to cool--piling them while hot injures the glaze--and put away
the first washing before commencing on the heavy, greasy things. The
washing water must be changed as soon as a greasy scum collects around
the sides of the pan.

CARE OF KNIVES

Bone-, wood-, or pearl-handled knives should never go into the dishpan,
but be stood, blade down, in a pitcher containing a little water and
soda, the blades having first been wiped off with paper, and left till
everything else is done. They are then washed singly with clean suds,
special care being bestowed upon the juncture of the blade with the
handle, rinsed, and dried immediately. If stained, rub with half of a
potato or with a cork dipped in powdered pumice stone, wipe dry, wash,
and polish with a little bath brick or sapolio. Clean carving knives
and forks in the same way, going around the joinings with a rag-covered
skewer. Spots can be removed from ivory handles with tripoli mixed
with sweet oil; from mother-of-pearl with sifted whiting and alcohol,
which is washed off and followed with a polishing with dry whiting and
a flannel cloth. Cover rusted knife blades with sweet oil, rub in
well, and leave for forty-eight hours, then rub with slaked lime.
Britannia, pewter, and block tin in table use are polished the same as
silver.

CHAPTER IX

THE BEDROOM

The bedroom is very like an old familiar friend: it sees us as we
really are, tempting us to throw off all veneer of pretense or
worldliness and rest in just being ourselves--a rest so sweet and
wholesome and good that we go from it recreated and strengthened. In
the spirit of truest friendship it exacts nothing, but by its subtle,
quiet sympathy charms away our restlessness and presents us anew to
that person known as our better self. The friend of our choice is the
one who wears well; who never intrudes, never wearies, never pains us;
whose influence is one of rest, of restoration, of reinspiration--the
embodiment of the true mission of the bedroom. It, like our friend,
must be able to survive with honor the test of that familiarity which
comes with intimacy--whether it shall breed contempt or content. And
so as we plan it, let us endeavor to temper our likes and dislikes with
judgment until we can be reasonably sure that it will be a room
pleasant to live with, and companionable, which will not irritate our
moods into becoming moodier, nor our weariness into becoming wearier.

LIGHT AND AIR