Thus Dallas, Texas, had a women’s club of the culture caste.  One spring day, after the star member had read a paper on the “Lake Poets,” and another member had rendered a Chopin etude on the piano, they began to talk about the stegomyia mosquito, and what a pity it was that the annual danger of contagion and death from the bite of that insect had to be faced all over again.  Pools of water all over town, simply swarming with little wriggling things, soon to emerge as full-armed stegomyias, merely because the city authorities hadn’t the money, or said they hadn’t, to cover the pools with oil.

“Why, oil isn’t very expensive,” said one of the club women.  “Let’s buy a whole lot of it and do the work ourselves.”

So the work of saving hundreds of lives every year was added to the study of “Lake Poets” and Chopin by the Women’s Club of Dallas.  The members mapped the city, laid it out in districts, organized their forces, bought oil and oil-cans and set forth.  They visited the schools, got teachers and pupils interested, and secured their co-operation.  The study of city sanitation was soon put into the school curriculum, and oiling pools of standing water in every quarter of the town is now a regular part of the school program in the upper grades.  Every year the club women renew the agitation, and every year the school children go out with their teachers and cover the pools with oil.

That story could be paralleled in almost any city in the United States.  Clubs everywhere organized for the intellectual advancement of the members, for the culture of music, art, and crafts, soon added to the original object a department of philanthropy, a department of public school decoration, a department of child labor, a department of civics.  The day a women’s club adopts civics as a side line to literature, that day it ceases to be a private association and becomes a public institution—­and the public sometimes finds this out before the club suspects it.

An Eastern woman was visiting in San Francisco a short time before the fire.  In the complication of three streets with names almost identical, she lost her way to the reception whither she was bound.  The conductor on the last car she tried before going home was deeply sympathetic.

“’Tis a shame, ma’am, them streets,” he declared.  “I’ve always said there was no sense at all in havin’ them named like that.  A stranger is bound to go wrong.  I’ll tell you what you do, ma’am:  you go straight to Mrs. Lovell White, she that bosses the women’s clubs, you know, ma’am.  You tell her about them streets, and she’ll have ’em changed.”

The conductor’s simple faith in the Women’s Club of San Francisco did not lack justification.  In the intervals of studying Browning and antique art, the club found time to discover to San Francisco all sorts of things that the city wanted and needed without knowing that it did.

“We ought to have a flower market,” pronounced the club.