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Page 185 text:
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lighting and heating will be installed. As a rule bright colors will be in the north rooms and darker colors in the south rooms. The furniture will be sturdy and substantial. Satisfying plainness is less tiring than elaborate attempts at beauty. Prints of really fine work will be preferred to paintings bv inferior artists. One motto on the wall will he good, but trinkets that only catch dust will be absolutely eliminated. A fire place, and shelves of books are needed for a home.
The lawn will be adjoined with tree bordered paths, and will afford a long unbroken view toward the highway. Tops of other houses will show against their groves. Green fields will surround the house, and woodlands, and streams that wander among the grassy banks,—streams whose waters, splashing over the smooth round pebbles, arc ever clear.
The towers, domes, and minarets of my fairy palace allure me no longer. Their bright mosaics, glistening fountains, graceful ebony columns, and silver lattice work, for me, have lost their charm. For they arc soulless things. I never want to sit in their chilly, silent, tenantless halls. I never want to tread their cold hard stones. I do not want a mansion, however stately, built of lifeless crystal and heartless bronze.
Give me a house that has association with life, where every nook and corner is dear. Let the dwelling be far from hurry, strife, and battle’s fierce contention. To the wanderer within the gates of abode let sorrow and disappointment be forgotten. To the passing stranger may happiness and childhood’s pleasures be once more recalled, so that even he will say,—“The man who lives here cannot he other than wise and good, for this is his home.” Stephen A. Deurisch.
Fpisodc No. 1 Written by G. Talbot Hunt It was Autumn, it was Wyoming and the pale of the eastern sky was warming into a glittering tapestry of rose and gold when Betty West, most irresistible of Vassar’s graduates, swung stiffly down from the step of a Pullman, and stood looking dazedly about her. Twin thumps made by the unceremonious deposition of her trunks in the sand, the whoop of the brakey, the thunder of the train, finally losing itself in the hum of telegraph wires, and she was alone.
The place was certainly no embellishment of her premonitions. Indeed it seemed but to justify her worst fears. All about her stretched a desolate sea of sage, fading into haze and semi-darkness, just purpling in the increasing light of the crisp September dawn. Away to the left stretched a long low line of foot-hills, relieving somewhat the intolerable monotony of this particular corner of the Great American Desert. To her right, seeming to increase rather than relieve her exquisite loneliness stood or rather crouched a low sinister looking little building to which she immediately attached the telegraph office, and from behind, which there projected the hind wheels of some description of vehicle.
“Whoa thar’ Buck, thar’ haint nuthin’ gwinc tu hurt yer, use a little reason an’ decency, can’t yer.”
Page 184 text:
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My intense longing was formerly for a home of richness and splendor. I wished to have the kind of place where it is natural to say, “My hat, James," and motor to a pink tea; the sort of place where the betterment of the ignorant poor is the topic of conversation, while the high iron railing keeps the sidewalk pedestrians from touching the walls of the magnificient edifice. Money is not a matter to be considered there. The great are called by their first names. There one speaks of “the millionaire I met at Newport,” and “the young count with whom I traveled in Provence." In those circumstances it is easy to refer to “the winning of the international cup-race by my yacht,” “the record my bay horse made in the derby at Kpsom Downs,” and “the way I played faro, and roulette at Monte Carlo."
My ideals have changed, however, and conditions such as lack of ready cash may further alter my plans; but my tastes do not yet require a hovel on Poverty Boulevard. My artistic sense has not quite evolved to the stage when I am satisfied by a hut built of flattened tin cans and adobe. My demand is not quite met by a bent rusty stove pipe for a chimney.
A small, but neat and comfortable house is my desire at present, and will be my desire until my oil wells yield their ten thousand barrels a day, and until I get my patent on “The New Improved Fly Swatter." The country, where one can get the pure air and sunshine, suits me. Yet the advantages of being in touch with the city, and not living in narrow isolation will be sought. The privilege of an outdoor life and humanizing contact with the soil is beneficial. 'Phis country place will be my home always,—during the summer’s long days, when the autumn rain beats steadily on the roof, and when its cheery lights shine out across the winter’s drifted snow.
Pardon me for being indefinite in regard to details, since they arc variable and can hi changed indefinitely. One cannot say that materials of certain dimensions, quality, and quantity will make a home. The chief thing is that the resulting interiors do not look like hotel lobbies. There are certain things felt rather than seen that make a home. It is questionable if there can be abiding happiness in a residence where the deed is held by some New York real estate company, or a mortgage is held by a Shy-lock in some humbler city.
Fire proof material is preferred, because it is a good business proposition. As for all real economics, the first cost may be more, but an air of permanence is given that no frame building can have. The danger of Indian raids is over; consequently, better structures are being erected in this country. Therefore, let my house be built like London bridge:
“Build it up with stone so strong Then ’twill last for ages long.”
Americans developed the grand American type of architecture, the colonial. At a lower cost more beautiful buildings can be built in this type, than in the Gothic, Italian, or French Renaissance. Also, because it is artistic, I, .as a patriotic American, favor the colonial style with its balance and proportion. It is said that other styles of buildings may come and go, but the colonial is always correct.
The rooms will be light and airy, with high ceilings. A good modern system of
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Hetty experienced the same revolution of feeling of awakening from an unpleasant dream. Her hands Hew to her straying hair, thence to her pocket, thence to her face, and with a few deft circular motions her toilet was completed. The imprisoning sage leaped back into oblivion. Here was the west, the land of romance, here was a man, here were new worlds to conquer. However, the individual appearing before her at this juncture was hardly a susceptible victim of her feminine charms. Tall, emaciated, with the eyes of a strayed lamb, the whiskers of a Tripolitan pirate, over his attire let us draw a veil.
“Be you th’ schoolmarm thet’s goin’ to teach over at Crimson Gulch?”
“Oh yes, and have you come to take me?”
“Is it very far?”
"Tolablc, sixty-five mile.”
“Oh, then we must hurry—my trunks are over here.”
She watched him mutely while he put the trunks into the antiquated vehicle, vainly trying to think of a fit topic for conversation.
“This is an awfully lovely country, isn’t it. do many people leave here?”
“Yup, feller left last week.”
"Oh, poor fellow, and was he homesick?”
“Nope, went busted, too much expense fer string.”
“Yup, to keep his hat on, turrublc windy country.”
How absurd that a man should go bankrupt for such a reason. Still—but it was too ridiculous. He must have misunderstood her. She would try again.
“These horses are rather temperamental aren’t they?”
“Why—Why—Yes, yes, that much anyhow.”
“Arc they very dangerous, do they run away very often ?’’
“Why, no mum, they haint very dangerous, leastways thev’s jest as many times they don’t run off as they is times they do.”
Was this his criterion of a gentle horse? How she wished at that moment that she had not left a debutante season behind her for this silly missionary adventure. She was granted little time for her blue tinted introspection, for the cowpunchcr had fastened her trunks securely, and she was obliged to mount to the swaying seat of the stage. Taking advantage of a moment when the off horse wasn’t looking he climbed quickly to the seat beside her. loosened the reins of the plunging broncos and they were off.
Episode No. 2 Written by A. Lewis '1 vlcr.
Ye gods! Would this awful sea of sage and sand never have an end? For hours (surely there was something wrong with her watch, for it said it was only ten o’clock)—for an interminable, vacant, aching age. she had sat cramped up there on that hard, jolting seat. Every minute she had to catch desperately at the scat, the driver’s arm or even the reins in order to keep from being thrown off the stage boddy.
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