“How was it possible,” I asked, “for you to think of everything to thus complete the family life here?”
“Perhaps it was easier than you think,” Mr. Andrews replied. “Although my aunt and her husband in establishing this home had certain lines which they wished to follow, they never failed to get ideas from all and every one who could contribute anything toward making life within these walls happy for both young and old. They were fortunate in having among their friends some men and women with rare minds, a little means, and, like themselves, without relatives. Therefore, when spoken to regarding this novel scheme they were only too glad to become members of the household, to do their share in its labor and contribute their quota for the good of all.”
“Had this not been so,” I answered, “your wonderful home would have been an utter impossibility. It takes, first of all, people possessing broad, liberal spirits, willing to give in every way for the benefit of others, to make success crown such an effort as this. Knowledge is a very necessary item, but unaccompanied with generosity of heart, will ever be like the miser’s gold hidden away,—a principal accruing no interest. While not in use, neither can circulate for the benefit of the world or carry out its real purpose.”
To this Mr. Andrews replied, “Your comparison is not only a good one, but quite true. We try in every way to live for each other and to hoard up nothing.”
“But here we are to our next parlorette which may possibly be termed ‘winter:’ However, if this means to you only snow covered earth, ice-locked rivers, people in furs and the jingle of sleigh-bells, you can look for suggestions for such thoughts in the pictures mainly and some of the literature. We do not wish our smiles to freeze on the lips, our hearts to coldly respond to the pleas of others, nor our minds even temporarily inactive. We would get from winter thoughts of purity when Mother Earth puts on her ermine mantle; of lightheartedness as the children skate merrily over frozen waters glistening in the sunlight, or faces smile out on you as sleighs skim by with their happy occupants; of a happy home circle gathered about a great open fire as grandfather and grandmother tell of bygone days when they too were young and enjoyed roasting nuts or apples before the bright fire, or shook the corn-popper till every kernel had burst into a toothsome morsel.”
I could easily imagine such happy scenes as Mr. Andrews pictured and marveled not to find the “winter” room quite as he had described it. The furniture was of a rich, warm coloring, still carrying out the hygienic principle, since none of it was upholstered, but, as in the other rooms, its odd shapes and restful pillows made it equally as inviting as if of the richest satin. Against the snowy trimmings of the room and the white-framed pictures it was most effective. The books of travel, history and other more solid subjects, and magazines containing biographic sketches and articles on topics of the day, invited real, earnest reading. But an object of special interest was a rug of quite good size, in the center of the floor, whose color was pure white. I knew immediately that it was not fur, since they had told me that there were no extremes in weather in that locality. Presumably, therefore, a rug of that material would not find resting-place. On examination it proved to be nothing but white cord. Mr. Andrews seeing my attention was drawn to it explained,
“That rug we prize very highly, though so simple in its makeup. It is, as you see, knit of plain white cord and put on a substantial backing. One of our eldest ladies, now gone to rest, enjoyed passing some of her leisure time in this way, with the result that the rug is not only unique, but quite effective. Though from its fluffiness it looks somewhat heavy, with the great conveniences in our laundry it is easily washed and is therefore always white and clean.”
I could almost see the dear hands plying the needle, and the smiles of pleasure that must have crossed the good woman’s face as she watched the work grow beneath her nimble fingers till at last it was done and she could give it, showing in its color the purity of her life, in its work the activity of mind and heart till the last, and in all, her love for this happy home on earth.
I liked this room so well I would fain have lingered, but I felt that Mr. Andrews’s time was precious.
The one next to this proved to be an attractive corner which in itself was none other than a small art gallery. I recognized copies of a number of the masterpieces, well chosen, and intended, presumably, to carry out their mission of creating true admiration and appreciation of the beautiful. Here too were books about art and artists. Neat portfolios contained specimens, which were more than fair, of some of the efforts of members of the household. There were also a few excellent pieces of statuary. At one side, hidden by light drapery, was an exit to another room of larger size in which I discovered was a small, but seemingly very fine pipe organ. Encircled in suitable frames were portraits of Bach, Haydn and Handel, renowned for their exquisite religious compositions. There were also enlarged copies of details from Sargent’s famous Frieze of the Prophets and Abbey’s Quest of the Holy Grail, while an excellent reproduction of Correggio’s Holy Night with all its appealing sweetness awoke in me renewed admiration for the picture.