BEAUTY IN THE HOME by L. D. Avery-Stuttle

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Aug 3, 1904

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 30, No. 31.

BEAUTY IN THE HOME.

By L. D. Avery-Stuttle

BY MRS. L. D. AVERY-STUTTLE.

“There is beauty in the skies at evening, There is beauty in the morning fair; There is beauty in the mellow sunlight, There is summer beauty everywhere. There is beauty, there is beauty everywhere.”

The fresh young voice had a ring of happiness and contentment in it, and poor Sarah Taft looked up from her washing in the back room, as the sweet face peeped in at the open door. The contrast in the appearance of these two—one young and beautiful, the other old and ugly—was as marked as their lives. The frown deepened upon the old face, as she bent lower over her tub. What had she to do with beauty,—they had been strangers many a year.

Beauty everywhere? She straightened herself slowly as if every movement was painful, placed her rough, red hand upon her back with a sigh, glanced around the bare, naked, comfortless rooms, and then toward her young visitor.

“Good morning, Aunt Sarah; I was taking a walk, and I thought I’d just look in on you.”

“There has never been a ‘good morning’ for me, Miss Francis, since my poor man died, and left me, and as for beauty, I’ve given up trying for it. O it’s well enough for such as you to talk of beauty, but it’s not for me;” and the gray head shook drearily, and two or three tears trickled down the withered cheek, and dropped upon the ragged apron.

“O but you must cheer up, auntie. Here is this lovely bunch of roses I was taking home for my new vase. I’d much rather give them to you. Where shall I put them, auntie?”

“Put them? I haven’t anything good enough for the likes of that—O yes, here is a vase my boy Jamie gave me on my birthday—let’s see; that’s years and years ago. Jamie was my only boy, but he died long ago, and I never could bring myself to use the vase. But I do declare: the flowers sort of cheer me up, already. See, here comes little Nan,—she’s Jamie’s baby, and all the comfort I’ve got left. See if she’ll notice the flowers.”

“O gramma! whose posies—and the pretty vase—papa got it for gramma, Miss Francis, but we never use it,—nothin’s pretty ’round here,” she said, wistfully glancing about the bare room, “and I’m so hungry for—for something bright! Do you think it’s awful wicked to like bright, pretty things, Miss Francis?”

“Wicked?—why you dear child, of course not. Surely God loves to see us happy, and He wants us to enjoy the beauty He has made. Really, Aunt Sarah, don’t you think so?”

“Maybe; I never thought about it that way. Nan’s always coaxing me to plant flowers and buy pictures and pretty things, and of course I can’t do that,—pretty things cost money, you know.”

“That’s true about some pretty things,—but not all. I’ll give Nan all the flower seeds she wants, and bulbs for beds, and—why yes,—I think I can spare her a picture or two. If you will let Nan go home with me, I’ll see what I can do.”

Half an hour afterward, a very happy little girl with arms full of flowers and pictures, and pockets filled with seeds for planting, appeared in the humble doorway.

“See, gramma, what she gave us! all ours! Look! I’ll hang this picture up over your bed where you can see it the first thing in the morning,—then you’ll be happy all day, won’t you, gramma? ’cause it is a picture of a little boy saying his prayers by his mama’s knee, and you can play it’s you and papa.”

Aunt Sarah’s old eyes filled with tears, as the happy child ran about the tiny rooms, placing a flower here and a picture there, until a little cheer and brightness appeared everywhere.

“I’d no idea these old rooms could be so cheerful like; it makes me feel as if maybe there might be a little joy left in my poor heart yet.”

And so it was. The vases of flowers and the cheerful pictures led to greater care in keeping the cottage clean and tidy. Then came a pretty rug or two, made by the careful tho unaccustomed old fingers. Next, a neat coverlid ornamented the bed, and a few new dishes took the place of the old, cracked ones, till little Nan declared she didn’t feel lonesome any more, and Aunt Sarah sang instead of groaned over her wash-tub.

Now, there are a great many Aunt Sarahs, who would be much happier if they would try to bring a little beauty and sunshine into their homes,—for there is no home, however plain and poor, but that a few touches of beauty can be given which will almost transform it,—yes, and the very lives of the inmates will be made sweeter and better.

“But” you say, “I am too poor; I have no money to expend in beautifying my home, and I consider it a sinful extravagance.” Well, it is not sinful nor extravagant to cultivate flowers, surely. The very poorest can at least afford a few seeds and a shovel of dirt. Why is it that we will persist in denying ourselves every touch of beauty in our homes, when the Creator has placed so many beautiful things within our reach. For whom did He make the sparkling fountains and the gloriously-tinted flowers? the wide-spreading tree and the sweet songsters with their brilliant plumage? Why did not God paint the grass black? Why is the rose pink? why is it not green like the leaf?—The only reasonable answer is that He who made them loves beauty; and it is natural for us to love it. Why?—because we are made in the image of God, and He—our Father—loves it. There is no real beauty in earth or sky, that He has not made, and that He does not delight in.

I once said to a dear friend: “If ever I get to heaven, how I shall revel in the magnificent and bewildering array of colors!”

“What! colors in heaven! I never thought of that in connection with heaven. I always think of it as simply a place of blessedness and peace and rest.”

Ah, it is certainly this—and more. Heaven is a place of beauty. Did you ever think of the magnificently-tinted walls of the New Jerusalem? or see in imagination the glorious rainbow which encircles the throne of our Father? Oh, we may be sure that our God loves beauty; and He does not want His children to close their eyes to it. Shall the Master Artist paint His sunsets in the sky with such colors and tints as mortals can never reproduce, and shall we go about with head so bowed and eyes so blind that we see it not? But I have known people who have never seen a beautiful sunset; or, if they see, their hearts are not warmed thereby—their tongues are silent. They are the men who never see or appreciate the efforts of a faithful wife, to beautify the home.

“I would like a little corner of the garden, Stephen, to plant my flowers in.”

“I can’t spare it, Mary; I need it all for beans and potatoes.”

“But, Stephen, you’ve got eighty acres; can’t I have a place for a few flowers?”

“It’s all nonsense. I’ll have none of my ground planted with trash!”

And so the meek little woman, whose home life is so barren of beauty, drops a tear or two and goes about her work. But one of these days, when her work is all done,—the last pan of milk skimmed, the last loaf of bread baked, the last heavy churning done, Mary will lie down to rest. Then Stephen will walk silently and sadly into the parlor, and look upon the white face on which are many premature lines of sorrow, and place those flowers she so loved in life, in the calloused, brown fingers,—but, “poor Mary” will not care for flowers then.

O let us make our homes beautiful! Rich or poor, we can do it, for LOVE will beautify the humblest home. It will turn the cottage into a palace,—but without this, cottage or palace,—both are alike,—dungeons.

Well, by and by we are all going home to the Father’s house of many mansions. We love the beauty of earth, but we long to revel in the glories He is preparing for us. We are so tired! We all sing, “Home, sweet, sweet, home!” and, as we sing, our hearts yearn for the land of light and never-fading beauty,—our everlasting home; where we shall “build houses, and inhabit them; and plant vineyards, and eat the fruit of them.”

“Shout with the voice of triumph, Soon shall the saints be free; Glory to the Lord, hallelujah! Hasten the Jubilee.”