Much time and money and weary labour would be saved, much comfort and loveliness would be gained if we could persuade ourselves to follow William Morris's rule:

"Have nothing in your rooms which you do not think to be beautiful and know to be useful."

Were this rule suddenly put in practice, what a bundling out of rubbish would ensue. A Bonfire of Vanities would rise in no time, built of little tables and pedestals, cushions and bows, curtains, vases, pictures that no future generations would call us vandals for destroying, fringes and ruffles, souvenirs of travel, broken and mended objects from the top shelves of closets, bronze and china statuettes, and that whole miserable race of blotters which do not blot, book-racks which faint under the weight of books, pen-wipers which would be insulted if they were inked, collapsible waste-baskets always in a state of collapse, holders that hold nothing, cases that fit nothing, impervious pin cushions!

May the smoke of them ascend!

One would think that this rule of use and beauty were austere enough, yet many people, before they acquire even a useful or a beautiful object, must consider whether there is room for it in their home, whether the members of the household have time and strength to take care of it, and whether it is appropriate to their possessions and to their way of living.

The amount of space we have about us seriously effects our health of body and mind. The more furniture there is in a room, the less air space there is. The sense of oppression one feels in a room crowded with furniture is not imagination, there is literally much less air to breathe. It is also not merely an idea that a house full of ornaments and pictures is not restful to live in. One knows what matchless weariness results from hours spent in a museum; it is caused by continually readjusting one's eyes, and thoughts, and emotions to an endless succession of things. A room crowded with ornaments and pictures is a miniature museum. With familiarity one may cease to see the individual objects the room contains, but this is indifference, not peace.

Those who have not done housework with their own brains and bodies cannot realize how many thousands of times every object in a house has to be touched and moved merely for the sake of cleanliness and order. It seems a small matter whether there are six pictures in a room or eight, whether flower vases are kept in the china closet or on the tops of book shelves and tables, whether there are five little fal-lals on a mantelshelf or twenty-five; but I hardly think it is a small matter whether a woman spend a half-hour with her children, or out of doors, or reading a book, or spends it in dusting tormenting trifles. These considerations are equally important when the work is done by maids; there are always enough useful things to do in a house to fill reasonable work hours.

One must ask, then, even when a useful or beautiful object is in question, Have I room for it? and, Is it worth the time and strength needed to care for it? And then one more question: Is this thing I desire suitable? That is, will it make the rest of the furniture which cannot now be renewed look shabby? Shall I feel that it is too good for the sun to shine upon, or the family to use? Will it set up a standard which I cannot keep up to without feverish effort?

In order to select or to weed out possessions in a reasonable way, attachments have to be kept in check; one must keep in mind that the family are more worthy of regard than the family chairs, and one must have such respect for oneself as a spiritual and intellectual creature that one will not fall in love with a silver-service or a set of ancient plates. I can think of few things more humiliating than the fact that families can be divided by old furniture; that sisters can be estranged by silver sugar-tongs; that lives can be spoiled, hearts broken and fortunes spent in the service of possessions which should exist only for the temporary comfort and happiness of their owners.

All this does not mean that our homes should be bare as hospitals, and ugly as barracks, and that, if the furniture is shabby, we ought not to have the one beautiful picture, or the good piano, or the hoard of books, which may be the treasure of the family. Nor does it mean that we ought not to love our household goods.

We want our homes as complete in comforts and appliances as we can reasonably afford. We want them lovely to look at. And we shall be all the better if we have an affection for every stick they contain. Scrooge hugged his own bed-curtains, because the sight of them assured him that he was at home. For the same reason we love the things we live with, and the place where we live. We like to come back after an absence and find the same things in the same places, and get an extra welcome from every one of them.

This is incidentally an argument against frequently changing the arrangement of the furniture, as some housewives think it economical and diverting to do. Such changes destroy that settled, established look which is homelike, and very comfortable to live with. Do you know about the man who was not afraid of burglars when he got up at night, but was awfully afraid of bureaus and rocking-chairs which his wife found a new place for every week?

We naturally become attached to things which we like, and which we have taken thought to get, and which we have looked after year after year. Heirlooms are the result of such care and affection and companionship continuing year after year, generation after generation until the objects on which this care has been expended seem to become a part of ourselves and our lives, until they seem to have absorbed some of the personality and affection of those who no longer dwell with them, nor with us.

But when possessions begin to seem something more than tables and tea-cups and silver spoons, have a care—they're not.