THE GUEST “ A ND on the top we shall have the 
ROOM spare room.” That was how the 
sentence ended that described the 
house I was being told about. All interest left at that and I hoped 
that I might never go there. What a misfortune it is to have a 
spare room in the house, for house it will always be, and never 
home. It may radiate comfort, but it will be a greedy comfort, a 
lazy luxuriousness that lies in the sense of exclusive possession 
and personal satisfaction. A home can never be exclusive, it 
must be inclusive. There must be the traffic of guests, the joy of 
welcoming, before all the attributes of home can be united. And 
spare room, what a chilly sound it has, suggestive of mustiness 
and closed shutters, the last resting place of the deceased furniture 
that mournfully haunts it, pictures reminiscent of past usefulness 
keeping perpetual wake, staring sadly down. No, a spare room is 
something left over, unused, superfluous and where it exists there 
is no true home. 
But the guest room, what a different thing that is. It is the 
shrine of the house dedicated to hospitality and friendship. With¬ 
out it, or at least the sentiments that give it existence, one can 
never know the delights of home. Think what you would lose if 
you did not turn the house over to the entertainment of guests! 
Analysis of your own feelings when friend Always was last with 
you will convince you of this. Was there anything to equal the 
inspection tour that showed him all the special features of the 
place? How fine it was to be host for him and seat him at your 
own hearth. Strange how memory can paint with brighter colors 
there, and intimacy grow stronger. You realized the satisfaction 
of hospitality when bedtime came and you yawned a great yawn 
that sent a quiver down even to your outstretched feet, and led 
Always upstairs, arm about shoulder, and left him at the room 
you described to him as “his.” Would this be possible if it were a 
“spare” room? 
It makes little difference how you furnish the room if you have 
it planned from the heart; if it is a labor of love and is expressive 
of thoughtfulness and consideration. Some things serve this end 
better than others. A couch, for instance, will invite a tired trav¬ 
eler to catch forty winks when he might deny himself the rest 
if it had to come at the expense of mussing .the bed in the day 
time. One of those old, folding table-desks — why do we see so 
few of them nowadays — will give an opportunity to indite a for¬ 
gotten letter. There are a few other things that help, but what¬ 
ever is put there with the idea of giving comfort to others will be 
watched over by a good spirit that keeps track of kind actions and 
rendered successful in its purpose. 
There is one guest room that I have enjoyed that I shall always 
carry in that closet of memory that contains certain sunsets and 
woodland nooks that I have treasured. It is a small room with a 
tent bed and a highboy of the same family, a little desk of the 
variety spoken of and two chairs. The walls are stenciled and 
the curtains also, but it is no ordinary stencil pattern for I am 
sure it says to each one who stays there — “This was done because 
we knew you’d like it and we’re glad you do.” There is a broad 
window and in its bay a comfortable half couch half window seat. 
Beyond lies the garden, and reaching up from its fresh loveliness 
is a pear tree. In Maytime it breathes the fragrant breath of its 
white blossoms in at this window and wafts you off to sleep and 
dreams of Avalon. 
One thing especially pleases me about this room. There is a 
light beside the bed, and it can be turned out without arising. This 
and a shelf of books nearby and the bedside table make it ideal. 
There is something so pleasant, so seductive about reading in bed. 
It seems to lift sleep out of the ordinary category of the day’s 
routine and make a ceremony out of it. In the hour when the 
house is still and the night sounds begin to be heard through the 
open window, the mind seems strangely alive to imaginathe im¬ 
pressions. When one is away, the holiday spirit takes a delight in 
doing the extraordinary. There is a desire for stolen sweets that 
is not thwarted by a sense of duty or a thought of the morrow. 
W ith luxurious ease one prepares the pageant of one’s dreams, 
selects from a book the pictures and images for visions. 
1 he books that fill the guest room shelf there, are in particular 
things which may sound the note of a finer hospitality. Their 
choice may yield a subtler satisfaction than an array of costly de¬ 
tails that cater to every slightest whim of the flesh. There are 
some suggestions for selection; perhaps they may help. What 
others do is always of some assistance. First, the books should be 
short, or at any rate contain complete but brief divisions. Whether 
it be for reading in the hour before breakfast that so often comes 
to the sleeper in a strange bed, for a little time and in the twilight 
before dinner, or after one has gone to bed, the requirements are 
the same; the reading is but snatched and it is best complete. 
Second, it may be easier to satisfy the various tastes of individuals 
by having standard authors represented, at least accepted books 
that time has sealed with approval. The good is never tiresome 
and the discovery of an old friend on the shelf is a glad meeting. 
In general, a diversity of subject matter will provide for all tastes. 
I have in mind some titles that have been found in guest rooms 
and welcomed there. Your memory will call up names from the 
rich harvest of good books that will be more appropriate than 
these of random choice. 
If you aim at this higher hospitality, Stevenson with his friendly 
essays should find a place, for who tires of “Virginibus 
Puerisque”? And the tales — there are the thrilling ones of 
“Markheim and the Merry Men,” the dreamy ones, like “Will o’ 
the Mill,” those of an old-time atmosphere, like “A Lodging for 
the Night” and “Sieur Maletroit’s Door,” besides a crowd of 
others of similar excellence. Hawthorne, too, must be repre¬ 
sented and what is better than the “Twice Told Tales”? — within 
which is that gem “The Ambitious Guest.” And Poe, for the 
brave cowards that love the thrill of fear I ask no keener delight 
than the Tales in bed, at dead of night! A bound of memory re¬ 
calls Maeterlinck’s “Double Garden” — a sheaf of poetic-philo¬ 
sophical essays in which I first met “Our Friend the Dog.” If you 
have never read it, do so at once, so that you may have the pleas¬ 
ure of recommending it and the satisfaction of talking it over. And 
Eugene Field's “Little Book of Profitable Tales” — don’t forget 
that dear April of stories with its alternate tears and sunshine, its 
humor and its pathos. Van Dyke, especially if you live in any of 
the neighborhoods described in “Fisherman’s Luck” or “Little 
Rivers,” is appropriate, besides there is his “Blue Flower.” All 
have the country brought within their covers. Three books of 
essays occur to me. Lamb’s “Elia,” Jerome K. Jerome’s “Idle 
Thoughts of an Idle Fellow,” and Ik Marvel’s “Reveries of a 
Bachelor.” There is grave and gay here, and all good. I know 
little finer than “The Dream Children” out of Elia. Kipling, of 
course, and from his galaxy include a volume with either “They” 
or “The Brushwood Boy.” Old Samuel Pepys’ “Diary” provides 
pleasant snatches, and there is an abridgment, “The Red Letter 
Days of Samuel Pepys” that will introduce him. A little booklet 
— “The Master of the Inn” will be found acceptable. Hewlett, 
and Flardy and Bret Harte, they each have much to offer that is 
desirable. For poetry there is “The Golden Treasury,” its name 
so well taken. A short story collection will be another addition to 
your shelf. The Bible last of all; perhaps finding it away from 
home will induce its reading. What a pity we do not read it for 
pleasure. There is an art in the short stories of Ruth, Esther and 
Job that is surpassing — and an interest that does not flag. 
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