It is with a lump in our throats and an ache in our hearts that we turn our thoughts wistfully backward to that place of hallowed memories, which is itself becoming simply a memory - the attic! What happy hours we spent there, rumag-ing among its treasures, soothed by its twilight quiet, and a little awed by the ghosts of the past which seemed to hover about each old chest and horsehair trunk and gayly flowered carpet bag; each andiron and foot warmer and spinning wheel and warming pan! Roof and floor of wide, rough boards, stained by age. and leaks; tiny, cobweb-cui tained windows; everything dusty, dim, mysteri ous! Where is it now? Gone - pushed aside by the march of civilization; supplanted by the mod ern lathed and plastered attic, with its smoothly laid floor, which harbors neither mice nor memor ies. And though we sigh as we say so, the atti of to-day is a better kept, more compact, mor hygienic affair than its ancestor; for we have grown to realize that sentiment must sometimes b sacrificed to sense. Whatever comes we must have hygiene, even at the expense of the little spirt germ which seems sometimes to develop best in the "dim religious light." For we cannot forget Vic tor Hugo and Balzac and Tom Moore in their attics.