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.