In the center of the residential section of the town is a big, unsightly, hummocky vacant place, vaguely known as the park—­or the place where they are going to have a park, when the city gets around to it.  At present it is a convenient spot wherein to dump tin cans, empty bottles, broken crockery, old shoes, and other residue.  When the wind blows, in the spring and fall, a fine assortment of desiccated rubbish is wafted up and down, and into the neighbors’ dooryards.

Everybody is busy in these live towns.  Everybody is prosperous, and patriotic, and law-abiding, and respectable.  The business of “getting on” absorbs the entire time and attention of the men.  They “get on” so well, for the most part, that their wives have plenty of leisure on their hands, and the latter occupy a portion of their leisure by belonging to a club, organized for the study of the art of the Renaissance, Chinese religions before Confucius, or the mystery of Browning.  The club meets every second Wednesday, and the members read papers, after which there is tea and a social hour.  The papers vary in degree alone, as the writer happens to be a skimmer, a wader, or a deep-sea diver in standard editions of the encyclopedias.  The social hour, however, occasionally develops in a direction quite away from the realms of pure culture.

Such a town, with such a woman’s club, was Lake City, Minnesota, a few years ago.  Lake City had a busy and a prosperous male population, a woman’s club bent on intellectual uplift, and a place where there was going to be a park.  One windy second Wednesday the club members arrived with their eyes full of dust, soot on their white gloves, and indignation in their hearts.  When tea and the social hour came around culture went by the board and the conversation turned to the perfectly disgraceful way in which the town’s street cleaning was conducted.

“The streets are bad enough,” said one member, “but, after all, one expects the streets to be dusty.  What I object to is having a city dump-heap at my front door.  Have any of you crossed my corner of the park since the snow melted?”

She drew a lively picture of a state of things gravely menacing to the health of her neighborhood, and that of all the people whose homes faced the neglected square.

“Why doesn’t somebody complain to the authorities?” she concluded.  “Why don’t we do something about it?  The next time we meet we might at least adopt resolutions, or, better still, have a committee appointed.  What do you think, Madam President?”

Madam President tapped her teaspoon on the edge of her empty cup.  “I think,” she said, “that we will come to order and do it now.  Will you put what you have just suggested in the form of a motion?”

At the next meeting of the club the committee to investigate the park made its report.  The club members began a lively canvass among real estate owners and business men, and before long an astonished city council found itself on its feet, receiving a deputation from the woman’s club.  The women came armed with a donation of fifteen hundred dollars cash, and a polite, but firm, demand that the money be used to clean up and plant the park.