Somewhat back from the village street it stands, this little, low eighteenth-century cottage of ours; white-walled, green-shuttered, peeping at you from behind a screen of lilac and syringa bushes and an outer ambuscade of the "green, inverted hills "of lofty elm trees. But notwithstanding its demure shyness, it has its moments; all summer long it is "snapshotted" (is that a proper participle?) by the passing tourist; and it has the honor of having its photograph on at least five different picture postcards for sale at the local shops. You see, it is one of the oldest houses in a town that has, perhaps, pushed aside too much of tradition and charm in its civic haste to improve.

Besides, the founder of Wellesley College was born here; and - more than anything else - Daniel Webster roomed in the little south chamber when he was a Sophomore at Dartmouth. That's the real reason of its popularity. To misquote ever so slightly the words of the great man whose mantle of fame protects my little house, "It is a small cottage, but there are those who love it." I am one of them, and yet, I confess, the word "small" is rankling at present; rankling because, lately, in a moment of exasperation, my Candid Friend told me that it was just the size for two maiden ladies and a pussycat. And there are five of us, besides a pussycat - a great dust-colored animal who stretches himself at ease on the rosy damask of my Chippendale chair, and fancies that he completes the pink-and-gray color-scheme of my parlour. Since then I can't help feeling that we bulge like a tenement family.

Yes, just eight rooms for five of us and a pussycat and a maid whenever we can capture one and persuade her to stay. Would you feel slummish? You see, after all, the cottage is set in a lawn of wide greenness, and the rooms are large. Our hall now - usually these little "story-and-a-half" New England houses have most inhospitable entries: unwelcoming, perpendicular stairs which, with but the width of a doormat between, speed the parting guest like an arrow from a bow, by almost pitching him out of the front door. I have a theory about our little cottage; I think that it was built in that long-ago summer of 1790, by some Southern optimist who did n't do the climate justice, but who wanted a hall; the South being accustomed to halls and hospitality. So he cunningly contrived his stairway, turning it at an abrupt angle, thus saving a really worth-while space. Steep the stairs certainly are; the craggy Alps would hold no terrors for my children, brought up as they have been in these domestic mountain fastnesses; and, as a reducer of unnecessary avoirdupois, they are unequaled. My slenderness commends them.

But, seriously, I have never seen a hall in so small a cottage planned quite like this, with an eye to so much room. The photograph does not show half its charm, or, even, half the hall. On either side of the front door shallow closets are built in, and so I am spared the anachronism of an otherwise necessary hatrack. The angle of the stairway forms another tucked-away closet, not so high, but deeper. That is directly behind my little "snake-foot" light-stand - a gracious gift and one of the most attractive pieces of the kind I have ever seen; made just of birch, but showing what New England cabinet-makers could do in the way of delicate line, when they chose. And they often did choose, despite popular theory to the contrary. On it stands a brass candlestick, seven and a half inches high and well-proportioned; a substantial base with cut-off corners; then a bell-shaped standard and three lessening bulbous turns - I paid a dollar for each of them, and I assure you I got a bargain! Of course, I might have this candlestick wired for electricity; but since it is destined to light the hall when the central electric lamp fails me, after some crashing thunderstorm, I prefer to keep it as it is, and occasionally enjoy the softer radiance of earlier days.

On the left wall, above the table, hangs a Constitution mirror, medium large and with very good lines. I bought it some years ago from a small dealer, for six dollars, and it was in such excellent condition that all that had to be done was to put in a new glass. Even the eagle's head was intact, a most unusual piece of good luck; and I don't believe that the whole mirror cost me more than nine dollars.

And here may I make a declaration of furniture truth? Unless the old glass is particularly interesting and in good condition, with a super-beveled edge and the charm of fine antiquity, I think I should replace it - unless I were planning a museum, and who that has a real home wants to do that? Though I might keep just one example of the kind described in that lovable "Story of a Bad Boy" - "When it reflected your face, you had the singular pleasure of not recognizing yourself. It gave your features the appearance of having been run through a mincemeat machine."But only as a curious bit of antiquity, you understand.

My chairs were bargains, too. One is a bannister-back with mushroom finials, and a curved top vaguely recalling the Stuart crest. This L------and I found in a little summer shack on the shores of Lake Mascoma, and it was worth the stumbling, slippery winter walk along the frozen edges; for the farmer-owner sold it for five dollars, and refinishing and a wide splint bottom cost but three dollars more. (I have a particular affection for that chair; you see, it was the first bannister-back I ever owned.) The slat-back, of course, is a commoner type; but still, four slats are better than three, just as five slats are more desirable than four, and these simple chairs, especially when well turned, are always worth buying. My "butter-and-eggs man," fired by my antique enthusiasm, rummaged in his barn-loft and found this discarded chair, which he sold me for a dollar and a half. The seat was gone, - naturally, that was to be expected, - but renovation and a good rush bottom (this was in those blessed days when work of this sort cost less) added four dollars to its price.