The ''Blue Room" of the Soul 



BY WILLIAM H. HAM BY 



WHAT a beautiful sunset!" some 

 one exclaimed. 



"Yes," said a lady who was 

 watching it with an expression of intense 

 enjoyment, "it is too beautiful to lose; I 

 shall put it in my Blue Eoom." 



"Your Blue Room?" we echoed in as- 

 tonishment. 



"Yes, in my Blue Room/' she answered, 

 smiling more at the sunset than at us. 

 We asked her to explain. 

 "Well, you see, there are many lovely 

 scenes and happy hours too precious to 

 lose, and it isn't safe to trust them to the 

 mere accidents of memory. So I have 

 made a room for them in my inner con- 

 sciousness, which I call my Blue Room." 



"It must be very large to take in the 

 sunset," one said. 



"Xo," replied the lady, "it is only an 

 ordinary room in size, yet it will take in a 

 whole landscape." Seeing that we were 

 mystified, she explained. 



"This sunset, for example, I shall frame 

 and ban 2" over the mantle piece. In the 

 room it will be only an ordinary picture, 

 until I look at it, then instantly it will be- 

 come a sunset again." 



"But what will you frame it with?" 

 we asked. 



"With the faces of you, my friends." 

 "Have you much furniture in your room 

 now?" one asked. 



"Yes, a great deal. Only the most per- 

 fect scenes and happiest moments find a 

 place in it, yet one is surprised to know 

 how many of these will be gathered in just 

 a few years. However, my room is not 

 nearly full — I think it never will be full." 



"What are some of the things in it?" 

 I asked curiously. 



"Once, when a little girl, I ran along a 

 forest path just after the leaves had fallen; 

 green, and red, and gold they lay thick 



over my pathway; and with the beauty of 

 those leaves the mysterious joy of the 

 woods entered into my child soul. Those 

 leaves carpet part of the room. When 

 I'm restless, or stifled, or weary of brick 

 walls, I take a run over my carpet and then 

 I'm a child again in the sweet scented 

 woods. 



"Once, in an hour of despair, I sat by 

 my west window in the gathering darkness. 

 Life, I thought, was dead to me. My 

 heartache was too deep for tears. My 

 father came in, laid his hand gently upon 

 my shoulder, and stood beside me without 

 a word for a long time. That silent sym- 

 pathy is the center table ; and I lean upon 

 it very often. I caught a look of gratitude 

 in the eyes of a child to whom I had been 

 kind. That is the latch on one of the 

 doors. While drifting in a boat down a 

 placid stream in the stillness of gathering 

 dusk, one summer evening, such a sense of 

 rest and peace came over me, that I made 

 of it a couch for my Blue Room. When 

 weary or vexed I lie down upon it for a 

 few minutes, I'm again floating and 

 dreaming down that stream of perfect rest 

 and contentment. 



. "There are many pictures. Most of 

 them are rare expressions which I have 

 seen on the faces of those I love. There 

 are bouquets of flowers which never fade — 

 some made from a bird song, some a 

 child's laughter, others from some delight- 

 ful breeze laden Mdth the perfume of 

 spring. The sweetest song I ever heard, 

 the song" that reached my heart, I turned 

 into a bird with rare plumage. Whenever 

 I call to it, I hear that song again. The 

 happiest day of all my life, the day when 

 every fiber of my being thrilled with ecsta- 

 tic joy, is the organ, and every hour that 

 sets my heart strings thrilling is a new 

 piece of music for my organ." 



