The steps are so high and the treads are so narrow! They always remind me of a Mother Goose jingle; and, though I never have had to carry anybody home in a little wheelbarrow, I'm always expecting to, so perilous are they to the uninitiated. I measure my guests' agility by the way they climb! The stairs' ladderlike steepness has another disadvantage, too: the treads are so shallow that the descending heel invariably scrapes a long line, and the rise has to be repainted every month, to look well-kept. Once I tried ordinary carpeting - and the effect was appalling: staring and inappropriate. But, if ever I find just the right old lady, with just the right old loom and a real eye for color, I shall have her weave me a rag carpet to echo my chintz, "gay and lively to look at," rather like the stripes which decorate the study and the ell-chamber, but with more ecru and less crimson, of course. There is a stately house in tranquil white Woodstock, where the stairs are carpeted this way; the rag carpet repeats the colors in the antiquated wall-paper, and the resulting harmony is far finer than if even the most expensive Oriental strips were used.

Come, climb my twelve steps with me, and cling tight to the banisters, if you like. The upper hall is small and quite pointed at one end; then it suddenly broadens out and gives me space for a table with a gilt-framed picture above, and a deep nook for a linen-chest and a chair. You can see the old panel of wall-paper much better here, although I do think its fantastic contours and quaint figures are more effective viewed a little lower down.

A small "drawn-in" rug, another one from the old, disdainful lady, lies in front of this pictured space. It is not particularly fine work, but the colors are agreeable - black and light brown and dulled pink; while the design always reminds me of the figures you see when you suddenly close your eyes - queer, brilliant triangles coming out of a surface of darkness. As oddly primitive as that; hence its decorative, un-selfconscious charm.

My table was still less costly: seventy-five cents, from a family who were moving away, and who did n't want to take "any old stuff" with them. They did n't; I know this to my sorrow, for an hour's delay lost me a lovely swell-front Hepplewhite bureau, inlaid and with "E Pluribus Unum" brasses, which they sold for five dollars because a back foot was broken. Though, had I bought it at that price, my conscience might have troubled me; whereas now it does n't keep me awake o' nights at all, for my table is just an ordinary birch light-stand, but with gracefully turned legs which redeem it from utter plainness. Above it hangs a familiar lithograph of Benjamin Franklin; you remember, don't you, that benign face and the waving locks which fall long upon his fur-collared coat? The frame is ancient, but still bravely gilt, which makes it most useful here, not only as adornment, but to give an additional light effect to the hall, which it needs, since it is decidedly overdark. It has much worth, but no price, being the gift of friendship; and it has just come from an attic of marvels where it abode in the pleasant companionship of old and beloved furniture. And the brass candlestick - that was two dollars - adds its burnished touch, besides being helpful in case the electricity goes off, which frequently happens, alas! for my son is interested in wireless, my Russian maid not sympathetic with my iron or toaster - and fuses are but fuses, after all.

Of course, it's even darker in the linen-chest nook - you lucky housekeepers with built-in linen-presses, shelves and shelves, and more room than you need, don't know how blessed you are; the one thing that consoles me is the fact that I was able to achieve my storage-space and light-effect at the same time. I bought a capacious old pine-chest, and painted it a bright, clear blue, "cart-blue," we call it hereabouts. It just fits in against the side wall, and, as it is divided into two compartments, I have a place for my towels and a place for my bed linen, pieces which are destined to immediate use, instead of having to dash downstairs and open grudging, stingy drawers in my china-closet. I paid just a dollar and a half for my chest, and it delights me to know that it very much resembles the ones our Puritan ancestors brought with them, corded and tied and full of fustians and "wallen counterparties." Joiners kept on making them steadily through the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and, no doubt, through the early nineteenth, for chests are as old as civilized man, and while civilization lasts I predict they will endure. Where did I get it? Ah, that's a secret I want to impart to you. You must avail yourself of the beauty of simple things, you must become "a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles." Hardly anybody nowadays wants one of these old, unpretentious chests, although they are very useful, and have a certain rough and homely charm. I bought mine at a secondhand shop where I often find treasures: once I got a Bennington jug, with the finest glaze I ever saw, for half a dollar, and a pressed-glass Venus and Cupid creamer for twenty-five cents. Even at the risk of repetition, I insist that your collecting life must include an Esteemed Secondhand Man, a Favorite Dealer, and an Obliging Junkman. All three have their necessary places, and are vital to your antiquarian interests. My small three-slat chair I bought for a dollar, years ago; it has had changing colors and various abodes, and now has settled down in a bright-blue coat as a companion to the chest. Very useful it is to sit in, as I put away my sheets and "pillowbiers," and, if I were bromidic, I should add that it brightens the corner where it is. Truly, I get a domestic thrill of happiness every time I pass my dear, homely blue group. Just the same shade decorates my bathroom: blue walls, white ceiling and woodwork, and porcelain fittings. I feel a pride in that single bathroom which you, O Fortunates, possessors of many and tiled splendors, can never know. Because there was n't any, naturally, when we took the house, and I had visions of bathing primevally in country fashion - with a small jug of hot water for finishing touches. And then the Powers That Be decided that a large, unenclosed landing, at the head of the stairs which lead from the dining-room, could be turned into one, and O------and I rejoiced, having been accustomed to the effete life of cities. If you could remember, as I do, that squalid square, with three untidy students' beds - yes, the adjective fits both nouns - just jammed in anyhow, you 'd understand what a triumph a neat, tidy, compact bathroom was. True, the walls slant a little, and part of the space is taken up by the sturdy central chimney; but who cares? I don't; there are blue-checked gingham curtains at the window, my favorite bath-salts come in a blue-trimmed bottle, and my chosen soap looks - and smells - like a great wet violet. Moreover, for antiquities, I have another slat-back chair, white with a "cart-blue" seat, a small gilt-framed mirror with an upper painted panel of a valiant ship a-sailing on a cerulean sea, and, for a bath-mat, a knitted rug, done in the old manner in gray and white and vivid blue.

My small ship is symbolic, and, when it comes in, and I either make or inherit millions, I shall build myself a stately mansion with, not just a single bath for each room, but two, one for summer and one for winter: cool greens and lucid blues and pools that make you think of water lilies; warm, glowing yellows and russets, and fireplaces with leaping tawny flames. How's that for Spanish real estate?

Don't think I do not love my queer "cart-blue" bathroom. I do; and I am amazingly fond of the odd little windowed closets, which stretch almost the length of my small cottage, two at front, two at the back; closets in which youth delights, but where maturity bangs its head. Actually they do very well for storing trunks and old magazines, for holding the children's clothes, and providing an upstairs broom-closet; while one, gilded by fancy, is the Littlest Daughter's play-place, known to her friends as "Cubby House." Of course, in the summer, being just under the eaves, it is unbearably hot; and then she removes herself and her household cares to the shelter of the box maples in the backyard; but, if you will come some winter's afternoon, I know she will be entranced to pour you a cup of cambric tea, and offer you the hospitality of her real roof tree!