September, IgII 
AMERICAN HOMES AND GARDENS 
333 
Burlap as a Bungalow Furnishing 
By Catherine A. Jensen 
=a recent movement for a return to the soil 
has laid a relentless though beneficent hold 
upon the city dweller, and it is hard to find 
AL a person with even a moderate income 
ities \y Who does not show some symptom of the 
: “garden germ”’ or the “bungalow bug”’ in 
either acute or incipient form. 
That any, even a few, of 
these aspirants after having 
achieved what they longed for 
—a home in the country— 
should return to the cities, dis- 
appointed, seems regrettable 
and entirely unnecessary. 
One of the errors made by 
these good people is that they 
take the whole matter too seri- 
ously; they cannot conceive how 
life can go on without all the 
multifarious things which in- 
crusted existence in the city— 
the very accessories which have 
rendered city life burdensome. 
They insist on dragging with 
them into the free and fragrant 
country all the stuffy, stupid ob- 
jects which for want of a better 
name have been aptly called 
“dust catchers,” and by doing so 
make of themselves slaves to 
2 
7 
the dreadful Tyranny of 
Things. Fortunately the day of the omnipresent “tidy” is 
past. One can, in this year of grace, nineteen hundred and 
eleven, sit down upon a chair and be reasonably certain 
that on arising one has not a whole fancy-goods department 
hanging from his shoulders, neither does one run any 
great risk of being speared with the numerous pins used to 
“fasten” the aforementioned fancy-goods to their proper 
place; still, many of us can 
probably recall houses where, 
even at this present day, one 
could hardly find a space two 
inches square on either wall, 
dresser or table that was not 
littered with ‘‘ornaments.”’ 
Henry Ward Beecher once 
said that to be poor was not 
entirely without compensation; 
it certainly simplified both 
housecleaning and _ moving. 
Those words strike terror to 
our souls in proportion as we 
are burdened with this world’s 
goods. 
Still, we do not wish to di- 
vest ourselves entirely of the graces of civilized life as 
expressed in the softened contours of our home interiors; 
our senses would rebel at the almost cell-like simplicity of 
the bungalow prototype—so, by all means, let us have 
cushions and curtains and whatever else we actually require 
to render us comfortable during our truancy from high 
Fireside chair-pillow of canvas or linen 
Library table-scarf 
civilization, but (here is the rock of our possible disaster), 
let us be wary of the textiles we select for the embellish- 
ment of our summer home. 
We will consider for a moment the material of which 
it is constructed—the walls perhaps sandfinished or rough 
plaster, the woodwork, simple, unpolished, dull finished 
in stain and oil, showing the beautiful grain of the wood; 
even the cheaper woods, 
like cypress, are so delicately 
marked that it seems a pity 
to cover them with draperies: 
or perhaps we also have a 
large open fireplace where 
logs may blaze on some unusu- 
ally cool evening—a fireplace 
built of large cobbles and 
boulders. 
How absurdly incongruous 
delicate lace curtains, silk 
scarfs and satin cushions 
would appear in such homely 
company. 
Besides, the jovial sunshine 
which should be a welcome 
visitor in whatsoever nook he 
wished to linger, would make 
sad havoc with delicately 
tinted silks and satins. Our 
merry boys and girls as well as 
playful Rover and his friends 
—all eager to throw off city 
restraint, would be deeply hurt to learn that couch- 
covers and curtains must be treated with deference 
and respect. All such annoying fabrics should be con- 
signed to the cedar chest or to that limbo where ‘Keep 
Off the Grass” signs shall hobnob with other useless and 
obnoxious things. 
However, as we are not rank iconoclasts we will suggest 
a substitute for those lares and 
penates which we have so ruth- 
lessly destroyed. 
Burlap or one of its kindred 
textiles such as Monk’s cloth 
or Russian crash makes ex- 
cellent furnishing for bungalow 
purposes. 
Let us whisper the next 
statement very low, lest we 
lose our reputation as good 
housekeepers — curtains, made 
of burlap, need never be 
washed; a good brushing now 
and then is all that is necessary. 
The natural color burlap is 
best, as it harmonizes with any 
and every other color the room may contain; the sun also 
likes it, for, when time and opportunity offer, instead of 
fading the tone into a ghostly reminder of its younger days, 
the sunshine imparts a beautiful “burnt-orange”’ color to the 
material, rendering it more beautiful than ever. 
The loose packing burlap, used by furniture dealers for 
