The Washington herald., 1918-01-02

4
a country home I vast taken up into
the attic to get particularly fine
view of bit of woods and sea that
admired very much.
My hostess was a rich woman. but
she was one of the old-fashioned,
thrifty housekeepers who believe in
saving everything because in some
remote, possible future you might,
could. would or should use it. Her
attic was miracle of orderliness
and cleanliness. but it was crowd
ed to suffocation with the cast-ofr
belongings of the family.
There were rows and rows of
trunks and boxes packed to BURST
ing with old finery. Dozens of pairs
of partly worn shoes were green
with mold. Hundreds of garments.
hanging from pegs, were furnishing
food for moths. There were piles
Of old books and magazines. Stacks
of pictures leaning against the wall.
Hordes of children's toys and pieces
of furniture were falling to pieces.
took long look. at this scene and
then 1 said to my friend:
II know now why you are trou-
led with insomnia, and the remedy
for it."
why is it?" she asked eagerly.
THE reason you cannot sleep of
nights" replied, 'is because this
attic is weighing on your soul.
Every article in it is tormenting
you, dumbly imploring you to make
use of it, to give it away, to let it
make somebody happy or comfort
able, instead of just rotting away
without doing any human being any
good. Just have a grand clearing
out of this room, and start forth its
contents on n mission of service, and
you will find that you will sleep like
a babe"
"Oh, couldn't" she protested.
I've been taught to take care of
things and that 1t is sinful to waste
even a scrap of anything"
You are not wasting the things
that you give to those who can use
them" said, '"but you are wasting
things when you let them decay in
stead of putting them to use. Look
at these shoes, for instance. out of
style, stiff and green with age and
mildew. Do you suppose that any
member Of your fastidious family
will ever put them on again?
you know well enough that they
won't. Indeed. they are unwearablc
for anybody now, but when they
were first discarded they would
have been a Godsend to a dozen
poor people you know. Do you Won
der that the ghost OF those shoes
reproach you at night when they are
falling to pieces up here in your
attic, and men and women are walk
ing about almost barefooted on the
cold ground?
And these toys that your own
children played with twenty years
ago. Very likely, isn't it, that your
grown sons and daughters will como
up here and play with dusty dolls
and these tin soldiers again! But
there are children whose only play
things are a rag rolled up for doll
and n beer bottle and a tin can.
whose hearts would sing for joy If
they had a real doll and real toy
cannon instead of make-belieVe
ones.
And these piles OF magazines.
years and years old, that nobody
ever has time to look at with new
magazines and papers coming in
every day. No good for anybody
but the junk man now. but when
they We're neT and fresh what JOY,
what education, what stimulation
, they would have been to dozens of
intellectually hungry people II only
you had sent them to some man or
woman living in the country, per-
haps, or in some lonely little vii
lage, to whom the price Of a sub
scriptiOn to a good magazine was
an unattainable luxury.
And this big easy chair that you
had sent up to the attic when it
was too shabby for the living room.
It's become nothing but a nest for
mice. Yet every time YOU drove
down into the village you have pass
| ed the window where THAI little
hunchback dressmaker sits on hard
chair sewing away for dear life, try
ing to keep a roof over her head.
Don't you think that this chair
might have been just as usefully
employed in making her comfortable
.