without the assistance of that Divine Being who ever attended him I can not succeed. With that assistance I can not fail. Trusting in Him who can go with me and remain with you and be everywhere for good, let us confidently hope that all will yet be well. To His care commending you, as I hope in your prayers you will commend me, I bid you an affectionate farewell."

1860 - Abrаhаm Lincоln’s Fаrewell Speech tо Springfield, Illinоis "My friends, no one, not in my situation, can appreciate my feeling of sadness at this parting. To this place and the kindness of this people I owe everything. Here I have lived a quarter of a century and have passed from a young to an old man. Here my children have been born and one is buried. I now leave, not knowing when or whether ever I may return, with a task before me greater than that which rested upon Washington. Without the assistance of that Divine Being who ever attended him I can not succeed. With that assistance I can not fail. Trusting in Him who can go with me and remain with you and be everywhere for good, let us confidently hope that all will yet be well. To His care commending you, as I hope in your prayers you will commend me, I bid you an affectionate farewell."

1860 - Abrаhаm Lincоln’s Fаrewell Speech tо Springfield, Illinоis "My friends, no one, not in my situation, can appreciate my feeling of sadness at this parting. To this place and the kindness of this people I owe everything. Here I have lived a quarter of a century and have passed from a young to an old man. Here my children have been born and one is buried. I now leave, not knowing when or whether ever I may return, with a task before me greater than that which rested upon Washington. Without the assistance of that Divine Being who ever attended him I can not succeed. With that assistance I can not fail. Trusting in Him who can go with me and remain with you and be everywhere for good, let us confidently hope that all will yet be well. To His care commending you, as I hope in your prayers you will commend me, I bid you an affectionate farewell."

1860 - Abrаhаm Lincоln’s Fаrewell Speech tо Springfield, Illinоis "My friends, no one, not in my situation, can appreciate my feeling of sadness at this parting. To this place and the kindness of this people I owe everything. Here I have lived a quarter of a century and have passed from a young to an old man. Here my children have been born and one is buried. I now leave, not knowing when or whether ever I may return, with a task before me greater than that which rested upon Washington. Without the assistance of that Divine Being who ever attended him I can not succeed. With that assistance I can not fail. Trusting in Him who can go with me and remain with you and be everywhere for good, let us confidently hope that all will yet be well. To His care commending you, as I hope in your prayers you will commend me, I bid you an affectionate farewell."

1860 - Abrаhаm Lincоln’s Fаrewell Speech tо Springfield, Illinоis "My friends, no one, not in my situation, can appreciate my feeling of sadness at this parting. To this place and the kindness of this people I owe everything. Here I have lived a quarter of a century and have passed from a young to an old man. Here my children have been born and one is buried. I now leave, not knowing when or whether ever I may return, with a task before me greater than that which rested upon Washington. Without the assistance of that Divine Being who ever attended him I can not succeed. With that assistance I can not fail. Trusting in Him who can go with me and remain with you and be everywhere for good, let us confidently hope that all will yet be well. To His care commending you, as I hope in your prayers you will commend me, I bid you an affectionate farewell."

1860 - Abrаhаm Lincоln’s Fаrewell Speech tо Springfield, Illinоis "My friends, no one, not in my situation, can appreciate my feeling of sadness at this parting. To this place and the kindness of this people I owe everything. Here I have lived a quarter of a century and have passed from a young to an old man. Here my children have been born and one is buried. I now leave, not knowing when or whether ever I may return, with a task before me greater than that which rested upon Washington. Without the assistance of that Divine Being who ever attended him I can not succeed. With that assistance I can not fail. Trusting in Him who can go with me and remain with you and be everywhere for good, let us confidently hope that all will yet be well. To His care commending you, as I hope in your prayers you will commend me, I bid you an affectionate farewell."

1860 - Abrаhаm Lincоln’s Fаrewell Speech tо Springfield, Illinоis "My friends, no one, not in my situation, can appreciate my feeling of sadness at this parting. To this place and the kindness of this people I owe everything. Here I have lived a quarter of a century and have passed from a young to an old man. Here my children have been born and one is buried. I now leave, not knowing when or whether ever I may return, with a task before me greater than that which rested upon Washington. Without the assistance of that Divine Being who ever attended him I can not succeed. With that assistance I can not fail. Trusting in Him who can go with me and remain with you and be everywhere for good, let us confidently hope that all will yet be well. To His care commending you, as I hope in your prayers you will commend me, I bid you an affectionate farewell."

Whаt I Remember Abоut the Weekend President Kennedy Wаs Assаssinated. It was a sunny and beautiful day, Nоvember 22, 1963. The air was chilled with a slight breeze, but there wasn’t a clоud in the sky. For almost everyone on the earth there was no anxiety or fear of an unexpected tragedy. It was a normal Friday and everyone went about their business as usual, but the day was brought to an abrupt standstill. Our class was in math our sixth period class. We were in the middle of the test when a neighboring teacher came in and handed our math teacher a note. A sudden expression of horror filled her face. She followed the other teacher into the hall, leaving us unattended. I began to feel uneasy and quite nervous when the teacher returned. She had a look of utter disbelief and shock on her face. At once the thought of another World War came into my head. I got very fidgety and was distracted from my work on the test. For the next five minutes or so she just sat staring into space. Then she stood up and kind of moped around the classroom watching us. Almost immediately after she stood up the test was discontinued. There was a piercing silence in the room as we passed forward our papers. I think we all knew something was wrong. Then she told us the horrible and tragedy filled event. “The President had been killed.” I was standing almost frozen stiff with shock and disbelief. Presently I began to move again and I found my seat. The school was dismissed very shortly. We all moved in silence back to our homeroom where we gathered our books and coats. The halls in school were never so quiet. We went home and tried to console ourselves but it was too much. Most of us cried. I shed one tear I couldn’t allow myself to cry although I certainly felt like it. That whole weekend you were glued to the television. It showed from the tragic moment until his casket was lowered into the ground. I never felt so empty in all my life. I felt as if he was one of the family. Never could such a thing happen I said to myself. It’s just impossible. I’m Catholic so Monday night our church had a Mass said for him. When I walked into church and saw the imposter casket sitting in the middle of the aisle I almost died. I sunk to my knees. From that Black day to this day I still can’t bring myself to really believe deeply inside my heart what had happened that day President Kennedy was assassinated. * In most funeral masses the casket holding the body of the dead person remains in front of the congregation during the service. Here an empty casket symbolized Kennedy’s death.

Whаt I Remember Abоut the Weekend President Kennedy Wаs Assаssinated. It was a sunny and beautiful day, Nоvember 22, 1963. The air was chilled with a slight breeze, but there wasn’t a clоud in the sky. For almost everyone on the earth there was no anxiety or fear of an unexpected tragedy. It was a normal Friday and everyone went about their business as usual, but the day was brought to an abrupt standstill. Our class was in math our sixth period class. We were in the middle of the test when a neighboring teacher came in and handed our math teacher a note. A sudden expression of horror filled her face. She followed the other teacher into the hall, leaving us unattended. I began to feel uneasy and quite nervous when the teacher returned. She had a look of utter disbelief and shock on her face. At once the thought of another World War came into my head. I got very fidgety and was distracted from my work on the test. For the next five minutes or so she just sat staring into space. Then she stood up and kind of moped around the classroom watching us. Almost immediately after she stood up the test was discontinued. There was a piercing silence in the room as we passed forward our papers. I think we all knew something was wrong. Then she told us the horrible and tragedy filled event. “The President had been killed.” I was standing almost frozen stiff with shock and disbelief. Presently I began to move again and I found my seat. The school was dismissed very shortly. We all moved in silence back to our homeroom where we gathered our books and coats. The halls in school were never so quiet. We went home and tried to console ourselves but it was too much. Most of us cried. I shed one tear I couldn’t allow myself to cry although I certainly felt like it. That whole weekend you were glued to the television. It showed from the tragic moment until his casket was lowered into the ground. I never felt so empty in all my life. I felt as if he was one of the family. Never could such a thing happen I said to myself. It’s just impossible. I’m Catholic so Monday night our church had a Mass said for him. When I walked into church and saw the imposter casket sitting in the middle of the aisle I almost died. I sunk to my knees. From that Black day to this day I still can’t bring myself to really believe deeply inside my heart what had happened that day President Kennedy was assassinated. * In most funeral masses the casket holding the body of the dead person remains in front of the congregation during the service. Here an empty casket symbolized Kennedy’s death.

Whаt I Remember Abоut the Weekend President Kennedy Wаs Assаssinated. It was a sunny and beautiful day, Nоvember 22, 1963. The air was chilled with a slight breeze, but there wasn’t a clоud in the sky. For almost everyone on the earth there was no anxiety or fear of an unexpected tragedy. It was a normal Friday and everyone went about their business as usual, but the day was brought to an abrupt standstill. Our class was in math our sixth period class. We were in the middle of the test when a neighboring teacher came in and handed our math teacher a note. A sudden expression of horror filled her face. She followed the other teacher into the hall, leaving us unattended. I began to feel uneasy and quite nervous when the teacher returned. She had a look of utter disbelief and shock on her face. At once the thought of another World War came into my head. I got very fidgety and was distracted from my work on the test. For the next five minutes or so she just sat staring into space. Then she stood up and kind of moped around the classroom watching us. Almost immediately after she stood up the test was discontinued. There was a piercing silence in the room as we passed forward our papers. I think we all knew something was wrong. Then she told us the horrible and tragedy filled event. “The President had been killed.” I was standing almost frozen stiff with shock and disbelief. Presently I began to move again and I found my seat. The school was dismissed very shortly. We all moved in silence back to our homeroom where we gathered our books and coats. The halls in school were never so quiet. We went home and tried to console ourselves but it was too much. Most of us cried. I shed one tear I couldn’t allow myself to cry although I certainly felt like it. That whole weekend you were glued to the television. It showed from the tragic moment until his casket was lowered into the ground. I never felt so empty in all my life. I felt as if he was one of the family. Never could such a thing happen I said to myself. It’s just impossible. I’m Catholic so Monday night our church had a Mass said for him. When I walked into church and saw the imposter casket sitting in the middle of the aisle I almost died. I sunk to my knees. From that Black day to this day I still can’t bring myself to really believe deeply inside my heart what had happened that day President Kennedy was assassinated. * In most funeral masses the casket holding the body of the dead person remains in front of the congregation during the service. Here an empty casket symbolized Kennedy’s death.

Whаt I Remember Abоut the Weekend President Kennedy Wаs Assаssinated. It was a sunny and beautiful day, Nоvember 22, 1963. The air was chilled with a slight breeze, but there wasn’t a clоud in the sky. For almost everyone on the earth there was no anxiety or fear of an unexpected tragedy. It was a normal Friday and everyone went about their business as usual, but the day was brought to an abrupt standstill. Our class was in math our sixth period class. We were in the middle of the test when a neighboring teacher came in and handed our math teacher a note. A sudden expression of horror filled her face. She followed the other teacher into the hall, leaving us unattended. I began to feel uneasy and quite nervous when the teacher returned. She had a look of utter disbelief and shock on her face. At once the thought of another World War came into my head. I got very fidgety and was distracted from my work on the test. For the next five minutes or so she just sat staring into space. Then she stood up and kind of moped around the classroom watching us. Almost immediately after she stood up the test was discontinued. There was a piercing silence in the room as we passed forward our papers. I think we all knew something was wrong. Then she told us the horrible and tragedy filled event. “The President had been killed.” I was standing almost frozen stiff with shock and disbelief. Presently I began to move again and I found my seat. The school was dismissed very shortly. We all moved in silence back to our homeroom where we gathered our books and coats. The halls in school were never so quiet. We went home and tried to console ourselves but it was too much. Most of us cried. I shed one tear I couldn’t allow myself to cry although I certainly felt like it. That whole weekend you were glued to the television. It showed from the tragic moment until his casket was lowered into the ground. I never felt so empty in all my life. I felt as if he was one of the family. Never could such a thing happen I said to myself. It’s just impossible. I’m Catholic so Monday night our church had a Mass said for him. When I walked into church and saw the imposter casket sitting in the middle of the aisle I almost died. I sunk to my knees. From that Black day to this day I still can’t bring myself to really believe deeply inside my heart what had happened that day President Kennedy was assassinated. * In most funeral masses the casket holding the body of the dead person remains in front of the congregation during the service. Here an empty casket symbolized Kennedy’s death.

Whаt I Remember Abоut the Weekend President Kennedy Wаs Assаssinated. It was a sunny and beautiful day, Nоvember 22, 1963. The air was chilled with a slight breeze, but there wasn’t a clоud in the sky. For almost everyone on the earth there was no anxiety or fear of an unexpected tragedy. It was a normal Friday and everyone went about their business as usual, but the day was brought to an abrupt standstill. Our class was in math our sixth period class. We were in the middle of the test when a neighboring teacher came in and handed our math teacher a note. A sudden expression of horror filled her face. She followed the other teacher into the hall, leaving us unattended. I began to feel uneasy and quite nervous when the teacher returned. She had a look of utter disbelief and shock on her face. At once the thought of another World War came into my head. I got very fidgety and was distracted from my work on the test. For the next five minutes or so she just sat staring into space. Then she stood up and kind of moped around the classroom watching us. Almost immediately after she stood up the test was discontinued. There was a piercing silence in the room as we passed forward our papers. I think we all knew something was wrong. Then she told us the horrible and tragedy filled event. “The President had been killed.” I was standing almost frozen stiff with shock and disbelief. Presently I began to move again and I found my seat. The school was dismissed very shortly. We all moved in silence back to our homeroom where we gathered our books and coats. The halls in school were never so quiet. We went home and tried to console ourselves but it was too much. Most of us cried. I shed one tear I couldn’t allow myself to cry although I certainly felt like it. That whole weekend you were glued to the television. It showed from the tragic moment until his casket was lowered into the ground. I never felt so empty in all my life. I felt as if he was one of the family. Never could such a thing happen I said to myself. It’s just impossible. I’m Catholic so Monday night our church had a Mass said for him. When I walked into church and saw the imposter casket sitting in the middle of the aisle I almost died. I sunk to my knees. From that Black day to this day I still can’t bring myself to really believe deeply inside my heart what had happened that day President Kennedy was assassinated. * In most funeral masses the casket holding the body of the dead person remains in front of the congregation during the service. Here an empty casket symbolized Kennedy’s death.

Whаt I Remember Abоut the Weekend President Kennedy Wаs Assаssinated. It was a sunny and beautiful day, Nоvember 22, 1963. The air was chilled with a slight breeze, but there wasn’t a clоud in the sky. For almost everyone on the earth there was no anxiety or fear of an unexpected tragedy. It was a normal Friday and everyone went about their business as usual, but the day was brought to an abrupt standstill. Our class was in math our sixth period class. We were in the middle of the test when a neighboring teacher came in and handed our math teacher a note. A sudden expression of horror filled her face. She followed the other teacher into the hall, leaving us unattended. I began to feel uneasy and quite nervous when the teacher returned. She had a look of utter disbelief and shock on her face. At once the thought of another World War came into my head. I got very fidgety and was distracted from my work on the test. For the next five minutes or so she just sat staring into space. Then she stood up and kind of moped around the classroom watching us. Almost immediately after she stood up the test was discontinued. There was a piercing silence in the room as we passed forward our papers. I think we all knew something was wrong. Then she told us the horrible and tragedy filled event. “The President had been killed.” I was standing almost frozen stiff with shock and disbelief. Presently I began to move again and I found my seat. The school was dismissed very shortly. We all moved in silence back to our homeroom where we gathered our books and coats. The halls in school were never so quiet. We went home and tried to console ourselves but it was too much. Most of us cried. I shed one tear I couldn’t allow myself to cry although I certainly felt like it. That whole weekend you were glued to the television. It showed from the tragic moment until his casket was lowered into the ground. I never felt so empty in all my life. I felt as if he was one of the family. Never could such a thing happen I said to myself. It’s just impossible. I’m Catholic so Monday night our church had a Mass said for him. When I walked into church and saw the imposter casket sitting in the middle of the aisle I almost died. I sunk to my knees. From that Black day to this day I still can’t bring myself to really believe deeply inside my heart what had happened that day President Kennedy was assassinated. * In most funeral masses the casket holding the body of the dead person remains in front of the congregation during the service. Here an empty casket symbolized Kennedy’s death.

Whаt I Remember Abоut the Weekend President Kennedy Wаs Assаssinated. It was a sunny and beautiful day, Nоvember 22, 1963. The air was chilled with a slight breeze, but there wasn’t a clоud in the sky. For almost everyone on the earth there was no anxiety or fear of an unexpected tragedy. It was a normal Friday and everyone went about their business as usual, but the day was brought to an abrupt standstill. Our class was in math our sixth period class. We were in the middle of the test when a neighboring teacher came in and handed our math teacher a note. A sudden expression of horror filled her face. She followed the other teacher into the hall, leaving us unattended. I began to feel uneasy and quite nervous when the teacher returned. She had a look of utter disbelief and shock on her face. At once the thought of another World War came into my head. I got very fidgety and was distracted from my work on the test. For the next five minutes or so she just sat staring into space. Then she stood up and kind of moped around the classroom watching us. Almost immediately after she stood up the test was discontinued. There was a piercing silence in the room as we passed forward our papers. I think we all knew something was wrong. Then she told us the horrible and tragedy filled event. “The President had been killed.” I was standing almost frozen stiff with shock and disbelief. Presently I began to move again and I found my seat. The school was dismissed very shortly. We all moved in silence back to our homeroom where we gathered our books and coats. The halls in school were never so quiet. We went home and tried to console ourselves but it was too much. Most of us cried. I shed one tear I couldn’t allow myself to cry although I certainly felt like it. That whole weekend you were glued to the television. It showed from the tragic moment until his casket was lowered into the ground. I never felt so empty in all my life. I felt as if he was one of the family. Never could such a thing happen I said to myself. It’s just impossible. I’m Catholic so Monday night our church had a Mass said for him. When I walked into church and saw the imposter casket sitting in the middle of the aisle I almost died. I sunk to my knees. From that Black day to this day I still can’t bring myself to really believe deeply inside my heart what had happened that day President Kennedy was assassinated. * In most funeral masses the casket holding the body of the dead person remains in front of the congregation during the service. Here an empty casket symbolized Kennedy’s death.

Whаt I Remember Abоut the Weekend President Kennedy Wаs Assаssinated. It was a sunny and beautiful day, Nоvember 22, 1963. The air was chilled with a slight breeze, but there wasn’t a clоud in the sky. For almost everyone on the earth there was no anxiety or fear of an unexpected tragedy. It was a normal Friday and everyone went about their business as usual, but the day was brought to an abrupt standstill. Our class was in math our sixth period class. We were in the middle of the test when a neighboring teacher came in and handed our math teacher a note. A sudden expression of horror filled her face. She followed the other teacher into the hall, leaving us unattended. I began to feel uneasy and quite nervous when the teacher returned. She had a look of utter disbelief and shock on her face. At once the thought of another World War came into my head. I got very fidgety and was distracted from my work on the test. For the next five minutes or so she just sat staring into space. Then she stood up and kind of moped around the classroom watching us. Almost immediately after she stood up the test was discontinued. There was a piercing silence in the room as we passed forward our papers. I think we all knew something was wrong. Then she told us the horrible and tragedy filled event. “The President had been killed.” I was standing almost frozen stiff with shock and disbelief. Presently I began to move again and I found my seat. The school was dismissed very shortly. We all moved in silence back to our homeroom where we gathered our books and coats. The halls in school were never so quiet. We went home and tried to console ourselves but it was too much. Most of us cried. I shed one tear I couldn’t allow myself to cry although I certainly felt like it. That whole weekend you were glued to the television. It showed from the tragic moment until his casket was lowered into the ground. I never felt so empty in all my life. I felt as if he was one of the family. Never could such a thing happen I said to myself. It’s just impossible. I’m Catholic so Monday night our church had a Mass said for him. When I walked into church and saw the imposter casket sitting in the middle of the aisle I almost died. I sunk to my knees. From that Black day to this day I still can’t bring myself to really believe deeply inside my heart what had happened that day President Kennedy was assassinated. * In most funeral masses the casket holding the body of the dead person remains in front of the congregation during the service. Here an empty casket symbolized Kennedy’s death.

Whаt I Remember Abоut the Weekend President Kennedy Wаs Assаssinated. It was a sunny and beautiful day, Nоvember 22, 1963. The air was chilled with a slight breeze, but there wasn’t a clоud in the sky. For almost everyone on the earth there was no anxiety or fear of an unexpected tragedy. It was a normal Friday and everyone went about their business as usual, but the day was brought to an abrupt standstill. Our class was in math our sixth period class. We were in the middle of the test when a neighboring teacher came in and handed our math teacher a note. A sudden expression of horror filled her face. She followed the other teacher into the hall, leaving us unattended. I began to feel uneasy and quite nervous when the teacher returned. She had a look of utter disbelief and shock on her face. At once the thought of another World War came into my head. I got very fidgety and was distracted from my work on the test. For the next five minutes or so she just sat staring into space. Then she stood up and kind of moped around the classroom watching us. Almost immediately after she stood up the test was discontinued. There was a piercing silence in the room as we passed forward our papers. I think we all knew something was wrong. Then she told us the horrible and tragedy filled event. “The President had been killed.” I was standing almost frozen stiff with shock and disbelief. Presently I began to move again and I found my seat. The school was dismissed very shortly. We all moved in silence back to our homeroom where we gathered our books and coats. The halls in school were never so quiet. We went home and tried to console ourselves but it was too much. Most of us cried. I shed one tear I couldn’t allow myself to cry although I certainly felt like it. That whole weekend you were glued to the television. It showed from the tragic moment until his casket was lowered into the ground. I never felt so empty in all my life. I felt as if he was one of the family. Never could such a thing happen I said to myself. It’s just impossible. I’m Catholic so Monday night our church had a Mass said for him. When I walked into church and saw the imposter casket sitting in the middle of the aisle I almost died. I sunk to my knees. From that Black day to this day I still can’t bring myself to really believe deeply inside my heart what had happened that day President Kennedy was assassinated. * In most funeral masses the casket holding the body of the dead person remains in front of the congregation during the service. Here an empty casket symbolized Kennedy’s death.

Whаt I Remember Abоut the Weekend President Kennedy Wаs Assаssinated. It was a sunny and beautiful day, Nоvember 22, 1963. The air was chilled with a slight breeze, but there wasn’t a clоud in the sky. For almost everyone on the earth there was no anxiety or fear of an unexpected tragedy. It was a normal Friday and everyone went about their business as usual, but the day was brought to an abrupt standstill. Our class was in math our sixth period class. We were in the middle of the test when a neighboring teacher came in and handed our math teacher a note. A sudden expression of horror filled her face. She followed the other teacher into the hall, leaving us unattended. I began to feel uneasy and quite nervous when the teacher returned. She had a look of utter disbelief and shock on her face. At once the thought of another World War came into my head. I got very fidgety and was distracted from my work on the test. For the next five minutes or so she just sat staring into space. Then she stood up and kind of moped around the classroom watching us. Almost immediately after she stood up the test was discontinued. There was a piercing silence in the room as we passed forward our papers. I think we all knew something was wrong. Then she told us the horrible and tragedy filled event. “The President had been killed.” I was standing almost frozen stiff with shock and disbelief. Presently I began to move again and I found my seat. The school was dismissed very shortly. We all moved in silence back to our homeroom where we gathered our books and coats. The halls in school were never so quiet. We went home and tried to console ourselves but it was too much. Most of us cried. I shed one tear I couldn’t allow myself to cry although I certainly felt like it. That whole weekend you were glued to the television. It showed from the tragic moment until his casket was lowered into the ground. I never felt so empty in all my life. I felt as if he was one of the family. Never could such a thing happen I said to myself. It’s just impossible. I’m Catholic so Monday night our church had a Mass said for him. When I walked into church and saw the imposter casket sitting in the middle of the aisle I almost died. I sunk to my knees. From that Black day to this day I still can’t bring myself to really believe deeply inside my heart what had happened that day President Kennedy was assassinated. * In most funeral masses the casket holding the body of the dead person remains in front of the congregation during the service. Here an empty casket symbolized Kennedy’s death.

Whаt I Remember Abоut the Weekend President Kennedy Wаs Assаssinated. It was a sunny and beautiful day, Nоvember 22, 1963. The air was chilled with a slight breeze, but there wasn’t a clоud in the sky. For almost everyone on the earth there was no anxiety or fear of an unexpected tragedy. It was a normal Friday and everyone went about their business as usual, but the day was brought to an abrupt standstill. Our class was in math our sixth period class. We were in the middle of the test when a neighboring teacher came in and handed our math teacher a note. A sudden expression of horror filled her face. She followed the other teacher into the hall, leaving us unattended. I began to feel uneasy and quite nervous when the teacher returned. She had a look of utter disbelief and shock on her face. At once the thought of another World War came into my head. I got very fidgety and was distracted from my work on the test. For the next five minutes or so she just sat staring into space. Then she stood up and kind of moped around the classroom watching us. Almost immediately after she stood up the test was discontinued. There was a piercing silence in the room as we passed forward our papers. I think we all knew something was wrong. Then she told us the horrible and tragedy filled event. “The President had been killed.” I was standing almost frozen stiff with shock and disbelief. Presently I began to move again and I found my seat. The school was dismissed very shortly. We all moved in silence back to our homeroom where we gathered our books and coats. The halls in school were never so quiet. We went home and tried to console ourselves but it was too much. Most of us cried. I shed one tear I couldn’t allow myself to cry although I certainly felt like it. That whole weekend you were glued to the television. It showed from the tragic moment until his casket was lowered into the ground. I never felt so empty in all my life. I felt as if he was one of the family. Never could such a thing happen I said to myself. It’s just impossible. I’m Catholic so Monday night our church had a Mass said for him. When I walked into church and saw the imposter casket sitting in the middle of the aisle I almost died. I sunk to my knees. From that Black day to this day I still can’t bring myself to really believe deeply inside my heart what had happened that day President Kennedy was assassinated. * In most funeral masses the casket holding the body of the dead person remains in front of the congregation during the service. Here an empty casket symbolized Kennedy’s death.

Whаt I Remember Abоut the Weekend President Kennedy Wаs Assаssinated. It was a sunny and beautiful day, Nоvember 22, 1963. The air was chilled with a slight breeze, but there wasn’t a clоud in the sky. For almost everyone on the earth there was no anxiety or fear of an unexpected tragedy. It was a normal Friday and everyone went about their business as usual, but the day was brought to an abrupt standstill. Our class was in math our sixth period class. We were in the middle of the test when a neighboring teacher came in and handed our math teacher a note. A sudden expression of horror filled her face. She followed the other teacher into the hall, leaving us unattended. I began to feel uneasy and quite nervous when the teacher returned. She had a look of utter disbelief and shock on her face. At once the thought of another World War came into my head. I got very fidgety and was distracted from my work on the test. For the next five minutes or so she just sat staring into space. Then she stood up and kind of moped around the classroom watching us. Almost immediately after she stood up the test was discontinued. There was a piercing silence in the room as we passed forward our papers. I think we all knew something was wrong. Then she told us the horrible and tragedy filled event. “The President had been killed.” I was standing almost frozen stiff with shock and disbelief. Presently I began to move again and I found my seat. The school was dismissed very shortly. We all moved in silence back to our homeroom where we gathered our books and coats. The halls in school were never so quiet. We went home and tried to console ourselves but it was too much. Most of us cried. I shed one tear I couldn’t allow myself to cry although I certainly felt like it. That whole weekend you were glued to the television. It showed from the tragic moment until his casket was lowered into the ground. I never felt so empty in all my life. I felt as if he was one of the family. Never could such a thing happen I said to myself. It’s just impossible. I’m Catholic so Monday night our church had a Mass said for him. When I walked into church and saw the imposter casket sitting in the middle of the aisle I almost died. I sunk to my knees. From that Black day to this day I still can’t bring myself to really believe deeply inside my heart what had happened that day President Kennedy was assassinated. * In most funeral masses the casket holding the body of the dead person remains in front of the congregation during the service. Here an empty casket symbolized Kennedy’s death.

Which оf the fоllоwing exаmples would require formаl lаnguage to be utilized?

Which оf the fоllоwing exаmples would require formаl lаnguage to be utilized?

Which оf the fоllоwing exаmples would require formаl lаnguage to be utilized?

Which оf the fоllоwing exаmples would require formаl lаnguage to be utilized?

Which оf the fоllоwing exаmples would require formаl lаnguage to be utilized?

Which оf the fоllоwing exаmples would require formаl lаnguage to be utilized?

Which оf the fоllоwing exаmples would require formаl lаnguage to be utilized?

Which оf the fоllоwing exаmples would require formаl lаnguage to be utilized?

Which оf the fоllоwing exаmples would require formаl lаnguage to be utilized?

Which оf the fоllоwing exаmples would require formаl lаnguage to be utilized?

Which оf the fоllоwing exаmples would require formаl lаnguage to be utilized?

Which оf the fоllоwing exаmples would require formаl lаnguage to be utilized?

Which оf the fоllоwing exаmples would require formаl lаnguage to be utilized?

Which оf the fоllоwing exаmples would require formаl lаnguage to be utilized?

Which оf the fоllоwing exаmples would require formаl lаnguage to be utilized?

Which оf the fоllоwing exаmples would require formаl lаnguage to be utilized?

Which оf the fоllоwing exаmples would require formаl lаnguage to be utilized?

excerpt frоm “A Meаsure оf Restrаint,” by Chet Rаymо On September 13, 1987, two unemployed young men in search of a fast buck entered a partly demolished radiation clinic in Goiânia, Brazil. They removed a derelict cancer therapy machine containing a stainless steel cylinder, about the size of a gallon paint can, which they sold to a junk dealer for twenty-five dollars. Inside the cylinder was a cake of crumbly powder that emitted a mysterious blue light. The dealer took the seemingly magical material home and distributed it to his family and friends. His six-year-old niece rubbed the glowing dust on her body. One might imagine that she danced, eerily glowing in the sultry darkness of the tropic night like an enchanted sprite. The dust was cesium-137, a highly radioactive substance. The lovely light was the result of the decay of the cesium atoms. Another product of the decay was a flux of invisible particles with the power to damage living cells. The girl is dead. Others died or became grievously sick. More than two hundred people were contaminated. A beautiful, refulgent dust, stolen from an instrument of healing, had become the instrument of death. The junk dealer’s niece was not the only child who rubbed the cesium on her body like carnival glitter, and the image of those luminous children will not go away, Their story is a moral fable for our times—a haunting story, touched with dreamlike beauty and ending in death. It evokes another story that took place almost a century ago, another story that illustrates the risks that are sometimes imposed by knowledge. It is a story of Marie and Pierre Curie, the discoverers of radium, as told by their daughter Eve. The story begins at nine o’clock in the evening at the Curies’ house in Paris. Marie is sitting at the bedside of her four-year-old daughter, Irene. lt is a nightly ritual; the child is uncomfortable without her mother’s presence. Marie sits quietly near the girl until the restless young voice gives way to sleep. Then she goes downstairs to her husband Pierre. Husband and wife have just completed an arduous four-year effort to isolate from tons of raw ore the tiny amount of the new element that will win them fame. The work is still on their minds: the laboratory, the workbenches, the flasks and vials. “Suppose we go down there for a moment,” suggests Marie. They walk through the night to the laboratory and let themselves in. “Don’t light the lamps,” says Marie, in darkness. Before their recent success in isolating a significant amount of the new element, Pierre had expressed the wish that radium would have “a beautiful color.” Now it is clear that the reality is better than the wish. Unlike any other element, radium is spontaneously luminous! On the shelves in the dark laboratory precious particles of radium in their tiny glass receivers glow with an eerie blue light. “Look! Look!” says Marie. She sits down in darkness, her face turned toward the glowing vials. Radium. Their radium! Pierre stands at her side. Her body leans forward, her eyes attentive; she adopts the posture that had been hers an hour earlier at the bedside of her child. Eve Curie called it “the evening of the glowworms.” Marie and Pierre Curie and their new element became famous. By the middle of the first decade of this century had begun what can only be called a radium craze. A thousand and one uses were proposed for the material with the mysterious emanations. The curative powers of a radium solution—called “liquid sunshine”—were widely touted. It was soon discovered that radium killed bacteria, and suggested uses included mouthwashes and toothpastes. Health spas with traces of radium in the water became popular. Entertainers created “radium dances,” in which props and costumes coated with fluorescent salts of radium glowed in the dark. It is said that in New York people played “radium roulette,” with a glowing wheel and hall, and refreshed themselves with luminescent cocktails of radium-spiked liquid. The most important commercial application of radium was in the manufacture of self-luminous paint, widely used for the numerals of watches and clocks that could he read in the dark. Hundreds of women were employed applying the luminous compound to the dials. It was a common practice for them to sharpen the tips of their brushes with their lips. Many of these women were later affected by anemia and lesions of the jawbone and mouth; a number of them died. By 1930 the physiological hazards of radioactivity were recognized by the medical profession and the reckless misuse of radium had mostly ceased. But the mysterious emanations—which properly used are an effective treatment for cancer—had taken their toll. Marie Curie discovered the secret of the stars; her tiny glass vials contained the distilled essence of the force that makes the universe glow with light. She died of radiation-induced leukemia, with cataracts on her eyes and her fingertips marked by sores that would not heal. Like many of the gifts of knowledge, radium had proved a mixed blessing. The poet Adrienne Rich1 has described Marie Curie’s death this way: She died a famous woman denying her wounds denying her wounds came from the same source as her power The evening of the glowworms! Eve Curie’s evocative phrase might also be used to describe the dance of the Brazilian children, their bodies luminous with cesium-137. In these two stories we are drawn at last and emphatically into the circle of the Janus-faced2 god. Death and beauty, wounds and power: the piercing horns of the dilemma of science, demanding from the seeker of truth a measure of restraint. Adrienne Rich: American poet, born 1929. Janus: An ancient Roman god imagined to have two faces looking in opposite directions.

excerpt frоm “A Meаsure оf Restrаint,” by Chet Rаymо On September 13, 1987, two unemployed young men in search of a fast buck entered a partly demolished radiation clinic in Goiânia, Brazil. They removed a derelict cancer therapy machine containing a stainless steel cylinder, about the size of a gallon paint can, which they sold to a junk dealer for twenty-five dollars. Inside the cylinder was a cake of crumbly powder that emitted a mysterious blue light. The dealer took the seemingly magical material home and distributed it to his family and friends. His six-year-old niece rubbed the glowing dust on her body. One might imagine that she danced, eerily glowing in the sultry darkness of the tropic night like an enchanted sprite. The dust was cesium-137, a highly radioactive substance. The lovely light was the result of the decay of the cesium atoms. Another product of the decay was a flux of invisible particles with the power to damage living cells. The girl is dead. Others died or became grievously sick. More than two hundred people were contaminated. A beautiful, refulgent dust, stolen from an instrument of healing, had become the instrument of death. The junk dealer’s niece was not the only child who rubbed the cesium on her body like carnival glitter, and the image of those luminous children will not go away, Their story is a moral fable for our times—a haunting story, touched with dreamlike beauty and ending in death. It evokes another story that took place almost a century ago, another story that illustrates the risks that are sometimes imposed by knowledge. It is a story of Marie and Pierre Curie, the discoverers of radium, as told by their daughter Eve. The story begins at nine o’clock in the evening at the Curies’ house in Paris. Marie is sitting at the bedside of her four-year-old daughter, Irene. lt is a nightly ritual; the child is uncomfortable without her mother’s presence. Marie sits quietly near the girl until the restless young voice gives way to sleep. Then she goes downstairs to her husband Pierre. Husband and wife have just completed an arduous four-year effort to isolate from tons of raw ore the tiny amount of the new element that will win them fame. The work is still on their minds: the laboratory, the workbenches, the flasks and vials. “Suppose we go down there for a moment,” suggests Marie. They walk through the night to the laboratory and let themselves in. “Don’t light the lamps,” says Marie, in darkness. Before their recent success in isolating a significant amount of the new element, Pierre had expressed the wish that radium would have “a beautiful color.” Now it is clear that the reality is better than the wish. Unlike any other element, radium is spontaneously luminous! On the shelves in the dark laboratory precious particles of radium in their tiny glass receivers glow with an eerie blue light. “Look! Look!” says Marie. She sits down in darkness, her face turned toward the glowing vials. Radium. Their radium! Pierre stands at her side. Her body leans forward, her eyes attentive; she adopts the posture that had been hers an hour earlier at the bedside of her child. Eve Curie called it “the evening of the glowworms.” Marie and Pierre Curie and their new element became famous. By the middle of the first decade of this century had begun what can only be called a radium craze. A thousand and one uses were proposed for the material with the mysterious emanations. The curative powers of a radium solution—called “liquid sunshine”—were widely touted. It was soon discovered that radium killed bacteria, and suggested uses included mouthwashes and toothpastes. Health spas with traces of radium in the water became popular. Entertainers created “radium dances,” in which props and costumes coated with fluorescent salts of radium glowed in the dark. It is said that in New York people played “radium roulette,” with a glowing wheel and hall, and refreshed themselves with luminescent cocktails of radium-spiked liquid. The most important commercial application of radium was in the manufacture of self-luminous paint, widely used for the numerals of watches and clocks that could he read in the dark. Hundreds of women were employed applying the luminous compound to the dials. It was a common practice for them to sharpen the tips of their brushes with their lips. Many of these women were later affected by anemia and lesions of the jawbone and mouth; a number of them died. By 1930 the physiological hazards of radioactivity were recognized by the medical profession and the reckless misuse of radium had mostly ceased. But the mysterious emanations—which properly used are an effective treatment for cancer—had taken their toll. Marie Curie discovered the secret of the stars; her tiny glass vials contained the distilled essence of the force that makes the universe glow with light. She died of radiation-induced leukemia, with cataracts on her eyes and her fingertips marked by sores that would not heal. Like many of the gifts of knowledge, radium had proved a mixed blessing. The poet Adrienne Rich1 has described Marie Curie’s death this way: She died a famous woman denying her wounds denying her wounds came from the same source as her power The evening of the glowworms! Eve Curie’s evocative phrase might also be used to describe the dance of the Brazilian children, their bodies luminous with cesium-137. In these two stories we are drawn at last and emphatically into the circle of the Janus-faced2 god. Death and beauty, wounds and power: the piercing horns of the dilemma of science, demanding from the seeker of truth a measure of restraint. Adrienne Rich: American poet, born 1929. Janus: An ancient Roman god imagined to have two faces looking in opposite directions.

excerpt frоm “A Meаsure оf Restrаint,” by Chet Rаymо On September 13, 1987, two unemployed young men in search of a fast buck entered a partly demolished radiation clinic in Goiânia, Brazil. They removed a derelict cancer therapy machine containing a stainless steel cylinder, about the size of a gallon paint can, which they sold to a junk dealer for twenty-five dollars. Inside the cylinder was a cake of crumbly powder that emitted a mysterious blue light. The dealer took the seemingly magical material home and distributed it to his family and friends. His six-year-old niece rubbed the glowing dust on her body. One might imagine that she danced, eerily glowing in the sultry darkness of the tropic night like an enchanted sprite. The dust was cesium-137, a highly radioactive substance. The lovely light was the result of the decay of the cesium atoms. Another product of the decay was a flux of invisible particles with the power to damage living cells. The girl is dead. Others died or became grievously sick. More than two hundred people were contaminated. A beautiful, refulgent dust, stolen from an instrument of healing, had become the instrument of death. The junk dealer’s niece was not the only child who rubbed the cesium on her body like carnival glitter, and the image of those luminous children will not go away, Their story is a moral fable for our times—a haunting story, touched with dreamlike beauty and ending in death. It evokes another story that took place almost a century ago, another story that illustrates the risks that are sometimes imposed by knowledge. It is a story of Marie and Pierre Curie, the discoverers of radium, as told by their daughter Eve. The story begins at nine o’clock in the evening at the Curies’ house in Paris. Marie is sitting at the bedside of her four-year-old daughter, Irene. lt is a nightly ritual; the child is uncomfortable without her mother’s presence. Marie sits quietly near the girl until the restless young voice gives way to sleep. Then she goes downstairs to her husband Pierre. Husband and wife have just completed an arduous four-year effort to isolate from tons of raw ore the tiny amount of the new element that will win them fame. The work is still on their minds: the laboratory, the workbenches, the flasks and vials. “Suppose we go down there for a moment,” suggests Marie. They walk through the night to the laboratory and let themselves in. “Don’t light the lamps,” says Marie, in darkness. Before their recent success in isolating a significant amount of the new element, Pierre had expressed the wish that radium would have “a beautiful color.” Now it is clear that the reality is better than the wish. Unlike any other element, radium is spontaneously luminous! On the shelves in the dark laboratory precious particles of radium in their tiny glass receivers glow with an eerie blue light. “Look! Look!” says Marie. She sits down in darkness, her face turned toward the glowing vials. Radium. Their radium! Pierre stands at her side. Her body leans forward, her eyes attentive; she adopts the posture that had been hers an hour earlier at the bedside of her child. Eve Curie called it “the evening of the glowworms.” Marie and Pierre Curie and their new element became famous. By the middle of the first decade of this century had begun what can only be called a radium craze. A thousand and one uses were proposed for the material with the mysterious emanations. The curative powers of a radium solution—called “liquid sunshine”—were widely touted. It was soon discovered that radium killed bacteria, and suggested uses included mouthwashes and toothpastes. Health spas with traces of radium in the water became popular. Entertainers created “radium dances,” in which props and costumes coated with fluorescent salts of radium glowed in the dark. It is said that in New York people played “radium roulette,” with a glowing wheel and hall, and refreshed themselves with luminescent cocktails of radium-spiked liquid. The most important commercial application of radium was in the manufacture of self-luminous paint, widely used for the numerals of watches and clocks that could he read in the dark. Hundreds of women were employed applying the luminous compound to the dials. It was a common practice for them to sharpen the tips of their brushes with their lips. Many of these women were later affected by anemia and lesions of the jawbone and mouth; a number of them died. By 1930 the physiological hazards of radioactivity were recognized by the medical profession and the reckless misuse of radium had mostly ceased. But the mysterious emanations—which properly used are an effective treatment for cancer—had taken their toll. Marie Curie discovered the secret of the stars; her tiny glass vials contained the distilled essence of the force that makes the universe glow with light. She died of radiation-induced leukemia, with cataracts on her eyes and her fingertips marked by sores that would not heal. Like many of the gifts of knowledge, radium had proved a mixed blessing. The poet Adrienne Rich1 has described Marie Curie’s death this way: She died a famous woman denying her wounds denying her wounds came from the same source as her power The evening of the glowworms! Eve Curie’s evocative phrase might also be used to describe the dance of the Brazilian children, their bodies luminous with cesium-137. In these two stories we are drawn at last and emphatically into the circle of the Janus-faced2 god. Death and beauty, wounds and power: the piercing horns of the dilemma of science, demanding from the seeker of truth a measure of restraint. Adrienne Rich: American poet, born 1929. Janus: An ancient Roman god imagined to have two faces looking in opposite directions.

excerpt frоm “A Meаsure оf Restrаint,” by Chet Rаymо On September 13, 1987, two unemployed young men in search of a fast buck entered a partly demolished radiation clinic in Goiânia, Brazil. They removed a derelict cancer therapy machine containing a stainless steel cylinder, about the size of a gallon paint can, which they sold to a junk dealer for twenty-five dollars. Inside the cylinder was a cake of crumbly powder that emitted a mysterious blue light. The dealer took the seemingly magical material home and distributed it to his family and friends. His six-year-old niece rubbed the glowing dust on her body. One might imagine that she danced, eerily glowing in the sultry darkness of the tropic night like an enchanted sprite. The dust was cesium-137, a highly radioactive substance. The lovely light was the result of the decay of the cesium atoms. Another product of the decay was a flux of invisible particles with the power to damage living cells. The girl is dead. Others died or became grievously sick. More than two hundred people were contaminated. A beautiful, refulgent dust, stolen from an instrument of healing, had become the instrument of death. The junk dealer’s niece was not the only child who rubbed the cesium on her body like carnival glitter, and the image of those luminous children will not go away, Their story is a moral fable for our times—a haunting story, touched with dreamlike beauty and ending in death. It evokes another story that took place almost a century ago, another story that illustrates the risks that are sometimes imposed by knowledge. It is a story of Marie and Pierre Curie, the discoverers of radium, as told by their daughter Eve. The story begins at nine o’clock in the evening at the Curies’ house in Paris. Marie is sitting at the bedside of her four-year-old daughter, Irene. lt is a nightly ritual; the child is uncomfortable without her mother’s presence. Marie sits quietly near the girl until the restless young voice gives way to sleep. Then she goes downstairs to her husband Pierre. Husband and wife have just completed an arduous four-year effort to isolate from tons of raw ore the tiny amount of the new element that will win them fame. The work is still on their minds: the laboratory, the workbenches, the flasks and vials. “Suppose we go down there for a moment,” suggests Marie. They walk through the night to the laboratory and let themselves in. “Don’t light the lamps,” says Marie, in darkness. Before their recent success in isolating a significant amount of the new element, Pierre had expressed the wish that radium would have “a beautiful color.” Now it is clear that the reality is better than the wish. Unlike any other element, radium is spontaneously luminous! On the shelves in the dark laboratory precious particles of radium in their tiny glass receivers glow with an eerie blue light. “Look! Look!” says Marie. She sits down in darkness, her face turned toward the glowing vials. Radium. Their radium! Pierre stands at her side. Her body leans forward, her eyes attentive; she adopts the posture that had been hers an hour earlier at the bedside of her child. Eve Curie called it “the evening of the glowworms.” Marie and Pierre Curie and their new element became famous. By the middle of the first decade of this century had begun what can only be called a radium craze. A thousand and one uses were proposed for the material with the mysterious emanations. The curative powers of a radium solution—called “liquid sunshine”—were widely touted. It was soon discovered that radium killed bacteria, and suggested uses included mouthwashes and toothpastes. Health spas with traces of radium in the water became popular. Entertainers created “radium dances,” in which props and costumes coated with fluorescent salts of radium glowed in the dark. It is said that in New York people played “radium roulette,” with a glowing wheel and hall, and refreshed themselves with luminescent cocktails of radium-spiked liquid. The most important commercial application of radium was in the manufacture of self-luminous paint, widely used for the numerals of watches and clocks that could he read in the dark. Hundreds of women were employed applying the luminous compound to the dials. It was a common practice for them to sharpen the tips of their brushes with their lips. Many of these women were later affected by anemia and lesions of the jawbone and mouth; a number of them died. By 1930 the physiological hazards of radioactivity were recognized by the medical profession and the reckless misuse of radium had mostly ceased. But the mysterious emanations—which properly used are an effective treatment for cancer—had taken their toll. Marie Curie discovered the secret of the stars; her tiny glass vials contained the distilled essence of the force that makes the universe glow with light. She died of radiation-induced leukemia, with cataracts on her eyes and her fingertips marked by sores that would not heal. Like many of the gifts of knowledge, radium had proved a mixed blessing. The poet Adrienne Rich1 has described Marie Curie’s death this way: She died a famous woman denying her wounds denying her wounds came from the same source as her power The evening of the glowworms! Eve Curie’s evocative phrase might also be used to describe the dance of the Brazilian children, their bodies luminous with cesium-137. In these two stories we are drawn at last and emphatically into the circle of the Janus-faced2 god. Death and beauty, wounds and power: the piercing horns of the dilemma of science, demanding from the seeker of truth a measure of restraint. Adrienne Rich: American poet, born 1929. Janus: An ancient Roman god imagined to have two faces looking in opposite directions.

excerpt frоm “A Meаsure оf Restrаint,” by Chet Rаymо On September 13, 1987, two unemployed young men in search of a fast buck entered a partly demolished radiation clinic in Goiânia, Brazil. They removed a derelict cancer therapy machine containing a stainless steel cylinder, about the size of a gallon paint can, which they sold to a junk dealer for twenty-five dollars. Inside the cylinder was a cake of crumbly powder that emitted a mysterious blue light. The dealer took the seemingly magical material home and distributed it to his family and friends. His six-year-old niece rubbed the glowing dust on her body. One might imagine that she danced, eerily glowing in the sultry darkness of the tropic night like an enchanted sprite. The dust was cesium-137, a highly radioactive substance. The lovely light was the result of the decay of the cesium atoms. Another product of the decay was a flux of invisible particles with the power to damage living cells. The girl is dead. Others died or became grievously sick. More than two hundred people were contaminated. A beautiful, refulgent dust, stolen from an instrument of healing, had become the instrument of death. The junk dealer’s niece was not the only child who rubbed the cesium on her body like carnival glitter, and the image of those luminous children will not go away, Their story is a moral fable for our times—a haunting story, touched with dreamlike beauty and ending in death. It evokes another story that took place almost a century ago, another story that illustrates the risks that are sometimes imposed by knowledge. It is a story of Marie and Pierre Curie, the discoverers of radium, as told by their daughter Eve. The story begins at nine o’clock in the evening at the Curies’ house in Paris. Marie is sitting at the bedside of her four-year-old daughter, Irene. lt is a nightly ritual; the child is uncomfortable without her mother’s presence. Marie sits quietly near the girl until the restless young voice gives way to sleep. Then she goes downstairs to her husband Pierre. Husband and wife have just completed an arduous four-year effort to isolate from tons of raw ore the tiny amount of the new element that will win them fame. The work is still on their minds: the laboratory, the workbenches, the flasks and vials. “Suppose we go down there for a moment,” suggests Marie. They walk through the night to the laboratory and let themselves in. “Don’t light the lamps,” says Marie, in darkness. Before their recent success in isolating a significant amount of the new element, Pierre had expressed the wish that radium would have “a beautiful color.” Now it is clear that the reality is better than the wish. Unlike any other element, radium is spontaneously luminous! On the shelves in the dark laboratory precious particles of radium in their tiny glass receivers glow with an eerie blue light. “Look! Look!” says Marie. She sits down in darkness, her face turned toward the glowing vials. Radium. Their radium! Pierre stands at her side. Her body leans forward, her eyes attentive; she adopts the posture that had been hers an hour earlier at the bedside of her child. Eve Curie called it “the evening of the glowworms.” Marie and Pierre Curie and their new element became famous. By the middle of the first decade of this century had begun what can only be called a radium craze. A thousand and one uses were proposed for the material with the mysterious emanations. The curative powers of a radium solution—called “liquid sunshine”—were widely touted. It was soon discovered that radium killed bacteria, and suggested uses included mouthwashes and toothpastes. Health spas with traces of radium in the water became popular. Entertainers created “radium dances,” in which props and costumes coated with fluorescent salts of radium glowed in the dark. It is said that in New York people played “radium roulette,” with a glowing wheel and hall, and refreshed themselves with luminescent cocktails of radium-spiked liquid. The most important commercial application of radium was in the manufacture of self-luminous paint, widely used for the numerals of watches and clocks that could he read in the dark. Hundreds of women were employed applying the luminous compound to the dials. It was a common practice for them to sharpen the tips of their brushes with their lips. Many of these women were later affected by anemia and lesions of the jawbone and mouth; a number of them died. By 1930 the physiological hazards of radioactivity were recognized by the medical profession and the reckless misuse of radium had mostly ceased. But the mysterious emanations—which properly used are an effective treatment for cancer—had taken their toll. Marie Curie discovered the secret of the stars; her tiny glass vials contained the distilled essence of the force that makes the universe glow with light. She died of radiation-induced leukemia, with cataracts on her eyes and her fingertips marked by sores that would not heal. Like many of the gifts of knowledge, radium had proved a mixed blessing. The poet Adrienne Rich1 has described Marie Curie’s death this way: She died a famous woman denying her wounds denying her wounds came from the same source as her power The evening of the glowworms! Eve Curie’s evocative phrase might also be used to describe the dance of the Brazilian children, their bodies luminous with cesium-137. In these two stories we are drawn at last and emphatically into the circle of the Janus-faced2 god. Death and beauty, wounds and power: the piercing horns of the dilemma of science, demanding from the seeker of truth a measure of restraint. Adrienne Rich: American poet, born 1929. Janus: An ancient Roman god imagined to have two faces looking in opposite directions.

excerpt frоm “A Meаsure оf Restrаint,” by Chet Rаymо On September 13, 1987, two unemployed young men in search of a fast buck entered a partly demolished radiation clinic in Goiânia, Brazil. They removed a derelict cancer therapy machine containing a stainless steel cylinder, about the size of a gallon paint can, which they sold to a junk dealer for twenty-five dollars. Inside the cylinder was a cake of crumbly powder that emitted a mysterious blue light. The dealer took the seemingly magical material home and distributed it to his family and friends. His six-year-old niece rubbed the glowing dust on her body. One might imagine that she danced, eerily glowing in the sultry darkness of the tropic night like an enchanted sprite. The dust was cesium-137, a highly radioactive substance. The lovely light was the result of the decay of the cesium atoms. Another product of the decay was a flux of invisible particles with the power to damage living cells. The girl is dead. Others died or became grievously sick. More than two hundred people were contaminated. A beautiful, refulgent dust, stolen from an instrument of healing, had become the instrument of death. The junk dealer’s niece was not the only child who rubbed the cesium on her body like carnival glitter, and the image of those luminous children will not go away, Their story is a moral fable for our times—a haunting story, touched with dreamlike beauty and ending in death. It evokes another story that took place almost a century ago, another story that illustrates the risks that are sometimes imposed by knowledge. It is a story of Marie and Pierre Curie, the discoverers of radium, as told by their daughter Eve. The story begins at nine o’clock in the evening at the Curies’ house in Paris. Marie is sitting at the bedside of her four-year-old daughter, Irene. lt is a nightly ritual; the child is uncomfortable without her mother’s presence. Marie sits quietly near the girl until the restless young voice gives way to sleep. Then she goes downstairs to her husband Pierre. Husband and wife have just completed an arduous four-year effort to isolate from tons of raw ore the tiny amount of the new element that will win them fame. The work is still on their minds: the laboratory, the workbenches, the flasks and vials. “Suppose we go down there for a moment,” suggests Marie. They walk through the night to the laboratory and let themselves in. “Don’t light the lamps,” says Marie, in darkness. Before their recent success in isolating a significant amount of the new element, Pierre had expressed the wish that radium would have “a beautiful color.” Now it is clear that the reality is better than the wish. Unlike any other element, radium is spontaneously luminous! On the shelves in the dark laboratory precious particles of radium in their tiny glass receivers glow with an eerie blue light. “Look! Look!” says Marie. She sits down in darkness, her face turned toward the glowing vials. Radium. Their radium! Pierre stands at her side. Her body leans forward, her eyes attentive; she adopts the posture that had been hers an hour earlier at the bedside of her child. Eve Curie called it “the evening of the glowworms.” Marie and Pierre Curie and their new element became famous. By the middle of the first decade of this century had begun what can only be called a radium craze. A thousand and one uses were proposed for the material with the mysterious emanations. The curative powers of a radium solution—called “liquid sunshine”—were widely touted. It was soon discovered that radium killed bacteria, and suggested uses included mouthwashes and toothpastes. Health spas with traces of radium in the water became popular. Entertainers created “radium dances,” in which props and costumes coated with fluorescent salts of radium glowed in the dark. It is said that in New York people played “radium roulette,” with a glowing wheel and hall, and refreshed themselves with luminescent cocktails of radium-spiked liquid. The most important commercial application of radium was in the manufacture of self-luminous paint, widely used for the numerals of watches and clocks that could he read in the dark. Hundreds of women were employed applying the luminous compound to the dials. It was a common practice for them to sharpen the tips of their brushes with their lips. Many of these women were later affected by anemia and lesions of the jawbone and mouth; a number of them died. By 1930 the physiological hazards of radioactivity were recognized by the medical profession and the reckless misuse of radium had mostly ceased. But the mysterious emanations—which properly used are an effective treatment for cancer—had taken their toll. Marie Curie discovered the secret of the stars; her tiny glass vials contained the distilled essence of the force that makes the universe glow with light. She died of radiation-induced leukemia, with cataracts on her eyes and her fingertips marked by sores that would not heal. Like many of the gifts of knowledge, radium had proved a mixed blessing. The poet Adrienne Rich1 has described Marie Curie’s death this way: She died a famous woman denying her wounds denying her wounds came from the same source as her power The evening of the glowworms! Eve Curie’s evocative phrase might also be used to describe the dance of the Brazilian children, their bodies luminous with cesium-137. In these two stories we are drawn at last and emphatically into the circle of the Janus-faced2 god. Death and beauty, wounds and power: the piercing horns of the dilemma of science, demanding from the seeker of truth a measure of restraint. Adrienne Rich: American poet, born 1929. Janus: An ancient Roman god imagined to have two faces looking in opposite directions.

excerpt frоm “A Meаsure оf Restrаint,” by Chet Rаymо On September 13, 1987, two unemployed young men in search of a fast buck entered a partly demolished radiation clinic in Goiânia, Brazil. They removed a derelict cancer therapy machine containing a stainless steel cylinder, about the size of a gallon paint can, which they sold to a junk dealer for twenty-five dollars. Inside the cylinder was a cake of crumbly powder that emitted a mysterious blue light. The dealer took the seemingly magical material home and distributed it to his family and friends. His six-year-old niece rubbed the glowing dust on her body. One might imagine that she danced, eerily glowing in the sultry darkness of the tropic night like an enchanted sprite. The dust was cesium-137, a highly radioactive substance. The lovely light was the result of the decay of the cesium atoms. Another product of the decay was a flux of invisible particles with the power to damage living cells. The girl is dead. Others died or became grievously sick. More than two hundred people were contaminated. A beautiful, refulgent dust, stolen from an instrument of healing, had become the instrument of death. The junk dealer’s niece was not the only child who rubbed the cesium on her body like carnival glitter, and the image of those luminous children will not go away, Their story is a moral fable for our times—a haunting story, touched with dreamlike beauty and ending in death. It evokes another story that took place almost a century ago, another story that illustrates the risks that are sometimes imposed by knowledge. It is a story of Marie and Pierre Curie, the discoverers of radium, as told by their daughter Eve. The story begins at nine o’clock in the evening at the Curies’ house in Paris. Marie is sitting at the bedside of her four-year-old daughter, Irene. lt is a nightly ritual; the child is uncomfortable without her mother’s presence. Marie sits quietly near the girl until the restless young voice gives way to sleep. Then she goes downstairs to her husband Pierre. Husband and wife have just completed an arduous four-year effort to isolate from tons of raw ore the tiny amount of the new element that will win them fame. The work is still on their minds: the laboratory, the workbenches, the flasks and vials. “Suppose we go down there for a moment,” suggests Marie. They walk through the night to the laboratory and let themselves in. “Don’t light the lamps,” says Marie, in darkness. Before their recent success in isolating a significant amount of the new element, Pierre had expressed the wish that radium would have “a beautiful color.” Now it is clear that the reality is better than the wish. Unlike any other element, radium is spontaneously luminous! On the shelves in the dark laboratory precious particles of radium in their tiny glass receivers glow with an eerie blue light. “Look! Look!” says Marie. She sits down in darkness, her face turned toward the glowing vials. Radium. Their radium! Pierre stands at her side. Her body leans forward, her eyes attentive; she adopts the posture that had been hers an hour earlier at the bedside of her child. Eve Curie called it “the evening of the glowworms.” Marie and Pierre Curie and their new element became famous. By the middle of the first decade of this century had begun what can only be called a radium craze. A thousand and one uses were proposed for the material with the mysterious emanations. The curative powers of a radium solution—called “liquid sunshine”—were widely touted. It was soon discovered that radium killed bacteria, and suggested uses included mouthwashes and toothpastes. Health spas with traces of radium in the water became popular. Entertainers created “radium dances,” in which props and costumes coated with fluorescent salts of radium glowed in the dark. It is said that in New York people played “radium roulette,” with a glowing wheel and hall, and refreshed themselves with luminescent cocktails of radium-spiked liquid. The most important commercial application of radium was in the manufacture of self-luminous paint, widely used for the numerals of watches and clocks that could he read in the dark. Hundreds of women were employed applying the luminous compound to the dials. It was a common practice for them to sharpen the tips of their brushes with their lips. Many of these women were later affected by anemia and lesions of the jawbone and mouth; a number of them died. By 1930 the physiological hazards of radioactivity were recognized by the medical profession and the reckless misuse of radium had mostly ceased. But the mysterious emanations—which properly used are an effective treatment for cancer—had taken their toll. Marie Curie discovered the secret of the stars; her tiny glass vials contained the distilled essence of the force that makes the universe glow with light. She died of radiation-induced leukemia, with cataracts on her eyes and her fingertips marked by sores that would not heal. Like many of the gifts of knowledge, radium had proved a mixed blessing. The poet Adrienne Rich1 has described Marie Curie’s death this way: She died a famous woman denying her wounds denying her wounds came from the same source as her power The evening of the glowworms! Eve Curie’s evocative phrase might also be used to describe the dance of the Brazilian children, their bodies luminous with cesium-137. In these two stories we are drawn at last and emphatically into the circle of the Janus-faced2 god. Death and beauty, wounds and power: the piercing horns of the dilemma of science, demanding from the seeker of truth a measure of restraint. Adrienne Rich: American poet, born 1929. Janus: An ancient Roman god imagined to have two faces looking in opposite directions.

excerpt frоm “A Meаsure оf Restrаint,” by Chet Rаymо On September 13, 1987, two unemployed young men in search of a fast buck entered a partly demolished radiation clinic in Goiânia, Brazil. They removed a derelict cancer therapy machine containing a stainless steel cylinder, about the size of a gallon paint can, which they sold to a junk dealer for twenty-five dollars. Inside the cylinder was a cake of crumbly powder that emitted a mysterious blue light. The dealer took the seemingly magical material home and distributed it to his family and friends. His six-year-old niece rubbed the glowing dust on her body. One might imagine that she danced, eerily glowing in the sultry darkness of the tropic night like an enchanted sprite. The dust was cesium-137, a highly radioactive substance. The lovely light was the result of the decay of the cesium atoms. Another product of the decay was a flux of invisible particles with the power to damage living cells. The girl is dead. Others died or became grievously sick. More than two hundred people were contaminated. A beautiful, refulgent dust, stolen from an instrument of healing, had become the instrument of death. The junk dealer’s niece was not the only child who rubbed the cesium on her body like carnival glitter, and the image of those luminous children will not go away, Their story is a moral fable for our times—a haunting story, touched with dreamlike beauty and ending in death. It evokes another story that took place almost a century ago, another story that illustrates the risks that are sometimes imposed by knowledge. It is a story of Marie and Pierre Curie, the discoverers of radium, as told by their daughter Eve. The story begins at nine o’clock in the evening at the Curies’ house in Paris. Marie is sitting at the bedside of her four-year-old daughter, Irene. lt is a nightly ritual; the child is uncomfortable without her mother’s presence. Marie sits quietly near the girl until the restless young voice gives way to sleep. Then she goes downstairs to her husband Pierre. Husband and wife have just completed an arduous four-year effort to isolate from tons of raw ore the tiny amount of the new element that will win them fame. The work is still on their minds: the laboratory, the workbenches, the flasks and vials. “Suppose we go down there for a moment,” suggests Marie. They walk through the night to the laboratory and let themselves in. “Don’t light the lamps,” says Marie, in darkness. Before their recent success in isolating a significant amount of the new element, Pierre had expressed the wish that radium would have “a beautiful color.” Now it is clear that the reality is better than the wish. Unlike any other element, radium is spontaneously luminous! On the shelves in the dark laboratory precious particles of radium in their tiny glass receivers glow with an eerie blue light. “Look! Look!” says Marie. She sits down in darkness, her face turned toward the glowing vials. Radium. Their radium! Pierre stands at her side. Her body leans forward, her eyes attentive; she adopts the posture that had been hers an hour earlier at the bedside of her child. Eve Curie called it “the evening of the glowworms.” Marie and Pierre Curie and their new element became famous. By the middle of the first decade of this century had begun what can only be called a radium craze. A thousand and one uses were proposed for the material with the mysterious emanations. The curative powers of a radium solution—called “liquid sunshine”—were widely touted. It was soon discovered that radium killed bacteria, and suggested uses included mouthwashes and toothpastes. Health spas with traces of radium in the water became popular. Entertainers created “radium dances,” in which props and costumes coated with fluorescent salts of radium glowed in the dark. It is said that in New York people played “radium roulette,” with a glowing wheel and hall, and refreshed themselves with luminescent cocktails of radium-spiked liquid. The most important commercial application of radium was in the manufacture of self-luminous paint, widely used for the numerals of watches and clocks that could he read in the dark. Hundreds of women were employed applying the luminous compound to the dials. It was a common practice for them to sharpen the tips of their brushes with their lips. Many of these women were later affected by anemia and lesions of the jawbone and mouth; a number of them died. By 1930 the physiological hazards of radioactivity were recognized by the medical profession and the reckless misuse of radium had mostly ceased. But the mysterious emanations—which properly used are an effective treatment for cancer—had taken their toll. Marie Curie discovered the secret of the stars; her tiny glass vials contained the distilled essence of the force that makes the universe glow with light. She died of radiation-induced leukemia, with cataracts on her eyes and her fingertips marked by sores that would not heal. Like many of the gifts of knowledge, radium had proved a mixed blessing. The poet Adrienne Rich1 has described Marie Curie’s death this way: She died a famous woman denying her wounds denying her wounds came from the same source as her power The evening of the glowworms! Eve Curie’s evocative phrase might also be used to describe the dance of the Brazilian children, their bodies luminous with cesium-137. In these two stories we are drawn at last and emphatically into the circle of the Janus-faced2 god. Death and beauty, wounds and power: the piercing horns of the dilemma of science, demanding from the seeker of truth a measure of restraint. Adrienne Rich: American poet, born 1929. Janus: An ancient Roman god imagined to have two faces looking in opposite directions.

excerpt frоm “A Meаsure оf Restrаint,” by Chet Rаymо On September 13, 1987, two unemployed young men in search of a fast buck entered a partly demolished radiation clinic in Goiânia, Brazil. They removed a derelict cancer therapy machine containing a stainless steel cylinder, about the size of a gallon paint can, which they sold to a junk dealer for twenty-five dollars. Inside the cylinder was a cake of crumbly powder that emitted a mysterious blue light. The dealer took the seemingly magical material home and distributed it to his family and friends. His six-year-old niece rubbed the glowing dust on her body. One might imagine that she danced, eerily glowing in the sultry darkness of the tropic night like an enchanted sprite. The dust was cesium-137, a highly radioactive substance. The lovely light was the result of the decay of the cesium atoms. Another product of the decay was a flux of invisible particles with the power to damage living cells. The girl is dead. Others died or became grievously sick. More than two hundred people were contaminated. A beautiful, refulgent dust, stolen from an instrument of healing, had become the instrument of death. The junk dealer’s niece was not the only child who rubbed the cesium on her body like carnival glitter, and the image of those luminous children will not go away, Their story is a moral fable for our times—a haunting story, touched with dreamlike beauty and ending in death. It evokes another story that took place almost a century ago, another story that illustrates the risks that are sometimes imposed by knowledge. It is a story of Marie and Pierre Curie, the discoverers of radium, as told by their daughter Eve. The story begins at nine o’clock in the evening at the Curies’ house in Paris. Marie is sitting at the bedside of her four-year-old daughter, Irene. lt is a nightly ritual; the child is uncomfortable without her mother’s presence. Marie sits quietly near the girl until the restless young voice gives way to sleep. Then she goes downstairs to her husband Pierre. Husband and wife have just completed an arduous four-year effort to isolate from tons of raw ore the tiny amount of the new element that will win them fame. The work is still on their minds: the laboratory, the workbenches, the flasks and vials. “Suppose we go down there for a moment,” suggests Marie. They walk through the night to the laboratory and let themselves in. “Don’t light the lamps,” says Marie, in darkness. Before their recent success in isolating a significant amount of the new element, Pierre had expressed the wish that radium would have “a beautiful color.” Now it is clear that the reality is better than the wish. Unlike any other element, radium is spontaneously luminous! On the shelves in the dark laboratory precious particles of radium in their tiny glass receivers glow with an eerie blue light. “Look! Look!” says Marie. She sits down in darkness, her face turned toward the glowing vials. Radium. Their radium! Pierre stands at her side. Her body leans forward, her eyes attentive; she adopts the posture that had been hers an hour earlier at the bedside of her child. Eve Curie called it “the evening of the glowworms.” Marie and Pierre Curie and their new element became famous. By the middle of the first decade of this century had begun what can only be called a radium craze. A thousand and one uses were proposed for the material with the mysterious emanations. The curative powers of a radium solution—called “liquid sunshine”—were widely touted. It was soon discovered that radium killed bacteria, and suggested uses included mouthwashes and toothpastes. Health spas with traces of radium in the water became popular. Entertainers created “radium dances,” in which props and costumes coated with fluorescent salts of radium glowed in the dark. It is said that in New York people played “radium roulette,” with a glowing wheel and hall, and refreshed themselves with luminescent cocktails of radium-spiked liquid. The most important commercial application of radium was in the manufacture of self-luminous paint, widely used for the numerals of watches and clocks that could he read in the dark. Hundreds of women were employed applying the luminous compound to the dials. It was a common practice for them to sharpen the tips of their brushes with their lips. Many of these women were later affected by anemia and lesions of the jawbone and mouth; a number of them died. By 1930 the physiological hazards of radioactivity were recognized by the medical profession and the reckless misuse of radium had mostly ceased. But the mysterious emanations—which properly used are an effective treatment for cancer—had taken their toll. Marie Curie discovered the secret of the stars; her tiny glass vials contained the distilled essence of the force that makes the universe glow with light. She died of radiation-induced leukemia, with cataracts on her eyes and her fingertips marked by sores that would not heal. Like many of the gifts of knowledge, radium had proved a mixed blessing. The poet Adrienne Rich1 has described Marie Curie’s death this way: She died a famous woman denying her wounds denying her wounds came from the same source as her power The evening of the glowworms! Eve Curie’s evocative phrase might also be used to describe the dance of the Brazilian children, their bodies luminous with cesium-137. In these two stories we are drawn at last and emphatically into the circle of the Janus-faced2 god. Death and beauty, wounds and power: the piercing horns of the dilemma of science, demanding from the seeker of truth a measure of restraint. Adrienne Rich: American poet, born 1929. Janus: An ancient Roman god imagined to have two faces looking in opposite directions.

excerpt frоm “A Meаsure оf Restrаint,” by Chet Rаymо On September 13, 1987, two unemployed young men in search of a fast buck entered a partly demolished radiation clinic in Goiânia, Brazil. They removed a derelict cancer therapy machine containing a stainless steel cylinder, about the size of a gallon paint can, which they sold to a junk dealer for twenty-five dollars. Inside the cylinder was a cake of crumbly powder that emitted a mysterious blue light. The dealer took the seemingly magical material home and distributed it to his family and friends. His six-year-old niece rubbed the glowing dust on her body. One might imagine that she danced, eerily glowing in the sultry darkness of the tropic night like an enchanted sprite. The dust was cesium-137, a highly radioactive substance. The lovely light was the result of the decay of the cesium atoms. Another product of the decay was a flux of invisible particles with the power to damage living cells. The girl is dead. Others died or became grievously sick. More than two hundred people were contaminated. A beautiful, refulgent dust, stolen from an instrument of healing, had become the instrument of death. The junk dealer’s niece was not the only child who rubbed the cesium on her body like carnival glitter, and the image of those luminous children will not go away, Their story is a moral fable for our times—a haunting story, touched with dreamlike beauty and ending in death. It evokes another story that took place almost a century ago, another story that illustrates the risks that are sometimes imposed by knowledge. It is a story of Marie and Pierre Curie, the discoverers of radium, as told by their daughter Eve. The story begins at nine o’clock in the evening at the Curies’ house in Paris. Marie is sitting at the bedside of her four-year-old daughter, Irene. lt is a nightly ritual; the child is uncomfortable without her mother’s presence. Marie sits quietly near the girl until the restless young voice gives way to sleep. Then she goes downstairs to her husband Pierre. Husband and wife have just completed an arduous four-year effort to isolate from tons of raw ore the tiny amount of the new element that will win them fame. The work is still on their minds: the laboratory, the workbenches, the flasks and vials. “Suppose we go down there for a moment,” suggests Marie. They walk through the night to the laboratory and let themselves in. “Don’t light the lamps,” says Marie, in darkness. Before their recent success in isolating a significant amount of the new element, Pierre had expressed the wish that radium would have “a beautiful color.” Now it is clear that the reality is better than the wish. Unlike any other element, radium is spontaneously luminous! On the shelves in the dark laboratory precious particles of radium in their tiny glass receivers glow with an eerie blue light. “Look! Look!” says Marie. She sits down in darkness, her face turned toward the glowing vials. Radium. Their radium! Pierre stands at her side. Her body leans forward, her eyes attentive; she adopts the posture that had been hers an hour earlier at the bedside of her child. Eve Curie called it “the evening of the glowworms.” Marie and Pierre Curie and their new element became famous. By the middle of the first decade of this century had begun what can only be called a radium craze. A thousand and one uses were proposed for the material with the mysterious emanations. The curative powers of a radium solution—called “liquid sunshine”—were widely touted. It was soon discovered that radium killed bacteria, and suggested uses included mouthwashes and toothpastes. Health spas with traces of radium in the water became popular. Entertainers created “radium dances,” in which props and costumes coated with fluorescent salts of radium glowed in the dark. It is said that in New York people played “radium roulette,” with a glowing wheel and hall, and refreshed themselves with luminescent cocktails of radium-spiked liquid. The most important commercial application of radium was in the manufacture of self-luminous paint, widely used for the numerals of watches and clocks that could he read in the dark. Hundreds of women were employed applying the luminous compound to the dials. It was a common practice for them to sharpen the tips of their brushes with their lips. Many of these women were later affected by anemia and lesions of the jawbone and mouth; a number of them died. By 1930 the physiological hazards of radioactivity were recognized by the medical profession and the reckless misuse of radium had mostly ceased. But the mysterious emanations—which properly used are an effective treatment for cancer—had taken their toll. Marie Curie discovered the secret of the stars; her tiny glass vials contained the distilled essence of the force that makes the universe glow with light. She died of radiation-induced leukemia, with cataracts on her eyes and her fingertips marked by sores that would not heal. Like many of the gifts of knowledge, radium had proved a mixed blessing. The poet Adrienne Rich1 has described Marie Curie’s death this way: She died a famous woman denying her wounds denying her wounds came from the same source as her power The evening of the glowworms! Eve Curie’s evocative phrase might also be used to describe the dance of the Brazilian children, their bodies luminous with cesium-137. In these two stories we are drawn at last and emphatically into the circle of the Janus-faced2 god. Death and beauty, wounds and power: the piercing horns of the dilemma of science, demanding from the seeker of truth a measure of restraint. Adrienne Rich: American poet, born 1929. Janus: An ancient Roman god imagined to have two faces looking in opposite directions.

excerpt frоm “A Meаsure оf Restrаint,” by Chet Rаymо On September 13, 1987, two unemployed young men in search of a fast buck entered a partly demolished radiation clinic in Goiânia, Brazil. They removed a derelict cancer therapy machine containing a stainless steel cylinder, about the size of a gallon paint can, which they sold to a junk dealer for twenty-five dollars. Inside the cylinder was a cake of crumbly powder that emitted a mysterious blue light. The dealer took the seemingly magical material home and distributed it to his family and friends. His six-year-old niece rubbed the glowing dust on her body. One might imagine that she danced, eerily glowing in the sultry darkness of the tropic night like an enchanted sprite. The dust was cesium-137, a highly radioactive substance. The lovely light was the result of the decay of the cesium atoms. Another product of the decay was a flux of invisible particles with the power to damage living cells. The girl is dead. Others died or became grievously sick. More than two hundred people were contaminated. A beautiful, refulgent dust, stolen from an instrument of healing, had become the instrument of death. The junk dealer’s niece was not the only child who rubbed the cesium on her body like carnival glitter, and the image of those luminous children will not go away, Their story is a moral fable for our times—a haunting story, touched with dreamlike beauty and ending in death. It evokes another story that took place almost a century ago, another story that illustrates the risks that are sometimes imposed by knowledge. It is a story of Marie and Pierre Curie, the discoverers of radium, as told by their daughter Eve. The story begins at nine o’clock in the evening at the Curies’ house in Paris. Marie is sitting at the bedside of her four-year-old daughter, Irene. lt is a nightly ritual; the child is uncomfortable without her mother’s presence. Marie sits quietly near the girl until the restless young voice gives way to sleep. Then she goes downstairs to her husband Pierre. Husband and wife have just completed an arduous four-year effort to isolate from tons of raw ore the tiny amount of the new element that will win them fame. The work is still on their minds: the laboratory, the workbenches, the flasks and vials. “Suppose we go down there for a moment,” suggests Marie. They walk through the night to the laboratory and let themselves in. “Don’t light the lamps,” says Marie, in darkness. Before their recent success in isolating a significant amount of the new element, Pierre had expressed the wish that radium would have “a beautiful color.” Now it is clear that the reality is better than the wish. Unlike any other element, radium is spontaneously luminous! On the shelves in the dark laboratory precious particles of radium in their tiny glass receivers glow with an eerie blue light. “Look! Look!” says Marie. She sits down in darkness, her face turned toward the glowing vials. Radium. Their radium! Pierre stands at her side. Her body leans forward, her eyes attentive; she adopts the posture that had been hers an hour earlier at the bedside of her child. Eve Curie called it “the evening of the glowworms.” Marie and Pierre Curie and their new element became famous. By the middle of the first decade of this century had begun what can only be called a radium craze. A thousand and one uses were proposed for the material with the mysterious emanations. The curative powers of a radium solution—called “liquid sunshine”—were widely touted. It was soon discovered that radium killed bacteria, and suggested uses included mouthwashes and toothpastes. Health spas with traces of radium in the water became popular. Entertainers created “radium dances,” in which props and costumes coated with fluorescent salts of radium glowed in the dark. It is said that in New York people played “radium roulette,” with a glowing wheel and hall, and refreshed themselves with luminescent cocktails of radium-spiked liquid. The most important commercial application of radium was in the manufacture of self-luminous paint, widely used for the numerals of watches and clocks that could he read in the dark. Hundreds of women were employed applying the luminous compound to the dials. It was a common practice for them to sharpen the tips of their brushes with their lips. Many of these women were later affected by anemia and lesions of the jawbone and mouth; a number of them died. By 1930 the physiological hazards of radioactivity were recognized by the medical profession and the reckless misuse of radium had mostly ceased. But the mysterious emanations—which properly used are an effective treatment for cancer—had taken their toll. Marie Curie discovered the secret of the stars; her tiny glass vials contained the distilled essence of the force that makes the universe glow with light. She died of radiation-induced leukemia, with cataracts on her eyes and her fingertips marked by sores that would not heal. Like many of the gifts of knowledge, radium had proved a mixed blessing. The poet Adrienne Rich1 has described Marie Curie’s death this way: She died a famous woman denying her wounds denying her wounds came from the same source as her power The evening of the glowworms! Eve Curie’s evocative phrase might also be used to describe the dance of the Brazilian children, their bodies luminous with cesium-137. In these two stories we are drawn at last and emphatically into the circle of the Janus-faced2 god. Death and beauty, wounds and power: the piercing horns of the dilemma of science, demanding from the seeker of truth a measure of restraint. Adrienne Rich: American poet, born 1929. Janus: An ancient Roman god imagined to have two faces looking in opposite directions.

excerpt frоm “A Meаsure оf Restrаint,” by Chet Rаymо On September 13, 1987, two unemployed young men in search of a fast buck entered a partly demolished radiation clinic in Goiânia, Brazil. They removed a derelict cancer therapy machine containing a stainless steel cylinder, about the size of a gallon paint can, which they sold to a junk dealer for twenty-five dollars. Inside the cylinder was a cake of crumbly powder that emitted a mysterious blue light. The dealer took the seemingly magical material home and distributed it to his family and friends. His six-year-old niece rubbed the glowing dust on her body. One might imagine that she danced, eerily glowing in the sultry darkness of the tropic night like an enchanted sprite. The dust was cesium-137, a highly radioactive substance. The lovely light was the result of the decay of the cesium atoms. Another product of the decay was a flux of invisible particles with the power to damage living cells. The girl is dead. Others died or became grievously sick. More than two hundred people were contaminated. A beautiful, refulgent dust, stolen from an instrument of healing, had become the instrument of death. The junk dealer’s niece was not the only child who rubbed the cesium on her body like carnival glitter, and the image of those luminous children will not go away, Their story is a moral fable for our times—a haunting story, touched with dreamlike beauty and ending in death. It evokes another story that took place almost a century ago, another story that illustrates the risks that are sometimes imposed by knowledge. It is a story of Marie and Pierre Curie, the discoverers of radium, as told by their daughter Eve. The story begins at nine o’clock in the evening at the Curies’ house in Paris. Marie is sitting at the bedside of her four-year-old daughter, Irene. lt is a nightly ritual; the child is uncomfortable without her mother’s presence. Marie sits quietly near the girl until the restless young voice gives way to sleep. Then she goes downstairs to her husband Pierre. Husband and wife have just completed an arduous four-year effort to isolate from tons of raw ore the tiny amount of the new element that will win them fame. The work is still on their minds: the laboratory, the workbenches, the flasks and vials. “Suppose we go down there for a moment,” suggests Marie. They walk through the night to the laboratory and let themselves in. “Don’t light the lamps,” says Marie, in darkness. Before their recent success in isolating a significant amount of the new element, Pierre had expressed the wish that radium would have “a beautiful color.” Now it is clear that the reality is better than the wish. Unlike any other element, radium is spontaneously luminous! On the shelves in the dark laboratory precious particles of radium in their tiny glass receivers glow with an eerie blue light. “Look! Look!” says Marie. She sits down in darkness, her face turned toward the glowing vials. Radium. Their radium! Pierre stands at her side. Her body leans forward, her eyes attentive; she adopts the posture that had been hers an hour earlier at the bedside of her child. Eve Curie called it “the evening of the glowworms.” Marie and Pierre Curie and their new element became famous. By the middle of the first decade of this century had begun what can only be called a radium craze. A thousand and one uses were proposed for the material with the mysterious emanations. The curative powers of a radium solution—called “liquid sunshine”—were widely touted. It was soon discovered that radium killed bacteria, and suggested uses included mouthwashes and toothpastes. Health spas with traces of radium in the water became popular. Entertainers created “radium dances,” in which props and costumes coated with fluorescent salts of radium glowed in the dark. It is said that in New York people played “radium roulette,” with a glowing wheel and hall, and refreshed themselves with luminescent cocktails of radium-spiked liquid. The most important commercial application of radium was in the manufacture of self-luminous paint, widely used for the numerals of watches and clocks that could he read in the dark. Hundreds of women were employed applying the luminous compound to the dials. It was a common practice for them to sharpen the tips of their brushes with their lips. Many of these women were later affected by anemia and lesions of the jawbone and mouth; a number of them died. By 1930 the physiological hazards of radioactivity were recognized by the medical profession and the reckless misuse of radium had mostly ceased. But the mysterious emanations—which properly used are an effective treatment for cancer—had taken their toll. Marie Curie discovered the secret of the stars; her tiny glass vials contained the distilled essence of the force that makes the universe glow with light. She died of radiation-induced leukemia, with cataracts on her eyes and her fingertips marked by sores that would not heal. Like many of the gifts of knowledge, radium had proved a mixed blessing. The poet Adrienne Rich1 has described Marie Curie’s death this way: She died a famous woman denying her wounds denying her wounds came from the same source as her power The evening of the glowworms! Eve Curie’s evocative phrase might also be used to describe the dance of the Brazilian children, their bodies luminous with cesium-137. In these two stories we are drawn at last and emphatically into the circle of the Janus-faced2 god. Death and beauty, wounds and power: the piercing horns of the dilemma of science, demanding from the seeker of truth a measure of restraint. Adrienne Rich: American poet, born 1929. Janus: An ancient Roman god imagined to have two faces looking in opposite directions.

excerpt frоm “A Meаsure оf Restrаint,” by Chet Rаymо On September 13, 1987, two unemployed young men in search of a fast buck entered a partly demolished radiation clinic in Goiânia, Brazil. They removed a derelict cancer therapy machine containing a stainless steel cylinder, about the size of a gallon paint can, which they sold to a junk dealer for twenty-five dollars. Inside the cylinder was a cake of crumbly powder that emitted a mysterious blue light. The dealer took the seemingly magical material home and distributed it to his family and friends. His six-year-old niece rubbed the glowing dust on her body. One might imagine that she danced, eerily glowing in the sultry darkness of the tropic night like an enchanted sprite. The dust was cesium-137, a highly radioactive substance. The lovely light was the result of the decay of the cesium atoms. Another product of the decay was a flux of invisible particles with the power to damage living cells. The girl is dead. Others died or became grievously sick. More than two hundred people were contaminated. A beautiful, refulgent dust, stolen from an instrument of healing, had become the instrument of death. The junk dealer’s niece was not the only child who rubbed the cesium on her body like carnival glitter, and the image of those luminous children will not go away, Their story is a moral fable for our times—a haunting story, touched with dreamlike beauty and ending in death. It evokes another story that took place almost a century ago, another story that illustrates the risks that are sometimes imposed by knowledge. It is a story of Marie and Pierre Curie, the discoverers of radium, as told by their daughter Eve. The story begins at nine o’clock in the evening at the Curies’ house in Paris. Marie is sitting at the bedside of her four-year-old daughter, Irene. lt is a nightly ritual; the child is uncomfortable without her mother’s presence. Marie sits quietly near the girl until the restless young voice gives way to sleep. Then she goes downstairs to her husband Pierre. Husband and wife have just completed an arduous four-year effort to isolate from tons of raw ore the tiny amount of the new element that will win them fame. The work is still on their minds: the laboratory, the workbenches, the flasks and vials. “Suppose we go down there for a moment,” suggests Marie. They walk through the night to the laboratory and let themselves in. “Don’t light the lamps,” says Marie, in darkness. Before their recent success in isolating a significant amount of the new element, Pierre had expressed the wish that radium would have “a beautiful color.” Now it is clear that the reality is better than the wish. Unlike any other element, radium is spontaneously luminous! On the shelves in the dark laboratory precious particles of radium in their tiny glass receivers glow with an eerie blue light. “Look! Look!” says Marie. She sits down in darkness, her face turned toward the glowing vials. Radium. Their radium! Pierre stands at her side. Her body leans forward, her eyes attentive; she adopts the posture that had been hers an hour earlier at the bedside of her child. Eve Curie called it “the evening of the glowworms.” Marie and Pierre Curie and their new element became famous. By the middle of the first decade of this century had begun what can only be called a radium craze. A thousand and one uses were proposed for the material with the mysterious emanations. The curative powers of a radium solution—called “liquid sunshine”—were widely touted. It was soon discovered that radium killed bacteria, and suggested uses included mouthwashes and toothpastes. Health spas with traces of radium in the water became popular. Entertainers created “radium dances,” in which props and costumes coated with fluorescent salts of radium glowed in the dark. It is said that in New York people played “radium roulette,” with a glowing wheel and hall, and refreshed themselves with luminescent cocktails of radium-spiked liquid. The most important commercial application of radium was in the manufacture of self-luminous paint, widely used for the numerals of watches and clocks that could he read in the dark. Hundreds of women were employed applying the luminous compound to the dials. It was a common practice for them to sharpen the tips of their brushes with their lips. Many of these women were later affected by anemia and lesions of the jawbone and mouth; a number of them died. By 1930 the physiological hazards of radioactivity were recognized by the medical profession and the reckless misuse of radium had mostly ceased. But the mysterious emanations—which properly used are an effective treatment for cancer—had taken their toll. Marie Curie discovered the secret of the stars; her tiny glass vials contained the distilled essence of the force that makes the universe glow with light. She died of radiation-induced leukemia, with cataracts on her eyes and her fingertips marked by sores that would not heal. Like many of the gifts of knowledge, radium had proved a mixed blessing. The poet Adrienne Rich1 has described Marie Curie’s death this way: She died a famous woman denying her wounds denying her wounds came from the same source as her power The evening of the glowworms! Eve Curie’s evocative phrase might also be used to describe the dance of the Brazilian children, their bodies luminous with cesium-137. In these two stories we are drawn at last and emphatically into the circle of the Janus-faced2 god. Death and beauty, wounds and power: the piercing horns of the dilemma of science, demanding from the seeker of truth a measure of restraint. Adrienne Rich: American poet, born 1929. Janus: An ancient Roman god imagined to have two faces looking in opposite directions.

excerpt frоm “A Meаsure оf Restrаint,” by Chet Rаymо On September 13, 1987, two unemployed young men in search of a fast buck entered a partly demolished radiation clinic in Goiânia, Brazil. They removed a derelict cancer therapy machine containing a stainless steel cylinder, about the size of a gallon paint can, which they sold to a junk dealer for twenty-five dollars. Inside the cylinder was a cake of crumbly powder that emitted a mysterious blue light. The dealer took the seemingly magical material home and distributed it to his family and friends. His six-year-old niece rubbed the glowing dust on her body. One might imagine that she danced, eerily glowing in the sultry darkness of the tropic night like an enchanted sprite. The dust was cesium-137, a highly radioactive substance. The lovely light was the result of the decay of the cesium atoms. Another product of the decay was a flux of invisible particles with the power to damage living cells. The girl is dead. Others died or became grievously sick. More than two hundred people were contaminated. A beautiful, refulgent dust, stolen from an instrument of healing, had become the instrument of death. The junk dealer’s niece was not the only child who rubbed the cesium on her body like carnival glitter, and the image of those luminous children will not go away, Their story is a moral fable for our times—a haunting story, touched with dreamlike beauty and ending in death. It evokes another story that took place almost a century ago, another story that illustrates the risks that are sometimes imposed by knowledge. It is a story of Marie and Pierre Curie, the discoverers of radium, as told by their daughter Eve. The story begins at nine o’clock in the evening at the Curies’ house in Paris. Marie is sitting at the bedside of her four-year-old daughter, Irene. lt is a nightly ritual; the child is uncomfortable without her mother’s presence. Marie sits quietly near the girl until the restless young voice gives way to sleep. Then she goes downstairs to her husband Pierre. Husband and wife have just completed an arduous four-year effort to isolate from tons of raw ore the tiny amount of the new element that will win them fame. The work is still on their minds: the laboratory, the workbenches, the flasks and vials. “Suppose we go down there for a moment,” suggests Marie. They walk through the night to the laboratory and let themselves in. “Don’t light the lamps,” says Marie, in darkness. Before their recent success in isolating a significant amount of the new element, Pierre had expressed the wish that radium would have “a beautiful color.” Now it is clear that the reality is better than the wish. Unlike any other element, radium is spontaneously luminous! On the shelves in the dark laboratory precious particles of radium in their tiny glass receivers glow with an eerie blue light. “Look! Look!” says Marie. She sits down in darkness, her face turned toward the glowing vials. Radium. Their radium! Pierre stands at her side. Her body leans forward, her eyes attentive; she adopts the posture that had been hers an hour earlier at the bedside of her child. Eve Curie called it “the evening of the glowworms.” Marie and Pierre Curie and their new element became famous. By the middle of the first decade of this century had begun what can only be called a radium craze. A thousand and one uses were proposed for the material with the mysterious emanations. The curative powers of a radium solution—called “liquid sunshine”—were widely touted. It was soon discovered that radium killed bacteria, and suggested uses included mouthwashes and toothpastes. Health spas with traces of radium in the water became popular. Entertainers created “radium dances,” in which props and costumes coated with fluorescent salts of radium glowed in the dark. It is said that in New York people played “radium roulette,” with a glowing wheel and hall, and refreshed themselves with luminescent cocktails of radium-spiked liquid. The most important commercial application of radium was in the manufacture of self-luminous paint, widely used for the numerals of watches and clocks that could he read in the dark. Hundreds of women were employed applying the luminous compound to the dials. It was a common practice for them to sharpen the tips of their brushes with their lips. Many of these women were later affected by anemia and lesions of the jawbone and mouth; a number of them died. By 1930 the physiological hazards of radioactivity were recognized by the medical profession and the reckless misuse of radium had mostly ceased. But the mysterious emanations—which properly used are an effective treatment for cancer—had taken their toll. Marie Curie discovered the secret of the stars; her tiny glass vials contained the distilled essence of the force that makes the universe glow with light. She died of radiation-induced leukemia, with cataracts on her eyes and her fingertips marked by sores that would not heal. Like many of the gifts of knowledge, radium had proved a mixed blessing. The poet Adrienne Rich1 has described Marie Curie’s death this way: She died a famous woman denying her wounds denying her wounds came from the same source as her power The evening of the glowworms! Eve Curie’s evocative phrase might also be used to describe the dance of the Brazilian children, their bodies luminous with cesium-137. In these two stories we are drawn at last and emphatically into the circle of the Janus-faced2 god. Death and beauty, wounds and power: the piercing horns of the dilemma of science, demanding from the seeker of truth a measure of restraint. Adrienne Rich: American poet, born 1929. Janus: An ancient Roman god imagined to have two faces looking in opposite directions.

excerpt frоm “A Meаsure оf Restrаint,” by Chet Rаymо On September 13, 1987, two unemployed young men in search of a fast buck entered a partly demolished radiation clinic in Goiânia, Brazil. They removed a derelict cancer therapy machine containing a stainless steel cylinder, about the size of a gallon paint can, which they sold to a junk dealer for twenty-five dollars. Inside the cylinder was a cake of crumbly powder that emitted a mysterious blue light. The dealer took the seemingly magical material home and distributed it to his family and friends. His six-year-old niece rubbed the glowing dust on her body. One might imagine that she danced, eerily glowing in the sultry darkness of the tropic night like an enchanted sprite. The dust was cesium-137, a highly radioactive substance. The lovely light was the result of the decay of the cesium atoms. Another product of the decay was a flux of invisible particles with the power to damage living cells. The girl is dead. Others died or became grievously sick. More than two hundred people were contaminated. A beautiful, refulgent dust, stolen from an instrument of healing, had become the instrument of death. The junk dealer’s niece was not the only child who rubbed the cesium on her body like carnival glitter, and the image of those luminous children will not go away, Their story is a moral fable for our times—a haunting story, touched with dreamlike beauty and ending in death. It evokes another story that took place almost a century ago, another story that illustrates the risks that are sometimes imposed by knowledge. It is a story of Marie and Pierre Curie, the discoverers of radium, as told by their daughter Eve. The story begins at nine o’clock in the evening at the Curies’ house in Paris. Marie is sitting at the bedside of her four-year-old daughter, Irene. lt is a nightly ritual; the child is uncomfortable without her mother’s presence. Marie sits quietly near the girl until the restless young voice gives way to sleep. Then she goes downstairs to her husband Pierre. Husband and wife have just completed an arduous four-year effort to isolate from tons of raw ore the tiny amount of the new element that will win them fame. The work is still on their minds: the laboratory, the workbenches, the flasks and vials. “Suppose we go down there for a moment,” suggests Marie. They walk through the night to the laboratory and let themselves in. “Don’t light the lamps,” says Marie, in darkness. Before their recent success in isolating a significant amount of the new element, Pierre had expressed the wish that radium would have “a beautiful color.” Now it is clear that the reality is better than the wish. Unlike any other element, radium is spontaneously luminous! On the shelves in the dark laboratory precious particles of radium in their tiny glass receivers glow with an eerie blue light. “Look! Look!” says Marie. She sits down in darkness, her face turned toward the glowing vials. Radium. Their radium! Pierre stands at her side. Her body leans forward, her eyes attentive; she adopts the posture that had been hers an hour earlier at the bedside of her child. Eve Curie called it “the evening of the glowworms.” Marie and Pierre Curie and their new element became famous. By the middle of the first decade of this century had begun what can only be called a radium craze. A thousand and one uses were proposed for the material with the mysterious emanations. The curative powers of a radium solution—called “liquid sunshine”—were widely touted. It was soon discovered that radium killed bacteria, and suggested uses included mouthwashes and toothpastes. Health spas with traces of radium in the water became popular. Entertainers created “radium dances,” in which props and costumes coated with fluorescent salts of radium glowed in the dark. It is said that in New York people played “radium roulette,” with a glowing wheel and hall, and refreshed themselves with luminescent cocktails of radium-spiked liquid. The most important commercial application of radium was in the manufacture of self-luminous paint, widely used for the numerals of watches and clocks that could he read in the dark. Hundreds of women were employed applying the luminous compound to the dials. It was a common practice for them to sharpen the tips of their brushes with their lips. Many of these women were later affected by anemia and lesions of the jawbone and mouth; a number of them died. By 1930 the physiological hazards of radioactivity were recognized by the medical profession and the reckless misuse of radium had mostly ceased. But the mysterious emanations—which properly used are an effective treatment for cancer—had taken their toll. Marie Curie discovered the secret of the stars; her tiny glass vials contained the distilled essence of the force that makes the universe glow with light. She died of radiation-induced leukemia, with cataracts on her eyes and her fingertips marked by sores that would not heal. Like many of the gifts of knowledge, radium had proved a mixed blessing. The poet Adrienne Rich1 has described Marie Curie’s death this way: She died a famous woman denying her wounds denying her wounds came from the same source as her power The evening of the glowworms! Eve Curie’s evocative phrase might also be used to describe the dance of the Brazilian children, their bodies luminous with cesium-137. In these two stories we are drawn at last and emphatically into the circle of the Janus-faced2 god. Death and beauty, wounds and power: the piercing horns of the dilemma of science, demanding from the seeker of truth a measure of restraint. Adrienne Rich: American poet, born 1929. Janus: An ancient Roman god imagined to have two faces looking in opposite directions.

excerpt frоm “A Meаsure оf Restrаint,” by Chet Rаymо On September 13, 1987, two unemployed young men in search of a fast buck entered a partly demolished radiation clinic in Goiânia, Brazil. They removed a derelict cancer therapy machine containing a stainless steel cylinder, about the size of a gallon paint can, which they sold to a junk dealer for twenty-five dollars. Inside the cylinder was a cake of crumbly powder that emitted a mysterious blue light. The dealer took the seemingly magical material home and distributed it to his family and friends. His six-year-old niece rubbed the glowing dust on her body. One might imagine that she danced, eerily glowing in the sultry darkness of the tropic night like an enchanted sprite. The dust was cesium-137, a highly radioactive substance. The lovely light was the result of the decay of the cesium atoms. Another product of the decay was a flux of invisible particles with the power to damage living cells. The girl is dead. Others died or became grievously sick. More than two hundred people were contaminated. A beautiful, refulgent dust, stolen from an instrument of healing, had become the instrument of death. The junk dealer’s niece was not the only child who rubbed the cesium on her body like carnival glitter, and the image of those luminous children will not go away, Their story is a moral fable for our times—a haunting story, touched with dreamlike beauty and ending in death. It evokes another story that took place almost a century ago, another story that illustrates the risks that are sometimes imposed by knowledge. It is a story of Marie and Pierre Curie, the discoverers of radium, as told by their daughter Eve. The story begins at nine o’clock in the evening at the Curies’ house in Paris. Marie is sitting at the bedside of her four-year-old daughter, Irene. lt is a nightly ritual; the child is uncomfortable without her mother’s presence. Marie sits quietly near the girl until the restless young voice gives way to sleep. Then she goes downstairs to her husband Pierre. Husband and wife have just completed an arduous four-year effort to isolate from tons of raw ore the tiny amount of the new element that will win them fame. The work is still on their minds: the laboratory, the workbenches, the flasks and vials. “Suppose we go down there for a moment,” suggests Marie. They walk through the night to the laboratory and let themselves in. “Don’t light the lamps,” says Marie, in darkness. Before their recent success in isolating a significant amount of the new element, Pierre had expressed the wish that radium would have “a beautiful color.” Now it is clear that the reality is better than the wish. Unlike any other element, radium is spontaneously luminous! On the shelves in the dark laboratory precious particles of radium in their tiny glass receivers glow with an eerie blue light. “Look! Look!” says Marie. She sits down in darkness, her face turned toward the glowing vials. Radium. Their radium! Pierre stands at her side. Her body leans forward, her eyes attentive; she adopts the posture that had been hers an hour earlier at the bedside of her child. Eve Curie called it “the evening of the glowworms.” Marie and Pierre Curie and their new element became famous. By the middle of the first decade of this century had begun what can only be called a radium craze. A thousand and one uses were proposed for the material with the mysterious emanations. The curative powers of a radium solution—called “liquid sunshine”—were widely touted. It was soon discovered that radium killed bacteria, and suggested uses included mouthwashes and toothpastes. Health spas with traces of radium in the water became popular. Entertainers created “radium dances,” in which props and costumes coated with fluorescent salts of radium glowed in the dark. It is said that in New York people played “radium roulette,” with a glowing wheel and hall, and refreshed themselves with luminescent cocktails of radium-spiked liquid. The most important commercial application of radium was in the manufacture of self-luminous paint, widely used for the numerals of watches and clocks that could he read in the dark. Hundreds of women were employed applying the luminous compound to the dials. It was a common practice for them to sharpen the tips of their brushes with their lips. Many of these women were later affected by anemia and lesions of the jawbone and mouth; a number of them died. By 1930 the physiological hazards of radioactivity were recognized by the medical profession and the reckless misuse of radium had mostly ceased. But the mysterious emanations—which properly used are an effective treatment for cancer—had taken their toll. Marie Curie discovered the secret of the stars; her tiny glass vials contained the distilled essence of the force that makes the universe glow with light. She died of radiation-induced leukemia, with cataracts on her eyes and her fingertips marked by sores that would not heal. Like many of the gifts of knowledge, radium had proved a mixed blessing. The poet Adrienne Rich1 has described Marie Curie’s death this way: She died a famous woman denying her wounds denying her wounds came from the same source as her power The evening of the glowworms! Eve Curie’s evocative phrase might also be used to describe the dance of the Brazilian children, their bodies luminous with cesium-137. In these two stories we are drawn at last and emphatically into the circle of the Janus-faced2 god. Death and beauty, wounds and power: the piercing horns of the dilemma of science, demanding from the seeker of truth a measure of restraint. Adrienne Rich: American poet, born 1929. Janus: An ancient Roman god imagined to have two faces looking in opposite directions.

excerpt frоm “A Meаsure оf Restrаint,” by Chet Rаymо On September 13, 1987, two unemployed young men in search of a fast buck entered a partly demolished radiation clinic in Goiânia, Brazil. They removed a derelict cancer therapy machine containing a stainless steel cylinder, about the size of a gallon paint can, which they sold to a junk dealer for twenty-five dollars. Inside the cylinder was a cake of crumbly powder that emitted a mysterious blue light. The dealer took the seemingly magical material home and distributed it to his family and friends. His six-year-old niece rubbed the glowing dust on her body. One might imagine that she danced, eerily glowing in the sultry darkness of the tropic night like an enchanted sprite. The dust was cesium-137, a highly radioactive substance. The lovely light was the result of the decay of the cesium atoms. Another product of the decay was a flux of invisible particles with the power to damage living cells. The girl is dead. Others died or became grievously sick. More than two hundred people were contaminated. A beautiful, refulgent dust, stolen from an instrument of healing, had become the instrument of death. The junk dealer’s niece was not the only child who rubbed the cesium on her body like carnival glitter, and the image of those luminous children will not go away, Their story is a moral fable for our times—a haunting story, touched with dreamlike beauty and ending in death. It evokes another story that took place almost a century ago, another story that illustrates the risks that are sometimes imposed by knowledge. It is a story of Marie and Pierre Curie, the discoverers of radium, as told by their daughter Eve. The story begins at nine o’clock in the evening at the Curies’ house in Paris. Marie is sitting at the bedside of her four-year-old daughter, Irene. lt is a nightly ritual; the child is uncomfortable without her mother’s presence. Marie sits quietly near the girl until the restless young voice gives way to sleep. Then she goes downstairs to her husband Pierre. Husband and wife have just completed an arduous four-year effort to isolate from tons of raw ore the tiny amount of the new element that will win them fame. The work is still on their minds: the laboratory, the workbenches, the flasks and vials. “Suppose we go down there for a moment,” suggests Marie. They walk through the night to the laboratory and let themselves in. “Don’t light the lamps,” says Marie, in darkness. Before their recent success in isolating a significant amount of the new element, Pierre had expressed the wish that radium would have “a beautiful color.” Now it is clear that the reality is better than the wish. Unlike any other element, radium is spontaneously luminous! On the shelves in the dark laboratory precious particles of radium in their tiny glass receivers glow with an eerie blue light. “Look! Look!” says Marie. She sits down in darkness, her face turned toward the glowing vials. Radium. Their radium! Pierre stands at her side. Her body leans forward, her eyes attentive; she adopts the posture that had been hers an hour earlier at the bedside of her child. Eve Curie called it “the evening of the glowworms.” Marie and Pierre Curie and their new element became famous. By the middle of the first decade of this century had begun what can only be called a radium craze. A thousand and one uses were proposed for the material with the mysterious emanations. The curative powers of a radium solution—called “liquid sunshine”—were widely touted. It was soon discovered that radium killed bacteria, and suggested uses included mouthwashes and toothpastes. Health spas with traces of radium in the water became popular. Entertainers created “radium dances,” in which props and costumes coated with fluorescent salts of radium glowed in the dark. It is said that in New York people played “radium roulette,” with a glowing wheel and hall, and refreshed themselves with luminescent cocktails of radium-spiked liquid. The most important commercial application of radium was in the manufacture of self-luminous paint, widely used for the numerals of watches and clocks that could he read in the dark. Hundreds of women were employed applying the luminous compound to the dials. It was a common practice for them to sharpen the tips of their brushes with their lips. Many of these women were later affected by anemia and lesions of the jawbone and mouth; a number of them died. By 1930 the physiological hazards of radioactivity were recognized by the medical profession and the reckless misuse of radium had mostly ceased. But the mysterious emanations—which properly used are an effective treatment for cancer—had taken their toll. Marie Curie discovered the secret of the stars; her tiny glass vials contained the distilled essence of the force that makes the universe glow with light. She died of radiation-induced leukemia, with cataracts on her eyes and her fingertips marked by sores that would not heal. Like many of the gifts of knowledge, radium had proved a mixed blessing. The poet Adrienne Rich1 has described Marie Curie’s death this way: She died a famous woman denying her wounds denying her wounds came from the same source as her power The evening of the glowworms! Eve Curie’s evocative phrase might also be used to describe the dance of the Brazilian children, their bodies luminous with cesium-137. In these two stories we are drawn at last and emphatically into the circle of the Janus-faced2 god. Death and beauty, wounds and power: the piercing horns of the dilemma of science, demanding from the seeker of truth a measure of restraint. Adrienne Rich: American poet, born 1929. Janus: An ancient Roman god imagined to have two faces looking in opposite directions.

Excerpt frоm “The ‘Industriаl Revоlutiоn’ in the Home: Household Technology аnd Sociаl Change in the 20th Century,” by Ruth Schwartz Cowan The significant change in the structure of the household labor force was the disappearance of paid and unpaid servants (unmarried daughters, maiden aunts, and grandparents fall in the latter category) as household workers—and the imposition of the entire job on the housewife herself. Leaving aside for a moment the question of which was cause and which effect (did the disappearance of the servant create a demand for the new technology, or did the new technology make the servant obsolete?), the phenomenon itself is relatively easy to document. Before World War I, when illustrators in the women's magazines depicted women doing housework, the women were very often servants. When the lady of the house was drawn, she was often the person being served, or she was supervising the serving, or she was adding an elegant finishing touch to the work. Nursemaids diapered babies, seamstresses pinned up hems, waitresses served meals, laundresses did the wash, and cooks did the cooking. By the end of the 1920s the servants had disappeared from those illustrations. All those jobs were being done by housewives—elegantly manicured and coiffed, to be sure, but housewives nonetheless. If we are tempted to suppose that illustrations in advertisements are not a reliable indicator of structural changes of this sort, we can corroborate the changes in other ways. Apparently, the illustrators really did know whereof they drew. Statistically the number of persons throughout the country employed in household service dropped from 1,851,000 in 1910 to 1,411,000 in 1920. Meanwhile, the number of household enumerated in the census rose from 20.3 million to 24.4 million.1 In Indiana the ratio of households to servants increased from 13.5/1 in 1890 to 30.5/1 in 1920. In the country as a whole the number of paid domestic servants per 1,000 population dropped from 98.9 in 1900 to 58.0 in 1920.2 The business-class housewives of Muncie reported that they employed approximately one-half as many woman-hours of domestic service as their mothers had done.3 In case we are tempted to doubt these statistics4 . . . we can turn to articles on the servant problem, the disappearance of unpaid family workers, the design of kitchens, or to architectural drawings for houses. All this evidence reiterates the same point: qualified servants were difficult to find; their wages had risen and their numbers fallen; houses were being designed without maids' rooms; daughters and unmarried aunts were finding jobs downtown; kitchens were being designed for housewives, not servants.5 The first home with a kitchen that was not an entirely separate room was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in 1934. In 1937 Emily Post invented a new character for her etiquette books: Mrs. Three-in One. Mrs. Three-in-One is her own cook, waitress, and hostess.6 There must have been many new Mrs. Three-in-Ones abroad in the land during the 1920s. . . . "All these [ideas] point in the same direction: mechanization of the household meant that time expended on some jobs decreased, but also that new jobs were substituted, and in some cases like laundering, time expenditures for old jobs increased because of higher standards. The advantages of mechanization may be somewhat more dubious than they seem at first glance. 1 Historical Statistics, pp. 16 and 77. 2 For Indiana data, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. For national data, see D. L. Kaplan and M. Clair Casey, Occupational Trends in the United States, 1900-1950, U.S. Bureau of the Census Working Paper no. 5 (Washington, D.C., 1958), table 6. The extreme drop in numbers of servants between 1910 and 1920 also lends credence to the notion that this demographic factor stimulated the industrial revolution in housework. 3 Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. 4 Indeed, statistics about household labor are particularly unreliable, as the labor is often transient, part-time, or simply unreported. 5 On the disappearance of maiden aunts, unmarried daughters, and grandparents, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, pp. 25, 99, and 110; Edward Bok, “Editorial,” American Home 1 (October 1928)L 15; “How to Buy Life Insurance,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (March 1928): 35. The house plans appeared every month in American Home, which began publication in 1928. On kitchen design, see Giedion, pp. 603-21; “Editorial,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 36; advertisements for Hoosier kitchen cabinets, Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 117. Articles on servant problems include “The Vanishing Servant Girl,” Ladies’ Home Journal 35 (May 1918): 48; “Housework, Then and Now,” American Home 8 (June 1932): 128; “The Servant Problem,” Fortune 24 (March 1938): 80-94; and Report of the YWCA Commission on Domestic Service (Los Angeles, 1915). 6 Emily Post, Etiquette: The Blue Book of Social Usage, 5th ed. rev. (New York, 1937), p. 823.

Excerpt frоm “The ‘Industriаl Revоlutiоn’ in the Home: Household Technology аnd Sociаl Change in the 20th Century,” by Ruth Schwartz Cowan The significant change in the structure of the household labor force was the disappearance of paid and unpaid servants (unmarried daughters, maiden aunts, and grandparents fall in the latter category) as household workers—and the imposition of the entire job on the housewife herself. Leaving aside for a moment the question of which was cause and which effect (did the disappearance of the servant create a demand for the new technology, or did the new technology make the servant obsolete?), the phenomenon itself is relatively easy to document. Before World War I, when illustrators in the women's magazines depicted women doing housework, the women were very often servants. When the lady of the house was drawn, she was often the person being served, or she was supervising the serving, or she was adding an elegant finishing touch to the work. Nursemaids diapered babies, seamstresses pinned up hems, waitresses served meals, laundresses did the wash, and cooks did the cooking. By the end of the 1920s the servants had disappeared from those illustrations. All those jobs were being done by housewives—elegantly manicured and coiffed, to be sure, but housewives nonetheless. If we are tempted to suppose that illustrations in advertisements are not a reliable indicator of structural changes of this sort, we can corroborate the changes in other ways. Apparently, the illustrators really did know whereof they drew. Statistically the number of persons throughout the country employed in household service dropped from 1,851,000 in 1910 to 1,411,000 in 1920. Meanwhile, the number of household enumerated in the census rose from 20.3 million to 24.4 million.1 In Indiana the ratio of households to servants increased from 13.5/1 in 1890 to 30.5/1 in 1920. In the country as a whole the number of paid domestic servants per 1,000 population dropped from 98.9 in 1900 to 58.0 in 1920.2 The business-class housewives of Muncie reported that they employed approximately one-half as many woman-hours of domestic service as their mothers had done.3 In case we are tempted to doubt these statistics4 . . . we can turn to articles on the servant problem, the disappearance of unpaid family workers, the design of kitchens, or to architectural drawings for houses. All this evidence reiterates the same point: qualified servants were difficult to find; their wages had risen and their numbers fallen; houses were being designed without maids' rooms; daughters and unmarried aunts were finding jobs downtown; kitchens were being designed for housewives, not servants.5 The first home with a kitchen that was not an entirely separate room was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in 1934. In 1937 Emily Post invented a new character for her etiquette books: Mrs. Three-in One. Mrs. Three-in-One is her own cook, waitress, and hostess.6 There must have been many new Mrs. Three-in-Ones abroad in the land during the 1920s. . . . "All these [ideas] point in the same direction: mechanization of the household meant that time expended on some jobs decreased, but also that new jobs were substituted, and in some cases like laundering, time expenditures for old jobs increased because of higher standards. The advantages of mechanization may be somewhat more dubious than they seem at first glance. 1 Historical Statistics, pp. 16 and 77. 2 For Indiana data, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. For national data, see D. L. Kaplan and M. Clair Casey, Occupational Trends in the United States, 1900-1950, U.S. Bureau of the Census Working Paper no. 5 (Washington, D.C., 1958), table 6. The extreme drop in numbers of servants between 1910 and 1920 also lends credence to the notion that this demographic factor stimulated the industrial revolution in housework. 3 Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. 4 Indeed, statistics about household labor are particularly unreliable, as the labor is often transient, part-time, or simply unreported. 5 On the disappearance of maiden aunts, unmarried daughters, and grandparents, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, pp. 25, 99, and 110; Edward Bok, “Editorial,” American Home 1 (October 1928)L 15; “How to Buy Life Insurance,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (March 1928): 35. The house plans appeared every month in American Home, which began publication in 1928. On kitchen design, see Giedion, pp. 603-21; “Editorial,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 36; advertisements for Hoosier kitchen cabinets, Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 117. Articles on servant problems include “The Vanishing Servant Girl,” Ladies’ Home Journal 35 (May 1918): 48; “Housework, Then and Now,” American Home 8 (June 1932): 128; “The Servant Problem,” Fortune 24 (March 1938): 80-94; and Report of the YWCA Commission on Domestic Service (Los Angeles, 1915). 6 Emily Post, Etiquette: The Blue Book of Social Usage, 5th ed. rev. (New York, 1937), p. 823.

Excerpt frоm “The ‘Industriаl Revоlutiоn’ in the Home: Household Technology аnd Sociаl Change in the 20th Century,” by Ruth Schwartz Cowan The significant change in the structure of the household labor force was the disappearance of paid and unpaid servants (unmarried daughters, maiden aunts, and grandparents fall in the latter category) as household workers—and the imposition of the entire job on the housewife herself. Leaving aside for a moment the question of which was cause and which effect (did the disappearance of the servant create a demand for the new technology, or did the new technology make the servant obsolete?), the phenomenon itself is relatively easy to document. Before World War I, when illustrators in the women's magazines depicted women doing housework, the women were very often servants. When the lady of the house was drawn, she was often the person being served, or she was supervising the serving, or she was adding an elegant finishing touch to the work. Nursemaids diapered babies, seamstresses pinned up hems, waitresses served meals, laundresses did the wash, and cooks did the cooking. By the end of the 1920s the servants had disappeared from those illustrations. All those jobs were being done by housewives—elegantly manicured and coiffed, to be sure, but housewives nonetheless. If we are tempted to suppose that illustrations in advertisements are not a reliable indicator of structural changes of this sort, we can corroborate the changes in other ways. Apparently, the illustrators really did know whereof they drew. Statistically the number of persons throughout the country employed in household service dropped from 1,851,000 in 1910 to 1,411,000 in 1920. Meanwhile, the number of household enumerated in the census rose from 20.3 million to 24.4 million.1 In Indiana the ratio of households to servants increased from 13.5/1 in 1890 to 30.5/1 in 1920. In the country as a whole the number of paid domestic servants per 1,000 population dropped from 98.9 in 1900 to 58.0 in 1920.2 The business-class housewives of Muncie reported that they employed approximately one-half as many woman-hours of domestic service as their mothers had done.3 In case we are tempted to doubt these statistics4 . . . we can turn to articles on the servant problem, the disappearance of unpaid family workers, the design of kitchens, or to architectural drawings for houses. All this evidence reiterates the same point: qualified servants were difficult to find; their wages had risen and their numbers fallen; houses were being designed without maids' rooms; daughters and unmarried aunts were finding jobs downtown; kitchens were being designed for housewives, not servants.5 The first home with a kitchen that was not an entirely separate room was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in 1934. In 1937 Emily Post invented a new character for her etiquette books: Mrs. Three-in One. Mrs. Three-in-One is her own cook, waitress, and hostess.6 There must have been many new Mrs. Three-in-Ones abroad in the land during the 1920s. . . . "All these [ideas] point in the same direction: mechanization of the household meant that time expended on some jobs decreased, but also that new jobs were substituted, and in some cases like laundering, time expenditures for old jobs increased because of higher standards. The advantages of mechanization may be somewhat more dubious than they seem at first glance. 1 Historical Statistics, pp. 16 and 77. 2 For Indiana data, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. For national data, see D. L. Kaplan and M. Clair Casey, Occupational Trends in the United States, 1900-1950, U.S. Bureau of the Census Working Paper no. 5 (Washington, D.C., 1958), table 6. The extreme drop in numbers of servants between 1910 and 1920 also lends credence to the notion that this demographic factor stimulated the industrial revolution in housework. 3 Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. 4 Indeed, statistics about household labor are particularly unreliable, as the labor is often transient, part-time, or simply unreported. 5 On the disappearance of maiden aunts, unmarried daughters, and grandparents, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, pp. 25, 99, and 110; Edward Bok, “Editorial,” American Home 1 (October 1928)L 15; “How to Buy Life Insurance,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (March 1928): 35. The house plans appeared every month in American Home, which began publication in 1928. On kitchen design, see Giedion, pp. 603-21; “Editorial,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 36; advertisements for Hoosier kitchen cabinets, Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 117. Articles on servant problems include “The Vanishing Servant Girl,” Ladies’ Home Journal 35 (May 1918): 48; “Housework, Then and Now,” American Home 8 (June 1932): 128; “The Servant Problem,” Fortune 24 (March 1938): 80-94; and Report of the YWCA Commission on Domestic Service (Los Angeles, 1915). 6 Emily Post, Etiquette: The Blue Book of Social Usage, 5th ed. rev. (New York, 1937), p. 823.

Excerpt frоm “The ‘Industriаl Revоlutiоn’ in the Home: Household Technology аnd Sociаl Change in the 20th Century,” by Ruth Schwartz Cowan The significant change in the structure of the household labor force was the disappearance of paid and unpaid servants (unmarried daughters, maiden aunts, and grandparents fall in the latter category) as household workers—and the imposition of the entire job on the housewife herself. Leaving aside for a moment the question of which was cause and which effect (did the disappearance of the servant create a demand for the new technology, or did the new technology make the servant obsolete?), the phenomenon itself is relatively easy to document. Before World War I, when illustrators in the women's magazines depicted women doing housework, the women were very often servants. When the lady of the house was drawn, she was often the person being served, or she was supervising the serving, or she was adding an elegant finishing touch to the work. Nursemaids diapered babies, seamstresses pinned up hems, waitresses served meals, laundresses did the wash, and cooks did the cooking. By the end of the 1920s the servants had disappeared from those illustrations. All those jobs were being done by housewives—elegantly manicured and coiffed, to be sure, but housewives nonetheless. If we are tempted to suppose that illustrations in advertisements are not a reliable indicator of structural changes of this sort, we can corroborate the changes in other ways. Apparently, the illustrators really did know whereof they drew. Statistically the number of persons throughout the country employed in household service dropped from 1,851,000 in 1910 to 1,411,000 in 1920. Meanwhile, the number of household enumerated in the census rose from 20.3 million to 24.4 million.1 In Indiana the ratio of households to servants increased from 13.5/1 in 1890 to 30.5/1 in 1920. In the country as a whole the number of paid domestic servants per 1,000 population dropped from 98.9 in 1900 to 58.0 in 1920.2 The business-class housewives of Muncie reported that they employed approximately one-half as many woman-hours of domestic service as their mothers had done.3 In case we are tempted to doubt these statistics4 . . . we can turn to articles on the servant problem, the disappearance of unpaid family workers, the design of kitchens, or to architectural drawings for houses. All this evidence reiterates the same point: qualified servants were difficult to find; their wages had risen and their numbers fallen; houses were being designed without maids' rooms; daughters and unmarried aunts were finding jobs downtown; kitchens were being designed for housewives, not servants.5 The first home with a kitchen that was not an entirely separate room was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in 1934. In 1937 Emily Post invented a new character for her etiquette books: Mrs. Three-in One. Mrs. Three-in-One is her own cook, waitress, and hostess.6 There must have been many new Mrs. Three-in-Ones abroad in the land during the 1920s. . . . "All these [ideas] point in the same direction: mechanization of the household meant that time expended on some jobs decreased, but also that new jobs were substituted, and in some cases like laundering, time expenditures for old jobs increased because of higher standards. The advantages of mechanization may be somewhat more dubious than they seem at first glance. 1 Historical Statistics, pp. 16 and 77. 2 For Indiana data, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. For national data, see D. L. Kaplan and M. Clair Casey, Occupational Trends in the United States, 1900-1950, U.S. Bureau of the Census Working Paper no. 5 (Washington, D.C., 1958), table 6. The extreme drop in numbers of servants between 1910 and 1920 also lends credence to the notion that this demographic factor stimulated the industrial revolution in housework. 3 Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. 4 Indeed, statistics about household labor are particularly unreliable, as the labor is often transient, part-time, or simply unreported. 5 On the disappearance of maiden aunts, unmarried daughters, and grandparents, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, pp. 25, 99, and 110; Edward Bok, “Editorial,” American Home 1 (October 1928)L 15; “How to Buy Life Insurance,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (March 1928): 35. The house plans appeared every month in American Home, which began publication in 1928. On kitchen design, see Giedion, pp. 603-21; “Editorial,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 36; advertisements for Hoosier kitchen cabinets, Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 117. Articles on servant problems include “The Vanishing Servant Girl,” Ladies’ Home Journal 35 (May 1918): 48; “Housework, Then and Now,” American Home 8 (June 1932): 128; “The Servant Problem,” Fortune 24 (March 1938): 80-94; and Report of the YWCA Commission on Domestic Service (Los Angeles, 1915). 6 Emily Post, Etiquette: The Blue Book of Social Usage, 5th ed. rev. (New York, 1937), p. 823.

Excerpt frоm “The ‘Industriаl Revоlutiоn’ in the Home: Household Technology аnd Sociаl Change in the 20th Century,” by Ruth Schwartz Cowan The significant change in the structure of the household labor force was the disappearance of paid and unpaid servants (unmarried daughters, maiden aunts, and grandparents fall in the latter category) as household workers—and the imposition of the entire job on the housewife herself. Leaving aside for a moment the question of which was cause and which effect (did the disappearance of the servant create a demand for the new technology, or did the new technology make the servant obsolete?), the phenomenon itself is relatively easy to document. Before World War I, when illustrators in the women's magazines depicted women doing housework, the women were very often servants. When the lady of the house was drawn, she was often the person being served, or she was supervising the serving, or she was adding an elegant finishing touch to the work. Nursemaids diapered babies, seamstresses pinned up hems, waitresses served meals, laundresses did the wash, and cooks did the cooking. By the end of the 1920s the servants had disappeared from those illustrations. All those jobs were being done by housewives—elegantly manicured and coiffed, to be sure, but housewives nonetheless. If we are tempted to suppose that illustrations in advertisements are not a reliable indicator of structural changes of this sort, we can corroborate the changes in other ways. Apparently, the illustrators really did know whereof they drew. Statistically the number of persons throughout the country employed in household service dropped from 1,851,000 in 1910 to 1,411,000 in 1920. Meanwhile, the number of household enumerated in the census rose from 20.3 million to 24.4 million.1 In Indiana the ratio of households to servants increased from 13.5/1 in 1890 to 30.5/1 in 1920. In the country as a whole the number of paid domestic servants per 1,000 population dropped from 98.9 in 1900 to 58.0 in 1920.2 The business-class housewives of Muncie reported that they employed approximately one-half as many woman-hours of domestic service as their mothers had done.3 In case we are tempted to doubt these statistics4 . . . we can turn to articles on the servant problem, the disappearance of unpaid family workers, the design of kitchens, or to architectural drawings for houses. All this evidence reiterates the same point: qualified servants were difficult to find; their wages had risen and their numbers fallen; houses were being designed without maids' rooms; daughters and unmarried aunts were finding jobs downtown; kitchens were being designed for housewives, not servants.5 The first home with a kitchen that was not an entirely separate room was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in 1934. In 1937 Emily Post invented a new character for her etiquette books: Mrs. Three-in One. Mrs. Three-in-One is her own cook, waitress, and hostess.6 There must have been many new Mrs. Three-in-Ones abroad in the land during the 1920s. . . . "All these [ideas] point in the same direction: mechanization of the household meant that time expended on some jobs decreased, but also that new jobs were substituted, and in some cases like laundering, time expenditures for old jobs increased because of higher standards. The advantages of mechanization may be somewhat more dubious than they seem at first glance. 1 Historical Statistics, pp. 16 and 77. 2 For Indiana data, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. For national data, see D. L. Kaplan and M. Clair Casey, Occupational Trends in the United States, 1900-1950, U.S. Bureau of the Census Working Paper no. 5 (Washington, D.C., 1958), table 6. The extreme drop in numbers of servants between 1910 and 1920 also lends credence to the notion that this demographic factor stimulated the industrial revolution in housework. 3 Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. 4 Indeed, statistics about household labor are particularly unreliable, as the labor is often transient, part-time, or simply unreported. 5 On the disappearance of maiden aunts, unmarried daughters, and grandparents, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, pp. 25, 99, and 110; Edward Bok, “Editorial,” American Home 1 (October 1928)L 15; “How to Buy Life Insurance,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (March 1928): 35. The house plans appeared every month in American Home, which began publication in 1928. On kitchen design, see Giedion, pp. 603-21; “Editorial,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 36; advertisements for Hoosier kitchen cabinets, Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 117. Articles on servant problems include “The Vanishing Servant Girl,” Ladies’ Home Journal 35 (May 1918): 48; “Housework, Then and Now,” American Home 8 (June 1932): 128; “The Servant Problem,” Fortune 24 (March 1938): 80-94; and Report of the YWCA Commission on Domestic Service (Los Angeles, 1915). 6 Emily Post, Etiquette: The Blue Book of Social Usage, 5th ed. rev. (New York, 1937), p. 823.

Excerpt frоm “The ‘Industriаl Revоlutiоn’ in the Home: Household Technology аnd Sociаl Change in the 20th Century,” by Ruth Schwartz Cowan The significant change in the structure of the household labor force was the disappearance of paid and unpaid servants (unmarried daughters, maiden aunts, and grandparents fall in the latter category) as household workers—and the imposition of the entire job on the housewife herself. Leaving aside for a moment the question of which was cause and which effect (did the disappearance of the servant create a demand for the new technology, or did the new technology make the servant obsolete?), the phenomenon itself is relatively easy to document. Before World War I, when illustrators in the women's magazines depicted women doing housework, the women were very often servants. When the lady of the house was drawn, she was often the person being served, or she was supervising the serving, or she was adding an elegant finishing touch to the work. Nursemaids diapered babies, seamstresses pinned up hems, waitresses served meals, laundresses did the wash, and cooks did the cooking. By the end of the 1920s the servants had disappeared from those illustrations. All those jobs were being done by housewives—elegantly manicured and coiffed, to be sure, but housewives nonetheless. If we are tempted to suppose that illustrations in advertisements are not a reliable indicator of structural changes of this sort, we can corroborate the changes in other ways. Apparently, the illustrators really did know whereof they drew. Statistically the number of persons throughout the country employed in household service dropped from 1,851,000 in 1910 to 1,411,000 in 1920. Meanwhile, the number of household enumerated in the census rose from 20.3 million to 24.4 million.1 In Indiana the ratio of households to servants increased from 13.5/1 in 1890 to 30.5/1 in 1920. In the country as a whole the number of paid domestic servants per 1,000 population dropped from 98.9 in 1900 to 58.0 in 1920.2 The business-class housewives of Muncie reported that they employed approximately one-half as many woman-hours of domestic service as their mothers had done.3 In case we are tempted to doubt these statistics4 . . . we can turn to articles on the servant problem, the disappearance of unpaid family workers, the design of kitchens, or to architectural drawings for houses. All this evidence reiterates the same point: qualified servants were difficult to find; their wages had risen and their numbers fallen; houses were being designed without maids' rooms; daughters and unmarried aunts were finding jobs downtown; kitchens were being designed for housewives, not servants.5 The first home with a kitchen that was not an entirely separate room was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in 1934. In 1937 Emily Post invented a new character for her etiquette books: Mrs. Three-in One. Mrs. Three-in-One is her own cook, waitress, and hostess.6 There must have been many new Mrs. Three-in-Ones abroad in the land during the 1920s. . . . "All these [ideas] point in the same direction: mechanization of the household meant that time expended on some jobs decreased, but also that new jobs were substituted, and in some cases like laundering, time expenditures for old jobs increased because of higher standards. The advantages of mechanization may be somewhat more dubious than they seem at first glance. 1 Historical Statistics, pp. 16 and 77. 2 For Indiana data, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. For national data, see D. L. Kaplan and M. Clair Casey, Occupational Trends in the United States, 1900-1950, U.S. Bureau of the Census Working Paper no. 5 (Washington, D.C., 1958), table 6. The extreme drop in numbers of servants between 1910 and 1920 also lends credence to the notion that this demographic factor stimulated the industrial revolution in housework. 3 Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. 4 Indeed, statistics about household labor are particularly unreliable, as the labor is often transient, part-time, or simply unreported. 5 On the disappearance of maiden aunts, unmarried daughters, and grandparents, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, pp. 25, 99, and 110; Edward Bok, “Editorial,” American Home 1 (October 1928)L 15; “How to Buy Life Insurance,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (March 1928): 35. The house plans appeared every month in American Home, which began publication in 1928. On kitchen design, see Giedion, pp. 603-21; “Editorial,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 36; advertisements for Hoosier kitchen cabinets, Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 117. Articles on servant problems include “The Vanishing Servant Girl,” Ladies’ Home Journal 35 (May 1918): 48; “Housework, Then and Now,” American Home 8 (June 1932): 128; “The Servant Problem,” Fortune 24 (March 1938): 80-94; and Report of the YWCA Commission on Domestic Service (Los Angeles, 1915). 6 Emily Post, Etiquette: The Blue Book of Social Usage, 5th ed. rev. (New York, 1937), p. 823.

Excerpt frоm “The ‘Industriаl Revоlutiоn’ in the Home: Household Technology аnd Sociаl Change in the 20th Century,” by Ruth Schwartz Cowan The significant change in the structure of the household labor force was the disappearance of paid and unpaid servants (unmarried daughters, maiden aunts, and grandparents fall in the latter category) as household workers—and the imposition of the entire job on the housewife herself. Leaving aside for a moment the question of which was cause and which effect (did the disappearance of the servant create a demand for the new technology, or did the new technology make the servant obsolete?), the phenomenon itself is relatively easy to document. Before World War I, when illustrators in the women's magazines depicted women doing housework, the women were very often servants. When the lady of the house was drawn, she was often the person being served, or she was supervising the serving, or she was adding an elegant finishing touch to the work. Nursemaids diapered babies, seamstresses pinned up hems, waitresses served meals, laundresses did the wash, and cooks did the cooking. By the end of the 1920s the servants had disappeared from those illustrations. All those jobs were being done by housewives—elegantly manicured and coiffed, to be sure, but housewives nonetheless. If we are tempted to suppose that illustrations in advertisements are not a reliable indicator of structural changes of this sort, we can corroborate the changes in other ways. Apparently, the illustrators really did know whereof they drew. Statistically the number of persons throughout the country employed in household service dropped from 1,851,000 in 1910 to 1,411,000 in 1920. Meanwhile, the number of household enumerated in the census rose from 20.3 million to 24.4 million.1 In Indiana the ratio of households to servants increased from 13.5/1 in 1890 to 30.5/1 in 1920. In the country as a whole the number of paid domestic servants per 1,000 population dropped from 98.9 in 1900 to 58.0 in 1920.2 The business-class housewives of Muncie reported that they employed approximately one-half as many woman-hours of domestic service as their mothers had done.3 In case we are tempted to doubt these statistics4 . . . we can turn to articles on the servant problem, the disappearance of unpaid family workers, the design of kitchens, or to architectural drawings for houses. All this evidence reiterates the same point: qualified servants were difficult to find; their wages had risen and their numbers fallen; houses were being designed without maids' rooms; daughters and unmarried aunts were finding jobs downtown; kitchens were being designed for housewives, not servants.5 The first home with a kitchen that was not an entirely separate room was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in 1934. In 1937 Emily Post invented a new character for her etiquette books: Mrs. Three-in One. Mrs. Three-in-One is her own cook, waitress, and hostess.6 There must have been many new Mrs. Three-in-Ones abroad in the land during the 1920s. . . . "All these [ideas] point in the same direction: mechanization of the household meant that time expended on some jobs decreased, but also that new jobs were substituted, and in some cases like laundering, time expenditures for old jobs increased because of higher standards. The advantages of mechanization may be somewhat more dubious than they seem at first glance. 1 Historical Statistics, pp. 16 and 77. 2 For Indiana data, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. For national data, see D. L. Kaplan and M. Clair Casey, Occupational Trends in the United States, 1900-1950, U.S. Bureau of the Census Working Paper no. 5 (Washington, D.C., 1958), table 6. The extreme drop in numbers of servants between 1910 and 1920 also lends credence to the notion that this demographic factor stimulated the industrial revolution in housework. 3 Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. 4 Indeed, statistics about household labor are particularly unreliable, as the labor is often transient, part-time, or simply unreported. 5 On the disappearance of maiden aunts, unmarried daughters, and grandparents, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, pp. 25, 99, and 110; Edward Bok, “Editorial,” American Home 1 (October 1928)L 15; “How to Buy Life Insurance,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (March 1928): 35. The house plans appeared every month in American Home, which began publication in 1928. On kitchen design, see Giedion, pp. 603-21; “Editorial,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 36; advertisements for Hoosier kitchen cabinets, Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 117. Articles on servant problems include “The Vanishing Servant Girl,” Ladies’ Home Journal 35 (May 1918): 48; “Housework, Then and Now,” American Home 8 (June 1932): 128; “The Servant Problem,” Fortune 24 (March 1938): 80-94; and Report of the YWCA Commission on Domestic Service (Los Angeles, 1915). 6 Emily Post, Etiquette: The Blue Book of Social Usage, 5th ed. rev. (New York, 1937), p. 823.

Excerpt frоm “The ‘Industriаl Revоlutiоn’ in the Home: Household Technology аnd Sociаl Change in the 20th Century,” by Ruth Schwartz Cowan The significant change in the structure of the household labor force was the disappearance of paid and unpaid servants (unmarried daughters, maiden aunts, and grandparents fall in the latter category) as household workers—and the imposition of the entire job on the housewife herself. Leaving aside for a moment the question of which was cause and which effect (did the disappearance of the servant create a demand for the new technology, or did the new technology make the servant obsolete?), the phenomenon itself is relatively easy to document. Before World War I, when illustrators in the women's magazines depicted women doing housework, the women were very often servants. When the lady of the house was drawn, she was often the person being served, or she was supervising the serving, or she was adding an elegant finishing touch to the work. Nursemaids diapered babies, seamstresses pinned up hems, waitresses served meals, laundresses did the wash, and cooks did the cooking. By the end of the 1920s the servants had disappeared from those illustrations. All those jobs were being done by housewives—elegantly manicured and coiffed, to be sure, but housewives nonetheless. If we are tempted to suppose that illustrations in advertisements are not a reliable indicator of structural changes of this sort, we can corroborate the changes in other ways. Apparently, the illustrators really did know whereof they drew. Statistically the number of persons throughout the country employed in household service dropped from 1,851,000 in 1910 to 1,411,000 in 1920. Meanwhile, the number of household enumerated in the census rose from 20.3 million to 24.4 million.1 In Indiana the ratio of households to servants increased from 13.5/1 in 1890 to 30.5/1 in 1920. In the country as a whole the number of paid domestic servants per 1,000 population dropped from 98.9 in 1900 to 58.0 in 1920.2 The business-class housewives of Muncie reported that they employed approximately one-half as many woman-hours of domestic service as their mothers had done.3 In case we are tempted to doubt these statistics4 . . . we can turn to articles on the servant problem, the disappearance of unpaid family workers, the design of kitchens, or to architectural drawings for houses. All this evidence reiterates the same point: qualified servants were difficult to find; their wages had risen and their numbers fallen; houses were being designed without maids' rooms; daughters and unmarried aunts were finding jobs downtown; kitchens were being designed for housewives, not servants.5 The first home with a kitchen that was not an entirely separate room was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in 1934. In 1937 Emily Post invented a new character for her etiquette books: Mrs. Three-in One. Mrs. Three-in-One is her own cook, waitress, and hostess.6 There must have been many new Mrs. Three-in-Ones abroad in the land during the 1920s. . . . "All these [ideas] point in the same direction: mechanization of the household meant that time expended on some jobs decreased, but also that new jobs were substituted, and in some cases like laundering, time expenditures for old jobs increased because of higher standards. The advantages of mechanization may be somewhat more dubious than they seem at first glance. 1 Historical Statistics, pp. 16 and 77. 2 For Indiana data, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. For national data, see D. L. Kaplan and M. Clair Casey, Occupational Trends in the United States, 1900-1950, U.S. Bureau of the Census Working Paper no. 5 (Washington, D.C., 1958), table 6. The extreme drop in numbers of servants between 1910 and 1920 also lends credence to the notion that this demographic factor stimulated the industrial revolution in housework. 3 Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. 4 Indeed, statistics about household labor are particularly unreliable, as the labor is often transient, part-time, or simply unreported. 5 On the disappearance of maiden aunts, unmarried daughters, and grandparents, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, pp. 25, 99, and 110; Edward Bok, “Editorial,” American Home 1 (October 1928)L 15; “How to Buy Life Insurance,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (March 1928): 35. The house plans appeared every month in American Home, which began publication in 1928. On kitchen design, see Giedion, pp. 603-21; “Editorial,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 36; advertisements for Hoosier kitchen cabinets, Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 117. Articles on servant problems include “The Vanishing Servant Girl,” Ladies’ Home Journal 35 (May 1918): 48; “Housework, Then and Now,” American Home 8 (June 1932): 128; “The Servant Problem,” Fortune 24 (March 1938): 80-94; and Report of the YWCA Commission on Domestic Service (Los Angeles, 1915). 6 Emily Post, Etiquette: The Blue Book of Social Usage, 5th ed. rev. (New York, 1937), p. 823.

Excerpt frоm “The ‘Industriаl Revоlutiоn’ in the Home: Household Technology аnd Sociаl Change in the 20th Century,” by Ruth Schwartz Cowan The significant change in the structure of the household labor force was the disappearance of paid and unpaid servants (unmarried daughters, maiden aunts, and grandparents fall in the latter category) as household workers—and the imposition of the entire job on the housewife herself. Leaving aside for a moment the question of which was cause and which effect (did the disappearance of the servant create a demand for the new technology, or did the new technology make the servant obsolete?), the phenomenon itself is relatively easy to document. Before World War I, when illustrators in the women's magazines depicted women doing housework, the women were very often servants. When the lady of the house was drawn, she was often the person being served, or she was supervising the serving, or she was adding an elegant finishing touch to the work. Nursemaids diapered babies, seamstresses pinned up hems, waitresses served meals, laundresses did the wash, and cooks did the cooking. By the end of the 1920s the servants had disappeared from those illustrations. All those jobs were being done by housewives—elegantly manicured and coiffed, to be sure, but housewives nonetheless. If we are tempted to suppose that illustrations in advertisements are not a reliable indicator of structural changes of this sort, we can corroborate the changes in other ways. Apparently, the illustrators really did know whereof they drew. Statistically the number of persons throughout the country employed in household service dropped from 1,851,000 in 1910 to 1,411,000 in 1920. Meanwhile, the number of household enumerated in the census rose from 20.3 million to 24.4 million.1 In Indiana the ratio of households to servants increased from 13.5/1 in 1890 to 30.5/1 in 1920. In the country as a whole the number of paid domestic servants per 1,000 population dropped from 98.9 in 1900 to 58.0 in 1920.2 The business-class housewives of Muncie reported that they employed approximately one-half as many woman-hours of domestic service as their mothers had done.3 In case we are tempted to doubt these statistics4 . . . we can turn to articles on the servant problem, the disappearance of unpaid family workers, the design of kitchens, or to architectural drawings for houses. All this evidence reiterates the same point: qualified servants were difficult to find; their wages had risen and their numbers fallen; houses were being designed without maids' rooms; daughters and unmarried aunts were finding jobs downtown; kitchens were being designed for housewives, not servants.5 The first home with a kitchen that was not an entirely separate room was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in 1934. In 1937 Emily Post invented a new character for her etiquette books: Mrs. Three-in One. Mrs. Three-in-One is her own cook, waitress, and hostess.6 There must have been many new Mrs. Three-in-Ones abroad in the land during the 1920s. . . . "All these [ideas] point in the same direction: mechanization of the household meant that time expended on some jobs decreased, but also that new jobs were substituted, and in some cases like laundering, time expenditures for old jobs increased because of higher standards. The advantages of mechanization may be somewhat more dubious than they seem at first glance. 1 Historical Statistics, pp. 16 and 77. 2 For Indiana data, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. For national data, see D. L. Kaplan and M. Clair Casey, Occupational Trends in the United States, 1900-1950, U.S. Bureau of the Census Working Paper no. 5 (Washington, D.C., 1958), table 6. The extreme drop in numbers of servants between 1910 and 1920 also lends credence to the notion that this demographic factor stimulated the industrial revolution in housework. 3 Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. 4 Indeed, statistics about household labor are particularly unreliable, as the labor is often transient, part-time, or simply unreported. 5 On the disappearance of maiden aunts, unmarried daughters, and grandparents, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, pp. 25, 99, and 110; Edward Bok, “Editorial,” American Home 1 (October 1928)L 15; “How to Buy Life Insurance,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (March 1928): 35. The house plans appeared every month in American Home, which began publication in 1928. On kitchen design, see Giedion, pp. 603-21; “Editorial,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 36; advertisements for Hoosier kitchen cabinets, Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 117. Articles on servant problems include “The Vanishing Servant Girl,” Ladies’ Home Journal 35 (May 1918): 48; “Housework, Then and Now,” American Home 8 (June 1932): 128; “The Servant Problem,” Fortune 24 (March 1938): 80-94; and Report of the YWCA Commission on Domestic Service (Los Angeles, 1915). 6 Emily Post, Etiquette: The Blue Book of Social Usage, 5th ed. rev. (New York, 1937), p. 823.

Excerpt frоm “The ‘Industriаl Revоlutiоn’ in the Home: Household Technology аnd Sociаl Change in the 20th Century,” by Ruth Schwartz Cowan The significant change in the structure of the household labor force was the disappearance of paid and unpaid servants (unmarried daughters, maiden aunts, and grandparents fall in the latter category) as household workers—and the imposition of the entire job on the housewife herself. Leaving aside for a moment the question of which was cause and which effect (did the disappearance of the servant create a demand for the new technology, or did the new technology make the servant obsolete?), the phenomenon itself is relatively easy to document. Before World War I, when illustrators in the women's magazines depicted women doing housework, the women were very often servants. When the lady of the house was drawn, she was often the person being served, or she was supervising the serving, or she was adding an elegant finishing touch to the work. Nursemaids diapered babies, seamstresses pinned up hems, waitresses served meals, laundresses did the wash, and cooks did the cooking. By the end of the 1920s the servants had disappeared from those illustrations. All those jobs were being done by housewives—elegantly manicured and coiffed, to be sure, but housewives nonetheless. If we are tempted to suppose that illustrations in advertisements are not a reliable indicator of structural changes of this sort, we can corroborate the changes in other ways. Apparently, the illustrators really did know whereof they drew. Statistically the number of persons throughout the country employed in household service dropped from 1,851,000 in 1910 to 1,411,000 in 1920. Meanwhile, the number of household enumerated in the census rose from 20.3 million to 24.4 million.1 In Indiana the ratio of households to servants increased from 13.5/1 in 1890 to 30.5/1 in 1920. In the country as a whole the number of paid domestic servants per 1,000 population dropped from 98.9 in 1900 to 58.0 in 1920.2 The business-class housewives of Muncie reported that they employed approximately one-half as many woman-hours of domestic service as their mothers had done.3 In case we are tempted to doubt these statistics4 . . . we can turn to articles on the servant problem, the disappearance of unpaid family workers, the design of kitchens, or to architectural drawings for houses. All this evidence reiterates the same point: qualified servants were difficult to find; their wages had risen and their numbers fallen; houses were being designed without maids' rooms; daughters and unmarried aunts were finding jobs downtown; kitchens were being designed for housewives, not servants.5 The first home with a kitchen that was not an entirely separate room was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in 1934. In 1937 Emily Post invented a new character for her etiquette books: Mrs. Three-in One. Mrs. Three-in-One is her own cook, waitress, and hostess.6 There must have been many new Mrs. Three-in-Ones abroad in the land during the 1920s. . . . "All these [ideas] point in the same direction: mechanization of the household meant that time expended on some jobs decreased, but also that new jobs were substituted, and in some cases like laundering, time expenditures for old jobs increased because of higher standards. The advantages of mechanization may be somewhat more dubious than they seem at first glance. 1 Historical Statistics, pp. 16 and 77. 2 For Indiana data, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. For national data, see D. L. Kaplan and M. Clair Casey, Occupational Trends in the United States, 1900-1950, U.S. Bureau of the Census Working Paper no. 5 (Washington, D.C., 1958), table 6. The extreme drop in numbers of servants between 1910 and 1920 also lends credence to the notion that this demographic factor stimulated the industrial revolution in housework. 3 Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. 4 Indeed, statistics about household labor are particularly unreliable, as the labor is often transient, part-time, or simply unreported. 5 On the disappearance of maiden aunts, unmarried daughters, and grandparents, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, pp. 25, 99, and 110; Edward Bok, “Editorial,” American Home 1 (October 1928)L 15; “How to Buy Life Insurance,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (March 1928): 35. The house plans appeared every month in American Home, which began publication in 1928. On kitchen design, see Giedion, pp. 603-21; “Editorial,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 36; advertisements for Hoosier kitchen cabinets, Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 117. Articles on servant problems include “The Vanishing Servant Girl,” Ladies’ Home Journal 35 (May 1918): 48; “Housework, Then and Now,” American Home 8 (June 1932): 128; “The Servant Problem,” Fortune 24 (March 1938): 80-94; and Report of the YWCA Commission on Domestic Service (Los Angeles, 1915). 6 Emily Post, Etiquette: The Blue Book of Social Usage, 5th ed. rev. (New York, 1937), p. 823.

Excerpt frоm “The ‘Industriаl Revоlutiоn’ in the Home: Household Technology аnd Sociаl Change in the 20th Century,” by Ruth Schwartz Cowan The significant change in the structure of the household labor force was the disappearance of paid and unpaid servants (unmarried daughters, maiden aunts, and grandparents fall in the latter category) as household workers—and the imposition of the entire job on the housewife herself. Leaving aside for a moment the question of which was cause and which effect (did the disappearance of the servant create a demand for the new technology, or did the new technology make the servant obsolete?), the phenomenon itself is relatively easy to document. Before World War I, when illustrators in the women's magazines depicted women doing housework, the women were very often servants. When the lady of the house was drawn, she was often the person being served, or she was supervising the serving, or she was adding an elegant finishing touch to the work. Nursemaids diapered babies, seamstresses pinned up hems, waitresses served meals, laundresses did the wash, and cooks did the cooking. By the end of the 1920s the servants had disappeared from those illustrations. All those jobs were being done by housewives—elegantly manicured and coiffed, to be sure, but housewives nonetheless. If we are tempted to suppose that illustrations in advertisements are not a reliable indicator of structural changes of this sort, we can corroborate the changes in other ways. Apparently, the illustrators really did know whereof they drew. Statistically the number of persons throughout the country employed in household service dropped from 1,851,000 in 1910 to 1,411,000 in 1920. Meanwhile, the number of household enumerated in the census rose from 20.3 million to 24.4 million.1 In Indiana the ratio of households to servants increased from 13.5/1 in 1890 to 30.5/1 in 1920. In the country as a whole the number of paid domestic servants per 1,000 population dropped from 98.9 in 1900 to 58.0 in 1920.2 The business-class housewives of Muncie reported that they employed approximately one-half as many woman-hours of domestic service as their mothers had done.3 In case we are tempted to doubt these statistics4 . . . we can turn to articles on the servant problem, the disappearance of unpaid family workers, the design of kitchens, or to architectural drawings for houses. All this evidence reiterates the same point: qualified servants were difficult to find; their wages had risen and their numbers fallen; houses were being designed without maids' rooms; daughters and unmarried aunts were finding jobs downtown; kitchens were being designed for housewives, not servants.5 The first home with a kitchen that was not an entirely separate room was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in 1934. In 1937 Emily Post invented a new character for her etiquette books: Mrs. Three-in One. Mrs. Three-in-One is her own cook, waitress, and hostess.6 There must have been many new Mrs. Three-in-Ones abroad in the land during the 1920s. . . . "All these [ideas] point in the same direction: mechanization of the household meant that time expended on some jobs decreased, but also that new jobs were substituted, and in some cases like laundering, time expenditures for old jobs increased because of higher standards. The advantages of mechanization may be somewhat more dubious than they seem at first glance. 1 Historical Statistics, pp. 16 and 77. 2 For Indiana data, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. For national data, see D. L. Kaplan and M. Clair Casey, Occupational Trends in the United States, 1900-1950, U.S. Bureau of the Census Working Paper no. 5 (Washington, D.C., 1958), table 6. The extreme drop in numbers of servants between 1910 and 1920 also lends credence to the notion that this demographic factor stimulated the industrial revolution in housework. 3 Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. 4 Indeed, statistics about household labor are particularly unreliable, as the labor is often transient, part-time, or simply unreported. 5 On the disappearance of maiden aunts, unmarried daughters, and grandparents, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, pp. 25, 99, and 110; Edward Bok, “Editorial,” American Home 1 (October 1928)L 15; “How to Buy Life Insurance,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (March 1928): 35. The house plans appeared every month in American Home, which began publication in 1928. On kitchen design, see Giedion, pp. 603-21; “Editorial,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 36; advertisements for Hoosier kitchen cabinets, Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 117. Articles on servant problems include “The Vanishing Servant Girl,” Ladies’ Home Journal 35 (May 1918): 48; “Housework, Then and Now,” American Home 8 (June 1932): 128; “The Servant Problem,” Fortune 24 (March 1938): 80-94; and Report of the YWCA Commission on Domestic Service (Los Angeles, 1915). 6 Emily Post, Etiquette: The Blue Book of Social Usage, 5th ed. rev. (New York, 1937), p. 823.

Excerpt frоm “The ‘Industriаl Revоlutiоn’ in the Home: Household Technology аnd Sociаl Change in the 20th Century,” by Ruth Schwartz Cowan The significant change in the structure of the household labor force was the disappearance of paid and unpaid servants (unmarried daughters, maiden aunts, and grandparents fall in the latter category) as household workers—and the imposition of the entire job on the housewife herself. Leaving aside for a moment the question of which was cause and which effect (did the disappearance of the servant create a demand for the new technology, or did the new technology make the servant obsolete?), the phenomenon itself is relatively easy to document. Before World War I, when illustrators in the women's magazines depicted women doing housework, the women were very often servants. When the lady of the house was drawn, she was often the person being served, or she was supervising the serving, or she was adding an elegant finishing touch to the work. Nursemaids diapered babies, seamstresses pinned up hems, waitresses served meals, laundresses did the wash, and cooks did the cooking. By the end of the 1920s the servants had disappeared from those illustrations. All those jobs were being done by housewives—elegantly manicured and coiffed, to be sure, but housewives nonetheless. If we are tempted to suppose that illustrations in advertisements are not a reliable indicator of structural changes of this sort, we can corroborate the changes in other ways. Apparently, the illustrators really did know whereof they drew. Statistically the number of persons throughout the country employed in household service dropped from 1,851,000 in 1910 to 1,411,000 in 1920. Meanwhile, the number of household enumerated in the census rose from 20.3 million to 24.4 million.1 In Indiana the ratio of households to servants increased from 13.5/1 in 1890 to 30.5/1 in 1920. In the country as a whole the number of paid domestic servants per 1,000 population dropped from 98.9 in 1900 to 58.0 in 1920.2 The business-class housewives of Muncie reported that they employed approximately one-half as many woman-hours of domestic service as their mothers had done.3 In case we are tempted to doubt these statistics4 . . . we can turn to articles on the servant problem, the disappearance of unpaid family workers, the design of kitchens, or to architectural drawings for houses. All this evidence reiterates the same point: qualified servants were difficult to find; their wages had risen and their numbers fallen; houses were being designed without maids' rooms; daughters and unmarried aunts were finding jobs downtown; kitchens were being designed for housewives, not servants.5 The first home with a kitchen that was not an entirely separate room was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in 1934. In 1937 Emily Post invented a new character for her etiquette books: Mrs. Three-in One. Mrs. Three-in-One is her own cook, waitress, and hostess.6 There must have been many new Mrs. Three-in-Ones abroad in the land during the 1920s. . . . "All these [ideas] point in the same direction: mechanization of the household meant that time expended on some jobs decreased, but also that new jobs were substituted, and in some cases like laundering, time expenditures for old jobs increased because of higher standards. The advantages of mechanization may be somewhat more dubious than they seem at first glance. 1 Historical Statistics, pp. 16 and 77. 2 For Indiana data, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. For national data, see D. L. Kaplan and M. Clair Casey, Occupational Trends in the United States, 1900-1950, U.S. Bureau of the Census Working Paper no. 5 (Washington, D.C., 1958), table 6. The extreme drop in numbers of servants between 1910 and 1920 also lends credence to the notion that this demographic factor stimulated the industrial revolution in housework. 3 Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. 4 Indeed, statistics about household labor are particularly unreliable, as the labor is often transient, part-time, or simply unreported. 5 On the disappearance of maiden aunts, unmarried daughters, and grandparents, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, pp. 25, 99, and 110; Edward Bok, “Editorial,” American Home 1 (October 1928)L 15; “How to Buy Life Insurance,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (March 1928): 35. The house plans appeared every month in American Home, which began publication in 1928. On kitchen design, see Giedion, pp. 603-21; “Editorial,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 36; advertisements for Hoosier kitchen cabinets, Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 117. Articles on servant problems include “The Vanishing Servant Girl,” Ladies’ Home Journal 35 (May 1918): 48; “Housework, Then and Now,” American Home 8 (June 1932): 128; “The Servant Problem,” Fortune 24 (March 1938): 80-94; and Report of the YWCA Commission on Domestic Service (Los Angeles, 1915). 6 Emily Post, Etiquette: The Blue Book of Social Usage, 5th ed. rev. (New York, 1937), p. 823.

Excerpt frоm “The ‘Industriаl Revоlutiоn’ in the Home: Household Technology аnd Sociаl Change in the 20th Century,” by Ruth Schwartz Cowan The significant change in the structure of the household labor force was the disappearance of paid and unpaid servants (unmarried daughters, maiden aunts, and grandparents fall in the latter category) as household workers—and the imposition of the entire job on the housewife herself. Leaving aside for a moment the question of which was cause and which effect (did the disappearance of the servant create a demand for the new technology, or did the new technology make the servant obsolete?), the phenomenon itself is relatively easy to document. Before World War I, when illustrators in the women's magazines depicted women doing housework, the women were very often servants. When the lady of the house was drawn, she was often the person being served, or she was supervising the serving, or she was adding an elegant finishing touch to the work. Nursemaids diapered babies, seamstresses pinned up hems, waitresses served meals, laundresses did the wash, and cooks did the cooking. By the end of the 1920s the servants had disappeared from those illustrations. All those jobs were being done by housewives—elegantly manicured and coiffed, to be sure, but housewives nonetheless. If we are tempted to suppose that illustrations in advertisements are not a reliable indicator of structural changes of this sort, we can corroborate the changes in other ways. Apparently, the illustrators really did know whereof they drew. Statistically the number of persons throughout the country employed in household service dropped from 1,851,000 in 1910 to 1,411,000 in 1920. Meanwhile, the number of household enumerated in the census rose from 20.3 million to 24.4 million.1 In Indiana the ratio of households to servants increased from 13.5/1 in 1890 to 30.5/1 in 1920. In the country as a whole the number of paid domestic servants per 1,000 population dropped from 98.9 in 1900 to 58.0 in 1920.2 The business-class housewives of Muncie reported that they employed approximately one-half as many woman-hours of domestic service as their mothers had done.3 In case we are tempted to doubt these statistics4 . . . we can turn to articles on the servant problem, the disappearance of unpaid family workers, the design of kitchens, or to architectural drawings for houses. All this evidence reiterates the same point: qualified servants were difficult to find; their wages had risen and their numbers fallen; houses were being designed without maids' rooms; daughters and unmarried aunts were finding jobs downtown; kitchens were being designed for housewives, not servants.5 The first home with a kitchen that was not an entirely separate room was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in 1934. In 1937 Emily Post invented a new character for her etiquette books: Mrs. Three-in One. Mrs. Three-in-One is her own cook, waitress, and hostess.6 There must have been many new Mrs. Three-in-Ones abroad in the land during the 1920s. . . . "All these [ideas] point in the same direction: mechanization of the household meant that time expended on some jobs decreased, but also that new jobs were substituted, and in some cases like laundering, time expenditures for old jobs increased because of higher standards. The advantages of mechanization may be somewhat more dubious than they seem at first glance. 1 Historical Statistics, pp. 16 and 77. 2 For Indiana data, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. For national data, see D. L. Kaplan and M. Clair Casey, Occupational Trends in the United States, 1900-1950, U.S. Bureau of the Census Working Paper no. 5 (Washington, D.C., 1958), table 6. The extreme drop in numbers of servants between 1910 and 1920 also lends credence to the notion that this demographic factor stimulated the industrial revolution in housework. 3 Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. 4 Indeed, statistics about household labor are particularly unreliable, as the labor is often transient, part-time, or simply unreported. 5 On the disappearance of maiden aunts, unmarried daughters, and grandparents, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, pp. 25, 99, and 110; Edward Bok, “Editorial,” American Home 1 (October 1928)L 15; “How to Buy Life Insurance,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (March 1928): 35. The house plans appeared every month in American Home, which began publication in 1928. On kitchen design, see Giedion, pp. 603-21; “Editorial,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 36; advertisements for Hoosier kitchen cabinets, Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 117. Articles on servant problems include “The Vanishing Servant Girl,” Ladies’ Home Journal 35 (May 1918): 48; “Housework, Then and Now,” American Home 8 (June 1932): 128; “The Servant Problem,” Fortune 24 (March 1938): 80-94; and Report of the YWCA Commission on Domestic Service (Los Angeles, 1915). 6 Emily Post, Etiquette: The Blue Book of Social Usage, 5th ed. rev. (New York, 1937), p. 823.

Excerpt frоm “The ‘Industriаl Revоlutiоn’ in the Home: Household Technology аnd Sociаl Change in the 20th Century,” by Ruth Schwartz Cowan The significant change in the structure of the household labor force was the disappearance of paid and unpaid servants (unmarried daughters, maiden aunts, and grandparents fall in the latter category) as household workers—and the imposition of the entire job on the housewife herself. Leaving aside for a moment the question of which was cause and which effect (did the disappearance of the servant create a demand for the new technology, or did the new technology make the servant obsolete?), the phenomenon itself is relatively easy to document. Before World War I, when illustrators in the women's magazines depicted women doing housework, the women were very often servants. When the lady of the house was drawn, she was often the person being served, or she was supervising the serving, or she was adding an elegant finishing touch to the work. Nursemaids diapered babies, seamstresses pinned up hems, waitresses served meals, laundresses did the wash, and cooks did the cooking. By the end of the 1920s the servants had disappeared from those illustrations. All those jobs were being done by housewives—elegantly manicured and coiffed, to be sure, but housewives nonetheless. If we are tempted to suppose that illustrations in advertisements are not a reliable indicator of structural changes of this sort, we can corroborate the changes in other ways. Apparently, the illustrators really did know whereof they drew. Statistically the number of persons throughout the country employed in household service dropped from 1,851,000 in 1910 to 1,411,000 in 1920. Meanwhile, the number of household enumerated in the census rose from 20.3 million to 24.4 million.1 In Indiana the ratio of households to servants increased from 13.5/1 in 1890 to 30.5/1 in 1920. In the country as a whole the number of paid domestic servants per 1,000 population dropped from 98.9 in 1900 to 58.0 in 1920.2 The business-class housewives of Muncie reported that they employed approximately one-half as many woman-hours of domestic service as their mothers had done.3 In case we are tempted to doubt these statistics4 . . . we can turn to articles on the servant problem, the disappearance of unpaid family workers, the design of kitchens, or to architectural drawings for houses. All this evidence reiterates the same point: qualified servants were difficult to find; their wages had risen and their numbers fallen; houses were being designed without maids' rooms; daughters and unmarried aunts were finding jobs downtown; kitchens were being designed for housewives, not servants.5 The first home with a kitchen that was not an entirely separate room was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in 1934. In 1937 Emily Post invented a new character for her etiquette books: Mrs. Three-in One. Mrs. Three-in-One is her own cook, waitress, and hostess.6 There must have been many new Mrs. Three-in-Ones abroad in the land during the 1920s. . . . "All these [ideas] point in the same direction: mechanization of the household meant that time expended on some jobs decreased, but also that new jobs were substituted, and in some cases like laundering, time expenditures for old jobs increased because of higher standards. The advantages of mechanization may be somewhat more dubious than they seem at first glance. 1 Historical Statistics, pp. 16 and 77. 2 For Indiana data, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. For national data, see D. L. Kaplan and M. Clair Casey, Occupational Trends in the United States, 1900-1950, U.S. Bureau of the Census Working Paper no. 5 (Washington, D.C., 1958), table 6. The extreme drop in numbers of servants between 1910 and 1920 also lends credence to the notion that this demographic factor stimulated the industrial revolution in housework. 3 Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. 4 Indeed, statistics about household labor are particularly unreliable, as the labor is often transient, part-time, or simply unreported. 5 On the disappearance of maiden aunts, unmarried daughters, and grandparents, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, pp. 25, 99, and 110; Edward Bok, “Editorial,” American Home 1 (October 1928)L 15; “How to Buy Life Insurance,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (March 1928): 35. The house plans appeared every month in American Home, which began publication in 1928. On kitchen design, see Giedion, pp. 603-21; “Editorial,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 36; advertisements for Hoosier kitchen cabinets, Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 117. Articles on servant problems include “The Vanishing Servant Girl,” Ladies’ Home Journal 35 (May 1918): 48; “Housework, Then and Now,” American Home 8 (June 1932): 128; “The Servant Problem,” Fortune 24 (March 1938): 80-94; and Report of the YWCA Commission on Domestic Service (Los Angeles, 1915). 6 Emily Post, Etiquette: The Blue Book of Social Usage, 5th ed. rev. (New York, 1937), p. 823.

Excerpt frоm “The ‘Industriаl Revоlutiоn’ in the Home: Household Technology аnd Sociаl Change in the 20th Century,” by Ruth Schwartz Cowan The significant change in the structure of the household labor force was the disappearance of paid and unpaid servants (unmarried daughters, maiden aunts, and grandparents fall in the latter category) as household workers—and the imposition of the entire job on the housewife herself. Leaving aside for a moment the question of which was cause and which effect (did the disappearance of the servant create a demand for the new technology, or did the new technology make the servant obsolete?), the phenomenon itself is relatively easy to document. Before World War I, when illustrators in the women's magazines depicted women doing housework, the women were very often servants. When the lady of the house was drawn, she was often the person being served, or she was supervising the serving, or she was adding an elegant finishing touch to the work. Nursemaids diapered babies, seamstresses pinned up hems, waitresses served meals, laundresses did the wash, and cooks did the cooking. By the end of the 1920s the servants had disappeared from those illustrations. All those jobs were being done by housewives—elegantly manicured and coiffed, to be sure, but housewives nonetheless. If we are tempted to suppose that illustrations in advertisements are not a reliable indicator of structural changes of this sort, we can corroborate the changes in other ways. Apparently, the illustrators really did know whereof they drew. Statistically the number of persons throughout the country employed in household service dropped from 1,851,000 in 1910 to 1,411,000 in 1920. Meanwhile, the number of household enumerated in the census rose from 20.3 million to 24.4 million.1 In Indiana the ratio of households to servants increased from 13.5/1 in 1890 to 30.5/1 in 1920. In the country as a whole the number of paid domestic servants per 1,000 population dropped from 98.9 in 1900 to 58.0 in 1920.2 The business-class housewives of Muncie reported that they employed approximately one-half as many woman-hours of domestic service as their mothers had done.3 In case we are tempted to doubt these statistics4 . . . we can turn to articles on the servant problem, the disappearance of unpaid family workers, the design of kitchens, or to architectural drawings for houses. All this evidence reiterates the same point: qualified servants were difficult to find; their wages had risen and their numbers fallen; houses were being designed without maids' rooms; daughters and unmarried aunts were finding jobs downtown; kitchens were being designed for housewives, not servants.5 The first home with a kitchen that was not an entirely separate room was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in 1934. In 1937 Emily Post invented a new character for her etiquette books: Mrs. Three-in One. Mrs. Three-in-One is her own cook, waitress, and hostess.6 There must have been many new Mrs. Three-in-Ones abroad in the land during the 1920s. . . . "All these [ideas] point in the same direction: mechanization of the household meant that time expended on some jobs decreased, but also that new jobs were substituted, and in some cases like laundering, time expenditures for old jobs increased because of higher standards. The advantages of mechanization may be somewhat more dubious than they seem at first glance. 1 Historical Statistics, pp. 16 and 77. 2 For Indiana data, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. For national data, see D. L. Kaplan and M. Clair Casey, Occupational Trends in the United States, 1900-1950, U.S. Bureau of the Census Working Paper no. 5 (Washington, D.C., 1958), table 6. The extreme drop in numbers of servants between 1910 and 1920 also lends credence to the notion that this demographic factor stimulated the industrial revolution in housework. 3 Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. 4 Indeed, statistics about household labor are particularly unreliable, as the labor is often transient, part-time, or simply unreported. 5 On the disappearance of maiden aunts, unmarried daughters, and grandparents, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, pp. 25, 99, and 110; Edward Bok, “Editorial,” American Home 1 (October 1928)L 15; “How to Buy Life Insurance,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (March 1928): 35. The house plans appeared every month in American Home, which began publication in 1928. On kitchen design, see Giedion, pp. 603-21; “Editorial,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 36; advertisements for Hoosier kitchen cabinets, Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 117. Articles on servant problems include “The Vanishing Servant Girl,” Ladies’ Home Journal 35 (May 1918): 48; “Housework, Then and Now,” American Home 8 (June 1932): 128; “The Servant Problem,” Fortune 24 (March 1938): 80-94; and Report of the YWCA Commission on Domestic Service (Los Angeles, 1915). 6 Emily Post, Etiquette: The Blue Book of Social Usage, 5th ed. rev. (New York, 1937), p. 823.

Excerpt frоm “The ‘Industriаl Revоlutiоn’ in the Home: Household Technology аnd Sociаl Change in the 20th Century,” by Ruth Schwartz Cowan The significant change in the structure of the household labor force was the disappearance of paid and unpaid servants (unmarried daughters, maiden aunts, and grandparents fall in the latter category) as household workers—and the imposition of the entire job on the housewife herself. Leaving aside for a moment the question of which was cause and which effect (did the disappearance of the servant create a demand for the new technology, or did the new technology make the servant obsolete?), the phenomenon itself is relatively easy to document. Before World War I, when illustrators in the women's magazines depicted women doing housework, the women were very often servants. When the lady of the house was drawn, she was often the person being served, or she was supervising the serving, or she was adding an elegant finishing touch to the work. Nursemaids diapered babies, seamstresses pinned up hems, waitresses served meals, laundresses did the wash, and cooks did the cooking. By the end of the 1920s the servants had disappeared from those illustrations. All those jobs were being done by housewives—elegantly manicured and coiffed, to be sure, but housewives nonetheless. If we are tempted to suppose that illustrations in advertisements are not a reliable indicator of structural changes of this sort, we can corroborate the changes in other ways. Apparently, the illustrators really did know whereof they drew. Statistically the number of persons throughout the country employed in household service dropped from 1,851,000 in 1910 to 1,411,000 in 1920. Meanwhile, the number of household enumerated in the census rose from 20.3 million to 24.4 million.1 In Indiana the ratio of households to servants increased from 13.5/1 in 1890 to 30.5/1 in 1920. In the country as a whole the number of paid domestic servants per 1,000 population dropped from 98.9 in 1900 to 58.0 in 1920.2 The business-class housewives of Muncie reported that they employed approximately one-half as many woman-hours of domestic service as their mothers had done.3 In case we are tempted to doubt these statistics4 . . . we can turn to articles on the servant problem, the disappearance of unpaid family workers, the design of kitchens, or to architectural drawings for houses. All this evidence reiterates the same point: qualified servants were difficult to find; their wages had risen and their numbers fallen; houses were being designed without maids' rooms; daughters and unmarried aunts were finding jobs downtown; kitchens were being designed for housewives, not servants.5 The first home with a kitchen that was not an entirely separate room was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in 1934. In 1937 Emily Post invented a new character for her etiquette books: Mrs. Three-in One. Mrs. Three-in-One is her own cook, waitress, and hostess.6 There must have been many new Mrs. Three-in-Ones abroad in the land during the 1920s. . . . "All these [ideas] point in the same direction: mechanization of the household meant that time expended on some jobs decreased, but also that new jobs were substituted, and in some cases like laundering, time expenditures for old jobs increased because of higher standards. The advantages of mechanization may be somewhat more dubious than they seem at first glance. 1 Historical Statistics, pp. 16 and 77. 2 For Indiana data, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. For national data, see D. L. Kaplan and M. Clair Casey, Occupational Trends in the United States, 1900-1950, U.S. Bureau of the Census Working Paper no. 5 (Washington, D.C., 1958), table 6. The extreme drop in numbers of servants between 1910 and 1920 also lends credence to the notion that this demographic factor stimulated the industrial revolution in housework. 3 Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. 4 Indeed, statistics about household labor are particularly unreliable, as the labor is often transient, part-time, or simply unreported. 5 On the disappearance of maiden aunts, unmarried daughters, and grandparents, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, pp. 25, 99, and 110; Edward Bok, “Editorial,” American Home 1 (October 1928)L 15; “How to Buy Life Insurance,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (March 1928): 35. The house plans appeared every month in American Home, which began publication in 1928. On kitchen design, see Giedion, pp. 603-21; “Editorial,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 36; advertisements for Hoosier kitchen cabinets, Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 117. Articles on servant problems include “The Vanishing Servant Girl,” Ladies’ Home Journal 35 (May 1918): 48; “Housework, Then and Now,” American Home 8 (June 1932): 128; “The Servant Problem,” Fortune 24 (March 1938): 80-94; and Report of the YWCA Commission on Domestic Service (Los Angeles, 1915). 6 Emily Post, Etiquette: The Blue Book of Social Usage, 5th ed. rev. (New York, 1937), p. 823.

Excerpt frоm “The ‘Industriаl Revоlutiоn’ in the Home: Household Technology аnd Sociаl Change in the 20th Century,” by Ruth Schwartz Cowan The significant change in the structure of the household labor force was the disappearance of paid and unpaid servants (unmarried daughters, maiden aunts, and grandparents fall in the latter category) as household workers—and the imposition of the entire job on the housewife herself. Leaving aside for a moment the question of which was cause and which effect (did the disappearance of the servant create a demand for the new technology, or did the new technology make the servant obsolete?), the phenomenon itself is relatively easy to document. Before World War I, when illustrators in the women's magazines depicted women doing housework, the women were very often servants. When the lady of the house was drawn, she was often the person being served, or she was supervising the serving, or she was adding an elegant finishing touch to the work. Nursemaids diapered babies, seamstresses pinned up hems, waitresses served meals, laundresses did the wash, and cooks did the cooking. By the end of the 1920s the servants had disappeared from those illustrations. All those jobs were being done by housewives—elegantly manicured and coiffed, to be sure, but housewives nonetheless. If we are tempted to suppose that illustrations in advertisements are not a reliable indicator of structural changes of this sort, we can corroborate the changes in other ways. Apparently, the illustrators really did know whereof they drew. Statistically the number of persons throughout the country employed in household service dropped from 1,851,000 in 1910 to 1,411,000 in 1920. Meanwhile, the number of household enumerated in the census rose from 20.3 million to 24.4 million.1 In Indiana the ratio of households to servants increased from 13.5/1 in 1890 to 30.5/1 in 1920. In the country as a whole the number of paid domestic servants per 1,000 population dropped from 98.9 in 1900 to 58.0 in 1920.2 The business-class housewives of Muncie reported that they employed approximately one-half as many woman-hours of domestic service as their mothers had done.3 In case we are tempted to doubt these statistics4 . . . we can turn to articles on the servant problem, the disappearance of unpaid family workers, the design of kitchens, or to architectural drawings for houses. All this evidence reiterates the same point: qualified servants were difficult to find; their wages had risen and their numbers fallen; houses were being designed without maids' rooms; daughters and unmarried aunts were finding jobs downtown; kitchens were being designed for housewives, not servants.5 The first home with a kitchen that was not an entirely separate room was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in 1934. In 1937 Emily Post invented a new character for her etiquette books: Mrs. Three-in One. Mrs. Three-in-One is her own cook, waitress, and hostess.6 There must have been many new Mrs. Three-in-Ones abroad in the land during the 1920s. . . . "All these [ideas] point in the same direction: mechanization of the household meant that time expended on some jobs decreased, but also that new jobs were substituted, and in some cases like laundering, time expenditures for old jobs increased because of higher standards. The advantages of mechanization may be somewhat more dubious than they seem at first glance. 1 Historical Statistics, pp. 16 and 77. 2 For Indiana data, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. For national data, see D. L. Kaplan and M. Clair Casey, Occupational Trends in the United States, 1900-1950, U.S. Bureau of the Census Working Paper no. 5 (Washington, D.C., 1958), table 6. The extreme drop in numbers of servants between 1910 and 1920 also lends credence to the notion that this demographic factor stimulated the industrial revolution in housework. 3 Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, p. 169. 4 Indeed, statistics about household labor are particularly unreliable, as the labor is often transient, part-time, or simply unreported. 5 On the disappearance of maiden aunts, unmarried daughters, and grandparents, see Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, pp. 25, 99, and 110; Edward Bok, “Editorial,” American Home 1 (October 1928)L 15; “How to Buy Life Insurance,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (March 1928): 35. The house plans appeared every month in American Home, which began publication in 1928. On kitchen design, see Giedion, pp. 603-21; “Editorial,” Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 36; advertisements for Hoosier kitchen cabinets, Ladies’ Home Journal 45 (April 1928): 117. Articles on servant problems include “The Vanishing Servant Girl,” Ladies’ Home Journal 35 (May 1918): 48; “Housework, Then and Now,” American Home 8 (June 1932): 128; “The Servant Problem,” Fortune 24 (March 1938): 80-94; and Report of the YWCA Commission on Domestic Service (Los Angeles, 1915). 6 Emily Post, Etiquette: The Blue Book of Social Usage, 5th ed. rev. (New York, 1937), p. 823.