The Eskimo has floors of ice, and probably he thinks them nice, and strictly up to date; but if there ever came a thaw they’d be the worst you ever saw, and that’s as sure as fate. The Arab has his floor of sand; I have no doubt he thinks it grand, a floor beyond compare; but sand is full of bugs and ants, and they climb up a fellow’s pants, when he sits in a chair. The Mexican has floors of dirt, and floors of that sort will not hurt, so long as weather’s dry; but when there comes a season wet such floors are not the one best bet, which no one can deny. In olden times men built their homes with battlements and towers and domes, and ornaments of gold; but all the floors were made of stone, and they made people sigh and groan, they were so hard and cold. And then with rushes they were strewn, to make them warmer to the shoon, and also to the feet; and those stale rushes would decay; their scent would drive the folks away, in agonized retreat. It took uncounted years of toil and planning by the midnight oil to dope out modern floors; the floors on which we dance and walk, and sing and cuss and wildly talk of hoarders and such bores. The floors on which we spend our lives, and train our kids, and beat our wives, are surely handsome things; be they of color light or dark, we proudly view them and remark, “They’re good enough for kings.” Your mansion might have jasper walls, the finest painting in its halls that artists can produce, and onyx stairs and marble doors, but if it had no modern floors ’twould be a poor excuse. Good hardwood floors make life a pome; they beautify your happy home as nothing else can do; your lumber dealer has the best; the years have given it the test that means so much to you. DOORS While doing here our earthly chores, we’re going in and out of doors; doors have a part in all we do, until our little trip is through; and then who knows what sort of door we’ll enter on the other shore? If I am welcome at your shack you gladly swing the door clear back, and say, “Come in, you blamed old skate, and stay six months, or maybe eight!” But if I sell “The Works of Poe,” you ope the door an inch or so, and cry, “Go chase yourself, gadzooks! We do not want your tinhorn books!” Oh, doors are good for many things; they’re used by peasants and by kings; the humblest hut has three or two, and palaces have quite a few. And I recall a bitter day, when I climbed on a dappled gray, a horse that wasn’t brought up right; it liked to kick and buck and bite; it threw me off, in wanton style, then sat on me for quite a while. I was so crippled, bruised and sore, men took me home upon a door. It shows how useful doors can be; I always carry two or three.