ORDER AND CARE OF ATTIC

Frequently so much of the attic space is finished off for bed and other rooms that what remains is somewhat limited, and cannot be turned into a catch-all for the may-be-usefuls.  Indeed, only such things as have true worth should go into it, whatever its size, these to be carefully stowed away, like things together—­boxes, furniture, winter stovepipes with their elbows, piles of magazines systematically tied together by years, trunks, etc.  In each trunk place its own special key and strap, and when garments or other articles are packed therein, fasten to the lid a complete list of its contents.  Upholstered furniture must be closely covered with old muslin or ticking.  The family tool chest seems to fit into the attic, as well as the small boxes of nails, rolls of wire, screws, bolts, and the hundred odds and ends of hardware which the lord of the house must be able to lay his hand on when he wants to do any tinkering about the place.  A semiannual sweeping, mopping, and dusting will keep the attic in good condition if thoroughly done, with the help of the “place for everything, and everything in its place,” a precept as well as an example which has entered prominently into the upbringing of most of us.  Here is another spot where corners and cobwebs like to hobnob, and such intimacy must be sternly discouraged.  If old garments are kept in the attic, they should be either packed away in labeled boxes or trunks, or hung on a line stretched across the room and carefully covered with an old sheet.  This line is also serviceable when rainy days and lack of other room make it necessary, to dry the washing here.  The modern attic is for utility only, and so its story is soon told.

CLOSETS

If woman’s rights would only usurp one more of what have hitherto been almost exclusively man’s rights—­the profession of architecture—­she would in truth become the architect, not only of her own fortune, but of the fortunes of a suffering sisterhood, whose great plaint is, “So many things and no place to put them!” For who ever knew a mere man, architect and artist of the beautiful though he were, who had even the beginning of a realization of the absolute necessity for closets—­large ones, light ones, and plenty of them?  In his special castle, boxes, bundles, and clothing seem to have a magic way of disposing of themselves, “somewhere, somewhen, somehow,” and so it does not occur to him that his own particular Clorinda is conducting a private condensing plant which could put those of the large packers to the blush.  But let him have just one experience of straightening out and putting to rights, and then only will he appreciate that closets are even more essential than cozy corners and unexpected nooks and crannies for holding pieces of statuary and collecting dust.  If a woman could be the