I t is possible to select the bulk, as I well as the most real part, of one's mental atmosphere. This may be more readily illustrated than proved. For example, I have in mind a certain image of a house, the windows of which overlook in the far distance some beautiful hills. In front of those hills there may be seen in the fall waving fields of yellow wheat. In the immediate foreground of the picture is a great stretch of smooth green grass. But in the middle distance is a row of horrid little tenements — five-room houses — built as cheaply and kept as wretchedly as possible. The inhabitants of that house, whenever they looked out of the windows, at first saw very prominently the dirty little tenements. They stared at them in all their ugliness. Presently, however, these people discovered that it was possible not to perceive the tenements at all, but, by deliberately directing the vision beyond, to enjoy the hills and the waving wheat and the green grass. It was not so much a question as to which view first caught the eye, as it was a question of which view should take hold and endure. The view from those windows became a symbol in that family of the resolute holding in mind of the things in life that are beautiful instead of those that are ugly, of things that are pleasant as contrasted with those that are disagreeable, of the things that are true as opposed to those that are untrue.