ily to indulge the luxury and
joy of reading aloud together on winter evenings from some interesting
author. Even in a family that is fond of reading, each member of the
circle will be seen when lamps are lighted to settle down to read from
the book or paper that interests himself or herself alone, and all the
good of unified thought, that might be theirs if they had read aloud, of
vital interruption and comment, of living together in mind and growing
together as the story develops, of enjoying the humor and romance
together, are entirely lost. To read great pieces of literature together
in the family is to put a personal consecration about the genius-crowned
work of the master spirit. Never can a great epic or drama mean so much
to any one of us by closet perusal as it would if we had shared it with
our next of kin. This is another place where losing our life is gaining
our life. Our treasure is doubled by giving it to others. Winter
evenings and Sunday afternoons all the year round, may be made memorable
by association with the greatest minds through their preserved works.

The complaint has been made that there is no literature of farm
life--that our literature is now completely urbanized and
industrialized. There certainly is a tendency in this direction,
especially in the realm of fiction. But it is possible to find some that
are giving the country its due, and the writings of Mrs. Porter, so dear
to Country Girls, are a proof of the fact.[1]

But if the Genius of Fiction has become absorbed with the problem of the
city, that of Poetry has remained true to its first love among the
fields and streams. It is a joy to know that the poets will always be
found among the books chosen for the happy winter evening in the country
home. There, if not in fiction and tale, countryside people find a
reflection of their thoughts. Perhaps this is because poetry is the one
art that can conveniently penetrate to the distant homes in remote rural
places. Since time immemorial country life seems to have been not only
an inspiration to poets, but also to the development of our powers of
expression in that highest of the arts. What is there about life in the
open that gives to genius its incentive? The beauty of the surroundings
ought to be a sufficient answer. But perhaps that very individuality
that we blame country life for overdeveloping may be the favorable
ground for the upspringing of this noble human blossom. At any rate it
se