of Lebanon and pine of Georgia, not to mention chestnut, walnut,
butternut, cocoanut and peanut, all of which are popular and available
woods for finishing modern dwellings. If we choose from this list,
which may be indefinitely extended, the few kinds for which we can find
room in our house, we shall be tormented with regret as long as we both
do live because we didn't choose something else. Now if we paint,
behold how simple a thing it is! We buy a lot of white pine boards, put
them up where they belong and paint them in whatever unnamable hues the
prevailing fashion may chance to dictate. Our boards need not even be
of the best quality; an occasional piece of sound sap, a few hard
knots, or now and then a 'snoodledog'--as they say in Nantucket--would
do no harm. A prudent application of shellac and putty before painting
will make everything right. Then if the fashions change, or if we
should be refined beyond our present tastes and wish to go up higher,
all we should need to lift the house to the same elevated plane
is--another coat of paint. On the other hand, if we had a room finished
in old English oak, growing blacker and blacker every year; in mahogany
or in cheap and mournful black walnut, what could we do if the
imperious mistress of the world should decree light colors? With rare,
pale, faded tints on the walls our strong, bold, heavy hard-wood finish
would be painful in the extreme. We couldn't change the wood and we
couldn't change the fashion."

"If you were not my own husband, Jack, I should say you were dreadfully
obtuse. Concerning _fashions_ in house-building and furnishing I feel
very much as Martin Luther felt about certain, formal religious dogmas.
If we are asked to respect them as a matter of amiable compliance, if
we find them convenient, agreeable and at the same time harmless, then
let us quietly accept them; but, if we are commanded to obey them as
vital, if they are set before us as solemn obligations to be reverenced
as we reverence the everlasting truth, then, for Heaven's sake, let us
tear them in pieces and trample them under our feet, lest we lose our
power to distinguish the substance from the shadow. The moment any
particular style of building, finishing or furnishing becomes a
recognized fashion, that moment I feel inclined to turn against it with
all my might."

"If you were not my own idolized wife, I should say that was 'pure
cussedness.'"

[Illustration: MOULDINGS FAIR TO SEE, BUT HARD TO KEEP CLEAN.]

"On the contrary, it is high moral principle; that is, moral principle
applied to art. It is a simple, outright impossibility for human
beings to have any true perception of art while a shadow of a thought
of fashion remains. It is, indeed, possible that fashion may, for a
moment, follow the straight and narrow road that leads to artistic
excellence, as the fitful breath of a cyclone may, at a certain point
in its giddy whirl, run parallel with the ceaseless sweep of the mighty
trade-winds, but whoever tries to keep constantly in its track is sure
to be hopelessly astray."

"My dear, indignant, despiser of fashion, you know you wouldn't wear a
two-year-old bonnet to church, on a pleasant Sunday morning, for the
price of a pew in the broad aisle."

"Certainly not; that would be both mercenary and irreverent; moreover,
my bonnet has nothing to do with artistic rules. It is not a work of
art or of science, of nature or of grace. It is a conventional signal
by which I announce a friendly disposition toward the follies of my
fellow-creatures--a sort of flag of truce, a badge of my conformity in
little things. I wear it voluntarily and could lay it aside if I
chose."

"Undoubtedly, _if_ you chose. Now, let us resume the original
discussion. I had given one powerful argument in favor of paint when I
was rashly interrupted: here is another--it is much cheaper."

"That would depend," said Jill. "Ash, butternut, cherry and various
other woods cost little, if any more, than the best pine, and the pine
itself is very pretty for chambers."

"Ah, but you forget the labor question. It is one thing to join two
pieces of wood so closely as to leave no visible crack between them,
and quite another to bring them into the same neighborhood, fill the
chasm with putty and hide the whole under a coat of paint. The
difference between these two kinds of joints is the difference between
one stroke and two, between one day's work and five days, between one
thousand dollars and five thousand. My third argument you will surely
appreciate. Paint is more artistic." Here Jack paused to give his
words effect; then proceeded like one walking on stilts. "Pure tones
symphoniously gradated from contralto shadows to the tender brightness
of the upper registers and harmoniously blended with the prevailing
quality--"

[Illustration: FRAGMENTS OF ARCHITRAVES.]

"Oh, Jack! _Don't_ go any farther, you are already beyond your depth.
When you attempt to quote Bessie's sentiments you should have her
letter before you. Perhaps I have a dim perception of the principle
that underlies your thirdly. If so, this room is a pertinent
illustration of it. Instead of all this white paint, if the wood work
had been colored to match the predominant tint in the background of the
paper, or a trifle darker, this being also the general 'tone' of the
carpet, it is easy to see how the coloring of the room would have been
simple and pleasing, instead of glaring and ugly. Yes, your plea for
paint is not without value. I think, however, it would be entirely
possible to stain the unpainted wood to produce any desired symphony,
fugue or discord. It might be unnatural, especially if we wished to
look blue, but it would not conceal the marking and shading of the
grain of the wood which is so much prettier than any moulding or
carving, and vastly easier to keep in order. Your economical arguments
are always worth considering. I think the happy compromise for us will
be to use hard wood in the first story and painted pine in the
chambers, with various combinations and exceptions. The bath-rooms,
halls and dressing-rooms of the second story should of course be
without paint, and we may relieve the solid monotony of the hardwood
finish with occasional fillets or bands of color, painted panels or
any other irregularities we choose to invent. But this is invading the
mighty and troublous realm of 'interior decoration,' from which I had
resolved to keep at a respectful distance until the house is at least
definitely planned in all its details."

[Illustration: A CHOICE OF WAINSCOTS.]

A wise decision, for although what we call in a general way "interior
decoration" is closely allied to essential construction--not
infrequently seems to be a part of it--there is still a sharp though
often unseen line between them that cannot be crossed with impunity.
Artistic construction is at best only second cousin to decoration, and
while we may in building arrange to accommodate a certain style of
furniture or ornament, as Bessie's friend built her parlor to suit the
rug, the result of such contriving is apt to be discouraging if not
disastrous.

"Two things we must surely have," said Jill, "which the architect has
not sent; one, an old fashion, the other, a new one. We must have
'chair rails,' in every room down stairs that has not a solid wainscot,
if I have to make the plans and put them up myself. We must also have
another band of wood higher up entirely around every room in both
stories, to which the pictures can be hung."

"Perhaps the architect will object to this as interfering with his
plans."

"He cannot, for they belong to our side of the house; they are matters
of use, not of design. He may put them where he pleases, within
reasonable limits, and make them of any pattern, with due regard to
cost. He may treat one as part of the dado, the other as a member of
the cornice, if he chooses, but we _must_ have them--they are
indispensable."

"They are also dangerous, because they are fashionable."

"Yes, an illustration of the temporary agreement of fashion and common
sense. But things of real worth do not go out of fashion; fashion goes
out of them; henceforth they live by their own merit and no one
questions their right to be."

"Have you written to Bessie?"

"Written to Bessie? What for?"

"Why, to come and get ready to start on her mission."

"No, indeed; I supposed you had forgotten that absurd notion."

"Not at all absurd. I mentioned it to Jim, and he was delighted.
Offered to go up and escort her down. He said they could go out in a
different direction every day and do a great deal of good in the course
of a week."

"Jack, I am ashamed of you! Don't mention the subject to me again."

"What shall I say to Jim?"

[Illustration: WOOD PANELS FOR WALLS AND CEILINGS, WITH IRREGULARITIES
IN LEATHER, PAINT AND PAPER.]

"You needn't say anything to Jim. Tell him I am going to invite Bessie
to visit us in the new house, and if he is in this part of the world I
will send for him at the same time."

"And that will be a full year, for the house is hardly begun."

"Yes, a full year."

[Illustration]




CHAPTER XVIII.

THE HOUSE FINISHED AND THE HOME BEGUN.


It was indeed a full year for Jill before Bessie received the promised
invitation. Not merely full as to its complement of days, but full of
new cares, interests and activities. It is needless to say it was also
a happy year. Building a house for a home is a healthful experience, a
liberal education to one who can give personal attention to it; who has
some knowledge of plans with enough imagination to have a fair
conception of what they will be when executed; who is content to
receive a reasonable return for a given outlay, not anxious to get the
best end of every bargain, nor over-fearful of being cheated; who cares
more for home comfort than for a fine display, and whose soul is never
vexed by the comments of Mrs. Grundy, nor tormented by the decrees of
fashion.

The question was raised, whether the house should be built by contract
or by "day's work." The worldly-wise friends advised the former.
Otherwise they affirmed the cost of the house would exceed the
appropriation by fifty, if not a hundred, per cent., since it would be
for the interest of both architect and builders to make the house as
costly and the job as long as possible. And, while it was doubtless
true that "day work" is likely to be better than "job work," still, if
the plans and specifications were clearly drawn and the contract made
as strong as the pains and penalties of the law could make it, the
contractor might be compelled to keep his agreement and furnish
"first-class" work.

Jill's father settled this point at once. "It is true," said he, "that
the plans and specifications should be clearly drawn, that you may see
the end from the beginning, and it will be well to carefully estimate
the cost, lest, having begun to build, you should be unable to finish.
But I am neither willing to hold any man to an agreement, however
legal it may be, that requires him to give me more than I have paid
for, nor, on the other hand, do I wish to pay him more than a fair
value for his work and material. You cannot avoid doing one of these
two things in contracting such work as your house, for it is
impossible to estimate its cost with perfect accuracy, and no
specifications, however binding, can draw a well-defined line between
'first' and 'second'-class work. A general contract may be the least
of a choice of evils in some cases; it is not so in yours. If you know
just what you want, the right mode of securing it is to hire honest,
competent workmen and pay them righteous wages. If, before the work is
completed, you find the cost has been underestimated, stop when your
money is spent. It may be mortifying and inconvenient to live in an
unfinished house; it is far more so to be burdened with debt or an
uneasy conscience. There is another thing to be remembered: We hear
loud lamentations over the dearth of skillful, trusty laborers. There
is no way of promoting intelligent, productive industry--which is
the basis of all prosperity--but by employing artisans in such a way
that the personal skill and fidelity of each one shall have their
legitimate reward. The contract system, as usually practiced, acts in
precisely an opposite direction. Your house must be built 'by the day'
Jill, or I shall recall my gift." _That_ question was settled. The
good and wise man had previously decided as peremptorily an early
query relating to the plans. When it was known that a new house was to
be built, several architects, with more conceit than self-respect,
proposed to offer plans "in open competition"--not to be paid for
unless accepted--concerning which Jill had asked her father's advice.

[Illustration: THE HOUSE THAT JILL BUILT.]

"What should you think of a physician," said he, "who, on hearing that
you were ill, should hasten to present himself with a prescription and
a bottle of medicine, begging you to read the one, test the other, and,
if they made a favorable impression, give him the job of curing you?
There are such who call themselves physicians; other people call them
quacks, and there is one place for their gratuitous offerings--the
fire. I shall burn any plans that are presented in this way. Choose
your architect at the outset, and give him all possible aid in carrying
out your wishes, but do not employ one of those who must charge a
double price for their actual work in order to work for nothing half
the time. In any other business such a practice would be condemned at
once."

"Isn't it the same thing as offering samples of goods?"

"No, it is offering the goods themselves--the top of the barrel at
that."

Of course this did not apply to the contributions that were prompted by
personal friendship, of which Jill, as we have seen, received her full
share, none of them, excepting the one-story plan, proving in the least
tempting.

As the race of competent, industrious mechanics is not yet extinct,
whatever the croakers may say such were found to build the house, which
was well closed in before winter. The walls and roof were completed and
the plastering dried while the windows could be left open without
danger of freezing, a most important thing, because although mortar may
be kept from freezing by artificial heat, the moisture it contains,
unless expelled from the house, will greatly retard the "seasoning" of
the frame and the walls of the building. After it has all been blown
out of the windows, if the house is kept warm and dry the fine
wood-finishing will "keep its place" best if put up in winter rather
than in summer. For the most carefully seasoned and kiln-dried lumber
will absorb moisture so rapidly in the hot, steaming days of June and
in the damp dog-day weather that no joiner's skill can prevent cracks
from appearing when the dry furnace heat has drawn the moisture from
its pores.

One year is a reasonable length of time for building a common
dwelling-house. Twelve months from the day the workmen appeared to dig
the foundation trenches the last pile of builder's rubbish was taken
away and the new, clean, bright, naked, empty house stood ready for the
first load of furniture. If the social and domestic tastes of Jack and
Jill have been even slightly indicated, it is unnecessary to say that
this first load did not consist of the brightest and best products of
the most fashionable manufacturers. Aunt Melville had sent a few
ornaments and two or three elegant trifles in the way of furniture, a
chair or two in which no one could sit without danger of mutual broken
limbs, and a table that, like many another frail beauty, might enjoy
being supported but could never bear any heavier burden than a
card-basket, and was liable to be upset by the vigorous use of
dust-brush or broom. "They will help to furnish your rooms," said the
generous aunt, "and will give a certain style that cannot be attained
with furniture that is simply useful."

[Illustration: THE FIRST FLOOR OF THE HOUSE THAT JILL BUILT.]

The ornaments that were ornamental and nothing more Jill accepted
gratefully. The furniture that must be protected to preserve its
beauty, and generally avoided lest it should be broken, she returned,
begging her aunt to give it to some one having a larger house.

On one of those perfect days that are so rare, even in June, Bessie
appeared in all the glory of the lilies. To Jill's surprise, her first
remark after the customary effusive greeting was, "How _lovely_ it is
to have a home of your own. I shouldn't care if it was made of slabs
and shaped like a wigwam. Of course, _this_ house is exquisite. I knew
it would be, but it is ten times as large as I should want. It will be
_so_ much work to take care of it."

"I don't expect to take care of it alone."

"I know you don't, but I should want to take care of my own house, if I
had one, every bit of it. Oh, you needn't look so amazed. I know what I
am saying. I have learned to cook, and dust, and sweep, and kindle
fires, and polish, silver, and--and black stoves!"

No wonder Jill was dumb while Bessie went on at a breathless rate.

"And do you know, Jill dear, I wouldn't take this house if you would
give it to me. There! I would a thousand times rather have a little bit
of a cottage, just large enough for--for two people, and everything in
it just as cosy and simple as it could be. Then we--then I could learn
to paint and decorate--I've learned a little already--and embroider and
such things, and slowly, very slowly, you know, I would fill the house
with pretty things that would belong to it and be a part of it, and a
part of me, too, because I made them."

"Wouldn't it be much cheaper and better to hire some skillful artist to
do these things?" said Jill, taking refuge in matter-of-fact.

[Illustration: THE SECOND FLOOR OF THE HOUSE THAT JILL BUILT.]

"If I hired any one of course it would be an artist, but our homes are
not dear to us because they are beautiful, it is because they are
_ours_, because we have worked for them and in them until they are a
part of ourselves. I love artistic things as well as I ever did, but
there are some things that are ten thousand times lovelier."

Before Jill had recovered from her astonishment at Bessie's transformed
sentiments or imagined their cause, who should drive up but Aunt
Jerusha. She and Bessie had never met before, but the mysterious laws
of affinity, that pay no regard to outward circumstances or
expectations, brought them at once into the warmest sympathy. Jill had
provided extremely pretty china for her table, and for Bessie's sake
had brought out certain rare pieces not intended for every-day use. It
was contrary to her rule to make any difference between "every-day" and
"company days." "Nothing is too good for Jack," was the basis of her
argument. The one exception was china. But Bessie was absolutely
indifferent to the frail and costly pottery. She was intent on learning
domestic wisdom from Aunt Jerusha, and insisted upon writing in her
note-book the recipes for everything she ate and recording the rules
for carrying on whatever household matters chanced to be mentioned,
from waxing floors to canning tomatoes. Jack strove to enliven the
conversation by throwing in elaborate remarks upon the true sphere of
women, the uncertainty of matrimonial ventures and the deceitfulness of
mankind in general. Jill meanwhile preserved her equanimity upon all
points relating to her house. She admitted the force of Aunt
Jerusha's suggestion that a portion of the long serving-table in the
kitchen should be movable and a door made from kitchen to china-closet,
to be kept locked, as a rule, but available in an emergency, when one
or both servants were sick or discharged; she appreciated her advice to
form the habit of washing the silver and fine glasses with her own
hands before leaving the table; she was able to repeat her favorite
recipes correctly; she carved gracefully, as a lady ought, and gave due
attention to her guests. Beyond these duties she was in a state of
bewilderment. What had happened to Bessie, and what new mischief Jack
was incubating were puzzles she could neither solve nor dismiss.

[Illustration: THE EAST END OF JILL'S DINING-ROOM.]

By one of those coincidences, not half as rare as they seem, at four
o'clock the same day Aunt and Uncle Melville appeared upon the scene.
They were spending a short time at a summer hotel in the vicinity, and
Jill persuaded them to stay for tea, sending their carriage back for
Cousin George and his wife, who were at the same place. She also
invited her father and mother to improve the opportunity to make a
small family gathering. "I suppose you know Jim is coming over this
evening," said Jack. "Don't you think he had better bring Uncle Harry
along?"

"I _didn't_ know Jim was coming, but he is always welcome, and Uncle
Harry too. Your father and mother, of course, if they are able to come
out this evening."

"Oh, _they_ are coming, anyway," Jack began and stopped suddenly. "That
is, I mean, certainly they will be delighted, if you send for them."

Jill was more puzzled than ever, but they all came.

"Now, you will please consider yourselves a 'board of visitors,'" said
she, as they sat at the table after tea, "authorized to inspect this
institution and report your impressions."

"Remembering that Jill is the warden and I am the prisoner," said Jack.

"But you must conduct us to the cells," said her father, rising, "and
tell us what to admire."

Jill accordingly began at the beginning. She showed them the light
vestibule, with a closet at one side for umbrellas and overshoes, and a
seat at the other; the central hall that would be used as a common
reception-room, and on such occasions as the present, would become a
part of one large apartment--the entire first floor of the main house;
the staircase with the stained-glass windows climbing the side; the
toilet-room from the garden entrance and the elevator reaching from the
basement to the attic. She showed them the family suite of rooms; her
own in the southeast corner, with the dressing-room and adjoining
chamber toward the west, and Jack's room over the front hall, with the
large guest-room above the dining-room. She urged them to count the
closets and notice their ample size; referred with pride to the
servants' rooms, and explained how there was space in the roof for two
chambers and a billiard-room, if they should ever want them. With true
housekeeper's pride she declared the beauties and wonders of the
kitchen arrangements, a theme that had been often rehearsed, and from
the kitchen they descended to the basement, which contained the
well-lighted laundry, the servants' bath-room and store-rooms without
name or number; some warm and sunny, others cool and dark, but all dry
and well ventilated.

Then they returned to the drawing-room to make their reports.

"It's too large," said Bessie.

"It isn't small enough," said Jim.

"The third floor is not the proper place for a billiard-table,"
remarked Uncle Melville, sententiously. "It is too remote for such a
social pastime; too difficult of access; too--too--er--"

"The house looks smaller than it is," said Aunt Melville, "which I
consider a serious defect. It ought to look larger; it should have a
tower, and the front door should be toward the street."

"Your chambers are excellent," said Uncle Harry. "The personality of
human beings should be respected. The chief object of home is to give
to each individual a chance for unfettered development. Every soul is a
genius at times and feels the necessity of isolation. Especially do we
need to be alone in sleep, and to this end every person in a house is
entitled to a separate apartment. I commend the family suite."

"A nobby house," said Cousin George.

"I like our own better," said his wife, _sotto voce_, which was a
worthy sentiment and should have been openly expressed. Fondness for
our own is the chief of domestic virtues.

"Is it paid for?" inquired Jack's father. To which Jack replied:

"It is: and the house that I built is sold to the most stylish people
you ever saw. They paid me more than this cost, but I wouldn't swap
with them for a thousand dollars to boot."

"No; neither would they change with us for two thousand."

Just as the clock struck nine the door-bell rang and the rector and his
wife were announced. Before Jill could realize what was taking place
she found herself an amazed and helpless spectator in her own house,
for Jim and Bessie stood side by side under the curtains leading to the
library, and the rector was reading the solemn marriage service. By way
of calming her excitement Jack found a chance to whisper to Jill,

"They have been engaged six months."

"You unnatural husband! Why didn't you tell me?"

"Didn't know it myself till this afternoon."

There was no time for further explanations, for the good rector was
saying: "I am sure you will agree with me that building and cherishing
a consecrated home is the noblest work we can do on earth. From such
homes spring all public and private excellence, all patriotic virtues,
all noble charities and philanthropies, all worthy service of God and
man. Whether high or low, rich or poor, in all times and in all places,
domestic life, in its purity and strength, is the safeguard of
individuals and the bulwark of nations. And when, in after years,
other solemn sacraments shall be performed beneath this roof, may it
still be found a sacred temple of peace and love!"

Bessie and Jim kept house in two chambers until a cottage of four
rooms, with an attic and wood-shed, was finished, which happened before
cold weather. Her wedding present from Jack was an express wagon full
of obsolete household utensils. She had learned to make the fire in the
kitchen, and nothing was more acceptable than such a load of dry
kindling wood.

The house that Jill built cost ten thousand dollars. Jim's cost less
than one thousand. Bessie declares that the smaller the house the
greater the happiness it contains. She may be right, but Jill denies
it, and it is never safe to draw general conclusions from special
cases.




CHAPTER XIX.

TEN YEARS AFTER.


Jack, Jr., and his sister Bessie, were building block houses on the
piazza. Jack was pretending to read the evening paper, in reality
watching the builders; and Jill was making no pretense of doing
anything else.

"Really Jack, I think Bessie shows more skill in building than her
brother. Her houses look like realities, and they have more grace and
dignity than his."

"Of course. Haven't I always said that women would make the best
architects if they had a fair chance? Didn't you make the plans of this
house? Hasn't it been all our fancy painted and a great deal more?
There isn't a stick nor a stone, a brick nor a shingle that I would
have changed if we were to build it again."

"And haven't I always said that men were more conservative than women?
_I_ would be glad to change everything there is in the house to build
it all over again, and build it differently."

"Oh the inconstancy of women! Even the moon is more constant, for her
changes are only superficial and temporary."

"When I say; 'I have changed my mind,' it is only another way of
saying, 'I am wiser to-day than I was yesterday.'"

"I understand; what a Jacob's ladder of wisdom you must be! All right;
change your mind every day, grow wiser and wiser; I will try to keep
the hem of your garments in sight."

"Have you selected a lot?"

"What for?"

"For a new house."

"Bless you, my dear husband, I wouldn't build another house, still less
live in it, for all the wealth of the treasury vaults. Isn't this our
own? Hasn't it always been perfectly suited to our wants? What upon
earth are you thinking of?"

"Oh, nothing in particular. I never think if I can help it. I have
heard that a man ought always to build two houses, one to learn how,
the second to correct the mistakes of the first. I thought perhaps it
was the same way with women."

"This house was exactly right when it was built, it could not have been
improved, but that was ten years ago, and a great many things have
happened in the last ten years; but, then, a great many more will
happen in the next ten, and ten years hence there will be just as many
things to change in the houses that are built this year as there are
now in those that are of the same age as ours."

"But how would you change this house if it could be done by a magic
wand or by the exercise of faith, and without raising a speck of dust
or upsetting the housekeeping affairs for a single minute?"

"I would make it larger for one thing. Our rooms are too small. The
number of rooms a house contains should depend on the number of people
there are to live in it, including all the children, the guests and the
servants, with a certain allowance for contingencies."

"Depending on the hospitality of the family."

"Yes; and whatever the number of rooms, they should be large enough,
not merely to hold the occupants when the doors are shut, but for
comfortable living and moving about. There is nothing in which all men
and women are more conservative than in the planning of their houses;
there seems to be something hereditary about it, as difficult to change
as a tendency to bald heads and awkward locomotion. Americans are
special sufferers in this respect. The primitive Anglo-American home
was only a step removed from the wigwams of the aboriginal savages, in
size, shape and general accommodations. Even our English ancestors,
from whom we derived some of our domestic notions, were not accustomed
to anything magnificent in the way of dwellings. The climate was
against them, and they were not sufficiently luxurious in their tastes.
Their houses were primarily places for shelter and refuge. In summer
they lived out of doors, and in winter they crept into close quarters
and waited for warm weather. With plenty of land and building materials
to be had for the taking, our colonial grandfathers should have had the
most generous homes in the world."

"Yes; and to judge by some of the old colonial mansions which have
escaped the 'making-over' vandals we have been going backwards in that
respect during the last fifty or a hundred years."

"Yes; and we ought to have been going the other way, for the size of
rooms should increase as the cost of furniture diminishes. Take for
instance, a parlor or sitting room fifteen feet square, which is, I
believe, about the orthodox size for a modern house. Give such a room a
dozen straight-backed and straight-legged chairs ranged along the
sides, a table in the center of the room with a green cover and four
books on it, two or three unhappy-looking family portraits on the
walls, a pair of brass candlesticks on the high, wooden mantel, a pair
of bellows, a shovel and tongs, with, perhaps, in the way of luxury, a
haircloth sofa. Now compare the room furnished in that way, which was
by no means uncommon in the days of our grandfathers with a room of the
same size, in which are stored half a dozen chairs, no two alike, and
some of them as large as small lounges, a center table piled with books
and magazines and photographs, till like a heap of jack straws, it is
impossible to remove one without disturbing the whole pile; a lounge
with a back, a divan or something without a back, an upright piano, two
or three bookcases, several small stools and piles of Turkish cushions
to catch the unwary, huge Japanese vases beside the fireplace, a
leopard skin with a solid head in front of the table, and a sprinkling
of Persian rugs spilt over the floor; a cabinet of bric-a-brac in the
northeast corner, a 'whatnot' with a big jardiniere bearing a
three-foot palm on the top story in the northwest, a carved bracket
with a sheaf of Florida grasses in the southeast, and a tall wooden
clock that won't go in the southwest; a brass tea kettle hanging from a
wrought iron frame beside a fragile stand that carries a half dozen of
still more fragile 'hand-painted' teacups and saucers; lambrequins and
heavy curtains at all the windows and most of the doors, a big
combination gas and electric chandelier suspended from the center of
the ceiling, bedangled with jumping jacks, Christmas cards, straw
ornaments and other artistic 'curious'; one or two small tables
scattered 'promiscous like' about the room; a music stand and a banjo;
with photographs, chromos, oil paintings, water colors and etchings,
from one to three feet square, in gilt, enameled and wooden frames of
all styles and degrees of fitness on the walls of the room,--take a
room furnished in this way or a great deal more so, and compare it
with another of the same actual dimensions furnished in the
old-fashioned way and see which is the larger. The modern furnishing
may be 'cozy,' oppressively cozy when there are half a dozen people
trying to move gracefully around and between it without upsetting or
destroying anything, but what sort of hospitality can we offer our
guests if they must be always afraid of breaking something valuable if
they stir?"

"Why not have a bonfire and liquidate some of this superfluous stock?"

"It is not superfluous; all these things, if they are good add to the
enjoyment of living, if we have room for them and are able to take good
care of them without neglecting weightier matters. Our own rooms are
not large enough. However, if we cannot enlarge them we can build new
ones for special purposes. For one, we must have a children's workroom.
If Jack is going to be an artist, and you know he shows decided talent,
and Bessie an architect, there's no doubt of her having real genius in
that direction, they should have one room immediately, and two by and
by, for their own exclusive use. A room where they could keep all their
books, and tools and toys, and where they could work in their own
spontaneous, untrammeled way."

"You mean a nursery."

"No, I do _not_ mean a nursery, but a workshop, study, gymnasium, call
it anything you please. The floor should be smooth and hard, and the
walls should be wainscoted with smooth, hard wood. There should be
blackboards and shelves at the sides, and the children should be
allowed to drive nails wherever they please. I am not sure but I would
have a sink and a water faucet."

"Not unless the room is in the cellar or has a floor tight enough for a
swimming tank. Well, what next?"

"We must have a hospital."

"For inebriates or the insane?"

"A room similar to the private wards in a hospital. You know our own
and the children's sleeping rooms are very simply furnished, but a sick
room should be still more severe. The children have both had the
measles, thank goodness, and I hope they never will have smallpox,
scarlet fever, or diphtheria, but if they should it would be necessary
to send them away from home or run the risk of their exposing one
another."

"You might as well include every other ill that flesh is heir to. If we
have got to fight germs day and night in order to live, the cleaner and
more open we can keep the battle ground the better. It strikes me that
it might be a good thing to have the whole house sort of clean and
wholesome."

"Of course. But none of us would like to have the living rooms as
absolutely bare of all superfluous furnishing as a hospital ward. We