ith a prostrate doll or two, are cheerful; a trail of
leaves and mosses from a basket of woodland treasures is endurable dirt.
But dust in the corners which shows the dirt to be chronic and not
accidental, unwashed windows, dingy mirrors, etc., etc., have no
redeeming quality. It is a good thing for the mother of the family to
love order, but there is ample scope for that in keeping every closet
and drawer and box and basket in a dainty condition. However neat a room
may be, it is odious the moment an open drawer or closet reveals
disorder. The meaning of this is that the disorder which comes from
daily happy living is delightful, and that is what we see in the large
confusion of a room when in use; but the disorder which comes from
carelessness about finding a convenient place for everything, and from
laziness about putting things in their places when we have done using
them, is not beautiful.

For the kind of neatness which makes a home homelike we must have room
enough, but not too much room. This is rather a vague statement, I know,
but the actual measurements of a house should vary with circumstances;
for example, a large room with few people in it will always be stiff,
even if it is splendid; while a small room filled with useless
_bric-a-brac_ will be uncomfortable even with a solitary occupant. On
the subject of _bric-a-brac_ I feel strongly, and I will speak of it
more fully elsewhere.

But I do not include pictures in the term _bric-a-brac._ There ought to
be pictures in every home for their intrinsic value. Fortunately they
take up little room and are easily kept in order. Many of us do not
agree about pictures. Most Americans who buy oil paintings advertise
their want of cultivation in their choice, and even those who rigidly
confine themselves to engravings and photographs of the old masters do
not succeed much better. I remember a man, the son of a country
minister, who knew pictures only from the literary side. He was a great
reader, and had been familiar with the names of Raphael and Da Vinci and
Duerer from childhood. He knew well what were their masterpieces, and
when he went abroad he bought hundreds of photographs of these works.
His house was full of pictures; there was not one among them which was
not a copy of something really beautiful, and not one copy which had any
beauty in itself. This man had not the sense of beauty, though he had
the moral sense which led him always to wish for the best.