Democratic Sentinel, Volume 18, Number 21, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 8 June 1894 — HOME IS THE COUNTRY. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

HOME IS THE COUNTRY.

MADE BEAUTIFUL BY A DAINTY COLOR SCHEME AND A SEA iVIEW. Hints on Window Draperies end Furnishing a Narrow Hall. “It seemed most discouraging to think of spreading the contents of a seven-room flat over a ten-room house, I must confess,” said my friend. She had lately moved to the country, and one day, shaking the dust of the city from my feet and resolutely closing my eyes to the unfinished manuscript and unedited copy that littered my desk, I had gone to her for a breath of country air and a day’s rest. The parlor was so dainty and so pretty that I could not help expressing my admiration. It was a mite of a room, too, not more than 11 by 18 feet, not counting a circular bay window opening into a huge circular porch with a view of Sound that somehow suggested Florida. There were such cunning little inlets, making, at low tide, numbers of tiny islands, on some of which grew trees not unlike the palmetto. One would

have been quite contented had the room contained no furniture beyond the circular cushioned window seat. The fireplace, a real one, was cunningly set in a corner of the room, probably because there was no other place to put it. It had a tiled hearth, in blue and cream, with a border of dull old red. There was a pair of wrought iron firedogs, and, the day being a cool one, the most delightful wood fire burned on them. The pretty little mantel was of imitation mahogany, like the rest of the woodwork, and it was entirely guiltless of millinery of any kind, hut it was surely not by chance that its only ornaments were some exquisite bits of old blue delft, a plaster cast of Niobe’s son with the flying veil, f£ bust of Donatello's Femme Inconnue and a graceful candelabra of wrought iron. The walls were hung with a paper showing a brocaded design in dove color on a silvery ground. A wide frieze in pale olive had classic wreaths joined with flowing ribbons from which depended tassels in cream color, the ribbons iu faint old red. An old red picture molding separated frieze and side wall. The ceiling gave a silvery effect. The floor had a border two feet wide stained a warm olive, of which very little was seen, nearly the whole floor being covered with a Japanese jute rug in cream, olive, old blue and old red. This delightful rug, as thick, as rich in its colorings as the finest Oriental rug and only lacking the sheen of the latter, cost but sl4. The furnishing of the bay window was certainly an inspiration. A fluffy, tawny fur rug covered as much of the floor as could be covered by an oblong rug. Low, wide window seats of the rudest framework, built by my friend herself, ran all around under the windows and were so constructed that a single row of large books could be stored underneath. This saved the cost of a tapestry curtain falling to the floor, besides furnishing a storehouse for the overflowing books. The cushions on the seats were covered

with cluny tapestry in deep blue, olive and old red and harmonized beautifully with the tones of the rug and woodwork. The pillows were many, of different sizes, and all covered with Eastern stuffs—Java squares, Persian prints and the like. An apparent piece of fretwork, stretched across the arch, proved to be only a moveable crane for and from this depended a curtain of Persian chintz. In the centre of the floor stood a mahogany card table holding a lamp of golden glazed china, with rich reddish brown decorations. The lamp shade was of golden olive crinkled crepe paper, in whose folds nestled great feathery golden chrysanthemums. There were only three cnairs in this room—a great easy chair for the master of the house, which was covered to hide the wear and tear of age, with a Bagdad rug striped in deep cream, olive, old red and dark and light blue. An old willow rocker had been stained deep terracotta and was cushioned with plantation cloth in dull old blue. In the bay window stood the third chair, “a triumph of skill In patchwork,” said my friend. Originally an old willow arm chair with circular

back, the seat of which had given way to the persistent attacks of the heels of Master Tom, the hopeful heir of the house, she had tacked over the worn seat a stout piece of sail cloth and then proceeded to cushion it with hair, covering this with dull blue velours, tacked it on securely and finished with upholsterer’s gimp. The willow was stained a soft, golden brown, and I have no hesitation in saying that the last state of that chair was better than the first. “The windows were my despair,” said the owner of all this coziness. “Simple white draperies sound all very well, and doubtless are the ideal curtain for country rooms,but against this mahogany woodwork they would have been just so many patches of staring white. I abhor lace curtains unless they are costly and exquisitely fine in texture. Real Madras was also beyond my purse, when lot at the village store I saw this cream Swiss dotted with deep old red. It was only twelve and a half cents a yard, but even at that price for such an expanse of window it was no bagatelle. The ball fringe I dyed cream by dipping it in coffee.” Quite as much ingenuity had been shown in the treatment of the narrow hall. The woodwork was imitation oak. It was a red tan with a frieze in warm olive, showing great wind-tossed chrysanthemums in deep cream. Old red silk hung at the vestibule windows. A small oak seat and coat and hat rack combined had the seat covered with old plantation cloth. Across the long hall, half way down, was a piece of fretwork from which depended a bamboo and bead portiere. A pulhkara, in deep red and gold, with its fascinating bits of glass, let in the embroidery draped carelessly above this portiere, while beneath the fretwork jutted a narrow shelf, on which stood quaint pottery. There was something fascinating about the arrangement and furnishing of these two rooms which could never have been produced by any combination of correct moquette carpets and costly furniture.

A PRETTY HALL SCHEME.