When people move in the neighborhood, it is considered polite to pay them the first visit—"to extend the hand of welcome," as the expression is. The hostess should offer a cup of tea with crackers or cake, and should make herself agreeable in every way. However, the acquaintance should not be forced; if the newcomers are haughty and aloof, it is well to leave them to themselves, until they have absorbed some of the good-fellowship and courtesy of the village.
There is very little need for formal calling cards in the small village where everybody knows everybody else. A great many of the conventionalities of city life are, of course, found in the country; but a great many more of them are lacking. And among them are the strictly formal introductions, calls and social functions that are observed with such punctiliousness in the city. Simplicity should be the keynote of country life, and quiet, dignified manners should be the ideal of country people.
THE ENDLESS ROUND OF HOSPITALITY
Hospitality does not mean the giving of sumptuous banquets or elaborate dinners. It does not mean the extravagant recklessness of much-talked-about house parties, or extended yachting trips. It does not mean the holding of gay and festive balls.
No, it means none of these, for even in the most humble home one can find the truest hospitality. There need be no rich display, no obvious effort at ostentation. For hospitality is that open-hearted, open-handed, generous, lovable, beautiful fellow-feeling for fellow-mortals—the kind of feeling that makes you throw open your home, small apartment or mighty mansion, as the case may be, and bid your friends and acquaintances welcome. Welcome, mind you, that has in its greeting none of the sham cordiality, that wealthy people sometimes parade merely for the sake of being able to show their worldly goods to the envious eyes of their guests,—but a whole-souled and whole-hearted welcome that is willing to share everything one has.
And so, the round of hospitality goes endlessly on, host and hostess making the pleasure and comfort of the guest their prime consideration. Parties, receptions, dances, balls, dinners—all are instances of the eagerness of the world, the social world, to entertain, to give pleasure, to amuse. And the guests, in their turn, repay the hospitalities with other hospitalities of their own. And we find, in this glorious twentieth century it is our fortune to be living in, a wholesome, generous hospitality that puts to shame the history-famed achievements of kings and princes of yore.
WHEN TO INVITE
The question naturally arises, what are the occasions that require hospitality? Frankly, there are no definite occasions. Hospitality is the index to breeding and culture at all times. But there are certain ceremonious occasions that warrant the invited hospitality—and such are the occasions that we will study in this chapter.
First, we find the wedding anniversary claiming the ceremony of many invited guests and much festive entertainment. Thus, wedding anniversaries offer an excellent opportunity for hospitality. Then there is the occasion of the young daughter's introduction to society—an event which is important, indeed, and requires the utmost hospitality on the part of host and hostess alike. When one's son graduates from college, a little dinner party and perhaps some musical entertainment afterward is an appropriate time to show by one's hospitality, sincere gratitude for the splendid educational opportunities afforded the youth of America. Oh, there are countless opportunities, countless "excuses," if you will call it that, countless occasions when hospitality can be shown to one's friends and acquaintances! And it is only by taking advantage of these opportunities, by revealing one's unselfish, ungrudging hospitality, that one rightly earns the name of cultured.
The hostess who sighs in relief when the guest has departed is not truly hospitable. She should have a certain sense of satisfaction in the knowledge of her very weariness. For hasn't she served her guests well? Hasn't she sent them to their homes a little happier than when they first came? The sigh should be one of sheer joy.