Year: 1874

At the corner OF Charles and Aber-
crombie streets, in our town, is q small
plain house, which pass every day on
my way to the cars. Ihave often looked
at it and wondered if anything could
be more commonplace, outside and in /;
for of the latter have had occasional
glimpses when the windows were thrown
open in the morning for airing The
parlor walls, saw, were dead white,
though elegantly relieved by a gilt.
framed certificate of membership of
the Missionary Society, the last chrome
of the Heather Fortaightiy, wreath
of wax flowers in an oval frame, an Ella
borately colored photograph or two,
and the crimson cords wherewith the
aforenamed were severally suspended.


The white-boarded, green-blinded e1-
terror had not q single indication of
individuality-if you except the little
tin sign nailed under one of the parlor
windows proclaiming the profession of
the head of the family to be that of an
architect and Builder.


The fact that never, save in q single
instance, have happened to see any
one go in or come out at the front door,





ever been visible at any of the windows,
from garret to cellar, has doubtless
given a certain airy freedom to my ina
ginations concerning this houses in
habitants. But my widest imaginings
never carried q single member of that
mysterious family beyond the domain
of the commonplace. In my mind 1
have followed the fancied father to and
from his daily work; the probable
mother up and down the unseen stair
case, intent upon the most primitive
domestic drudgery the needle of the
suppositious grandmother back and
forth across the all too possible hole in
the stocking Ihave seen the ideal baby
tended, and tossed, day in and day out.
by the daughter in curl-papers - OF
whose existence I felt well assured, from
the fact that I one evening observed the
young gentleman clerk of the neighbor-
ing ribbon store, standing upon the
front steps, arrayed in red necktie,
green kids, and twenty-five cent cane,
and with that air of embarrassed aston
ishment with which one sometimes lis
tens to the clamor of door-beu ones
own hand has set going.


How could know that the leaves of
the naples that trembled about those
second-story windows were listening
daily to story of shame and agony and
heart break; that within those four
commonplace walls q tragedy was being
enacted, upon the last terrible scene of
which the world would soon look with
horror! How could I know that one
day people would speak in whispers
when they passed beneath those win
dows; that even the little front stoop
and the missionary certificate would,
ere long, be invested with tragic in
terest.


After all, my lords and ladies, your
houses, your husks, your arts, your
manners, your dresses and your deduc-
tions, are nothing-and your humanity
is everything. And yet your houses
and your dresses and all about you are
much; because they have to do with
the human. And nothing that has to do
with the human csn be commonplace.
Certainly I think I shall never again
call any house commonplace, no matter
how ordinary it may appear no matter
how much bad taste may be evident
through the windows open for airings.


A great many human beings them
selves are Just like my little house on
the corner. I've considered them in the
same way, God forgive me.-and have
lived to be astonished and ashamed,
thank God AScri6ner's Magazine.