A DOUBLE CONCLUSION 258
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
_From Drawings by the Author_.
PAGE
1. "COUSIN GEORGE'S EXTERIOR" 11
2. COUSIN GEORGE'S FIRST FLOOR 14
3. COUSIN GEORGE'S SECOND FLOOR 15
4. "WARMTH IS BEAUTY" 21
5. A HIDDEN FOE 23
6. A BURIED GRIDIRON 24
7. THE PROTECTING "CUT-OFF" 25
8. A "CROSS-SECTION" PROPHECY 28
9. HEAT FROM ALL SIDES 30
10. AUNT MELVILLE'S AMBITION 33
11. NO PLACE FOR THE BED 36
12. ENLARGED BY DESTRUCTION 37
13. A SLIGHT ADDITION 39
14. GROUND FLOOR OF AUNT MELVILLE'S AMBITION 42
15. FIRST FLOOR OF AUNT MELVILLE'S AMBITION 43
16. A SECURE OUTLOOK 49
17. MINED AND COUNTERMINED 52
18. A DORMER OF BURNED CLAY 55
19. THE TOPMOST PEAK 59
20. WILL'S MASTERPIECE 65
21. THE FIRST FLOOR OF WILL'S MASTERPIECE 73
22. THE SECOND FLOOR OF WILL'S MASTERPIECE 75
23. THE OUTSIDE OF TED'S HOUSE 79
24. JILL'S KITCHEN IN BLACK AND WHITE 83
25. THE FIRST FLOOR OF TED'S HOUSE 88
26. THE POOR BUT MODEST ATTORNEY'S COTTAGE 91
27. A DOUBLE TEAM 94
28. WARMTH UNDER THE WINDOW 96
29. STEAM PIPES BESIDE THE FIREPLACE 97
30. THE ATTORNEY'S FLOOR PLAN 101
31. NO CONCEALMENT OR DISGUISE 105
32. WITH A MULLION AND WITHOUT 110
33. JACK'S ARCHITECTURAL PHRENOLOGY 112
34. THE HAT MAKES THE MAN 113
35. THE CONTRIBUTION OF BESSIE'S FATHER 117
36. THE FIRST FLOOR OF THE CONTRIBUTION 123
37. A GARGOYLE 130
38. A CHOICE OF GUTTERS 131
39. A SIMPLE RECESS 133
40. IN THE MIDDLE RANK 135
41. THE WORTH OF A COSY COTTAGE 137
42. A PROMISE OF SOCIAL SUCCESS 141
43. A REASONABLE HOPE 143
44. FLOORS AS THEY ARE: FLOORS AS THEY MIGHT BE 145
45. BRICKS AND BOULDERS ON GRANITE UNDERPINNING 149
46. NOT BRILLIANT, BUT IMPRESSIVE 153
47. WOODEN RICHNESS 155
48. NO WASTE OF WOOD 156
49. FIRST FLOOR OF THE PROMISE 158
50. SECOND FLOOR OF THE PROMISE 159
51. NO PLACE FOR SECRET FOES 167
52. SAFE AND SAVING FLUES 179-80
53. A PICTURE IN GLASS OVER THE FIREPLACE 181
54. GLASS OF MANY COLORS, SHAPES AND SIZES 183
55. SHELVES IN THE MIDDLE, CUPBOARDS ABOVE AND BELOW 185
56. "THE OAKS" 191
57. OUTSIDE BARRIERS 195
58. INSIDE BARRIERS 196
59. COMMON UGLINESS--SIMPLE GRACE 197
60. FIRST FLOOR PLAN OF "THE OAKS" 201
61. LOOKING TOWARD SUNSET 205
62. NEAR THE TURNING-POINT 207
63. A CHOICE OF BALUSTERS 209
64. THE BIG FIREPLACE IN THE KEEPING-ROOM 211
65. ONE WAY TO BEGIN 213
66. A BROADSIDE OF AN EASY ASCENT 215
67. A DIVIDING SCREEN AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS 219
68. BITS OF CORNICES 223
69. MOULDINGS FAIR TO SEE, BUT HARD TO KEEP CLEAN 225
70. FRAGMENTS OF ARCHITRAVES 227
71. A CHOICE OF WAINSCOTS 229
72. WOOD PANELS FOR WALLS AND CEILINGS, WITH IRREGULARITIES
IN LEATHER, PAINT AND PAPER 231
73. THE HOUSE THAT JILL BUILT 235
74. THE FIRST FLOOR OF THE HOUSE THAT JILL BUILT 239
75. THE SECOND FLOOR OF THE HOUSE THAT JILL BUILT 241
76. THE EAST END OF JILL'S DINING-ROOM 243
77. A CASTLE IN SPAIN 263
_Also Initials, Tail-Pieces, etc._
INDEX OF SUBJECTS.
PAGE
BUILDING SITES 16
BRICKS 46, 53, 58
BLINDS 116
CHIMNEYS 179
CONTRACT WORK 233
COMPETITIVE PLANS 237
DOORS 194
FIREPROOF CONSTRUCTION 54
FALSE CHIMNEY-PIECE 98
FIREPLACES 134
FLOORS 140
FASHION 224
GUTTERS 129
HEATING 97, 132
HEIGHT OF ROOMS 138
HARD WOOD 197
INTERIOR FINISH 221
KITCHEN ARRANGEMENTS 81, 125
PLUMBING 166, 177
PANTRIES 186, 189
PAINT 223
ROOFS 69, 113
STAIRS 38, 214
STAINED GLASS 38, 183
TERRA COTTA 61
UNDER-DRAINING 24
VENTILATING FLUES 178
WINDOWS 110, 183
WOODEN BUILDINGS 51
PREFACE
TO THE REVISED EDITION.
On a recent visit to the young woman whose experiences and observations
are contained in this book, I was greatly pleased to find her zeal and
interest in domestic architecture unabated. She sees that there have
been changes and improvements in the art of house building, but
declares that while some of her opinions and suggestions of ten years
ago have been approved and accepted, it is still true that by far the
greater number of those who plan and build houses are guided by
transient fashion, thoughtless conservatism and a silly seeking for
sensational results, rather than by truth, simplicity and common sense.
She has no doubt that her daughter, Bessie, will study and practice
domestic architecture, and naturally expects the houses of the future
to contain charms and comforts of which we have as yet only the
faintest conception.
E.C. GARDNER.
_Springfield, Mass., November, 1895._
INTRODUCTION
"MR. E.C. Gardner, architect, has consented to write us a series of
articles upon house-building," said one of his associates to the editor
of OUR CONTINENT a few months since. "What do you think of it?"
"We have no sort of use for such a thing," replied the editor. "There
are treatises enough professing to instruct people how to build houses.
You can't make every man his own carpenter any more than you can make
him his own lawyer. More's the pity."
"But I thought you said you wanted some one who had sense enough to put
a thoroughly capable and accomplished housewife's notions of what a
house should be into readable prose?"
"So I did," responded the editor, "and I still want it, and am likely
to want it for a long time. I do not wish articles on _House_-building
but on _Home_-building, and you will never get such from an
architect."
"Don't be too sure of that," said the other, who had had a taste of the
writer's quality before. "Suppose he should wish to try it?"
"Well,--let him," was the grumbled assent.
The editor did not believe in architects. He had built one or two
houses that did well enough on paper, but were simply appalling in
their unfitness when he came to try to adapt the occupants to the
earthly tabernacles which had been erected for their use and
enjoyment. He had read house-building books, examined plans and
discoursed with architects until he verily believed that the whole
business was a snare and a delusion. After this experience he had
settled down to the serious belief that the best way to build a house
was to erect first a square building containing but one room, and then
add on rooms as the occupants learned their needs or the family
increased in numbers. In this way, he stoutly maintained, had been
erected all those old houses, whose irregularity of outline and
frequent surprises in interior arrangement never cease to charm. He
asserted boldly that a man's house ought to grow around him like an
oyster's-shell, and should fit him just as perfectly; in fact, that it
should be created, not built. From architects and their works he prayed
devoutly to be delivered, and having theretofore illustrated that part
of the proverb which avers that "fools build houses," he declared
himself determined thenceforth only to illustrate the latter-part of
the proverb:--"and wise men live in them."
Having, however, became sponsor in some sort for what Mr. Gardner might
write, he was bound to give attention to it. Very much to his surprise,
he found it instead of a thankless task, a most agreeable
entertainment. Seldom, indeed, have wit and wisdom been so happily
blended as in these pages. The narrative that runs through the whole
constitutes a silver thread of merriment on which the pearls of sense
are strung with lavish freedom. Every page is sure to contain the
subject-matter for a hearty laugh close-linked with a lesson that may
well be conned by the most serious-minded. The philosophy of
home-building and home-improving is expounded with a subtlety of humor
and an aptness of illustration as rare as they are relishable.
There are three classes of people to whom this little volume with its
quaint descriptions and wise suggestions will be peculiarly welcome.
_First_--Those who contemplate, at some time, the building of a
home. It matters not whether it is to be humble or palatial,
"The House that Jill Built" will be found to contain not only
the most valuable suggestions, but a humorous gaiety that will
be sure to add pleasure to this duty.
_Second_--Those who desire at any time to enlarge, modify or
improve the homes in which they live; for they will find very
forcibly illustrated in its pages the principles which should
govern such modification.
_Third_--Those who, like the writer hereof, have suffered in
purse and comfort from the lack of such a pleasant and
philosophical treatise, and who will be glad to see how their
blunders might have been avoided.
"The House that Jill Built" is founded on the rock of common sense. It
does not profess to tell the prospective builder how to be his own
architect and carpenter; it does not fit him out with a plan ready made
and tested--by somebody else: but deftly and easily it leads him to
think about the essential elements of the home he desires until, almost
unconsciously, he finds himself prepared to give such directions to an
honest architect as will secure for his home, convenience, safety and
that peculiar fitness which is the chief element of beauty in domestic
architecture. It is not so much for what is taught as for what is
suggested that the book is valuable. What the author has written is
perhaps not more remarkable than the peculiar art with which he compels
the reader to think for himself. "The House that Jill Built" may fairly
be said to take the first place among the many works that are designed
to make our domestic architecture what it ought to be--the art by which
the house-builder may erect a home adapted to his needs, commensurate
with his means, in harmony with its surroundings and conducive to the
health and comfort of its occupants. What the author's pen has so well
described his pencil has illustrated with equal happiness.
In penance for the lack of faith displayed at the outset and in hearty
approval of the pages that follow, the Editor has written these words.
A.W. TOURGÉE.
PHILADELPHIA, Oct., 1882.
THE HOUSE THAT JILL BUILT.
CHAPTER I.
A WISE FATHER AND A GLAD SON-IN-LAW.
Among the wedding-presents was a small white envelope containing two
smaller slips of paper. On one of these, which was folded around the
other, was written,
"A NEW HOUSE, FROM FATHER."
The enclosed slip was a bank-check, duly stamped and endorsed. Did any
old wizard's magic-box ever hold greater promise in smaller compass!
Certainly not more than the bride saw in imagination as she read the
figures upon the crisp bit of tissue. Walls, roof and stately chimneys
arose in pleasant pictures before her mental vision. There were broad
windows taking in floods of sunshine; fireplaces that glowed with
living flames and never smoked; lazy lounging places and cosy corners
for busy work or quiet study; sleepy bed-rooms; a kitchen that made
housework the finest art and the surest science, and oh, such closets,
such stairways, such comforts! such defiance of the elements, such
security against cold and heat, against fire, flood and tempest! such
economy! such immunity from all the ills that domestic life is heir to,
from intractable servants to sewer-gas!
If some ardent esthete had arrested her flight of fancy by asking
whether she found room for soul-satisfying beauty, she would have
dropped from her air-castle, landing squarely upon her feet, and
replied that if her house was comfortable and told no lies it would be
beautiful enough for her--which was saying a great deal, however
interpreted, for she loved beauty, as all well-balanced mortals ought,
and she would have been conspicuously out of place in a house that was
not beautiful.
Perhaps I ought to explain that the house that Jack built, intending to
establish Jill as its mistress when it should be completed, had proved
most unsatisfactory to that extremely practical young woman. In
consequence, she had obstinately refused to name the happy day till the
poor, patient fellow had kept bachelor's hall nearly a year. At last,
in consideration of an unqualified permission to "make the house over"
to any extent, the rough place that threatened to upset them was made
smooth. Her father's present, wisely withheld till peace was declared,
left nothing to be desired, and they started on their wedding journey
as happy as if they owned the universe. This excursion, however, came
near being a failure from the sentimental standpoint, because, wherever
Jill discovered a house that gave any outward sign of inward grace, it
must be visited and examined as to its internal arrangements. Naturally
this struck Jack as an unromantic diversion, but he soon caught the
spirit, and after much practice gave his salutatory address with
apparent eagerness:
"My wife and I happen to be passing through town and have been struck
by the appearance of your house. Will you kindly allow us to have a
glimpse of the interior?"
The request was invariably granted, for nothing is more gratifying than
the fame of having the "finest house in town." Unhappily the interiors
were never satisfactory to Jill, and her valedictory to the owners of
the striking houses seldom went beyond thanks for their courtesy.
"We visited several houses on our trip," she observed to her father--
"Several hundred," said Jack--
"But were disappointed in them all. Many of them must have cost more
than ours will cost, but the money seemed to us foolishly spent."
"Yes," said her husband, "we concluded that the chief plank in the
platform of the architects and builders was 'Millions for display--not
one cent for comfort.'"
"Well, Jack, we have learned one thing on our travels--where _not_ to
look for the plans of our house."
A box of letters from her dear five hundred friends awaited Jill's
return, and a whole afternoon was devoted to them. Each letter
contained some allusion to the new house. At least ten conveyed
underscored advice of the most vital importance, which, if not
followed, would demoralize the servants, distress her husband and
ultimately destroy her domestic peace. Taken at a single dose, the
counsel was confusing, to say the least; but Jill read it faithfully,
laid it away for future reference, and gave the summary to her husband
somewhat as follows:
"It appears, Jack, my dear, to be absolutely indispensable to our
future happiness that the house shall front north, south, east and
west."
"Let's build it on a pivot."
"We must not have large halls to keep warm in cold weather, and we
_must_ have large halls 'for style.' The stories must not be less than
eleven nor more than nine feet high. It must be carpeted throughout and
all the floors must be bare. It must be warmed by steam and hot water
and furnaces and fireplaces and base-burners and coal grates."
"We shan't have to go away from home to get into purgatory, shall we?"
"Hush! The walls of the rooms must be calcimined, painted, frescoed and
papered; they must be dyed in the mortar, finished with leather, with
tiles, with tapestry and with solid wood panels. There must be
blinds--outside blinds, awnings, inside shutters, rolling blinds,
Venetian shades and no blinds at all. There must be wide, low-roofed
piazzas all around the house, so that we can live out of doors in the
summer, and on no account must the sun be excluded from the windows of
the first story by piazza roofs. At least eight patent sanitary
plumbing articles, and as many cooking ranges, are each the only one
safe and fit to be used. The house must be high and low--"
"I'm Jack and you shall be game--"
[Illustration: COUSIN GEORGE'S EXTERIOR.]
"It must be of bricks, wood and stone, separately and in combination;
it must be Queen Anne, Gothic, French, Japanesque and classic American,
and it must be painted all the colors of an autumn landscape."
"Well, there's one comfort," said Jack; "you haven't paid for this
advice, so you won't be obliged to take it in order to save it."
"I should think not, indeed, but that isn't the trouble. These letters
are from my special friends, wise, practical people, who know
everything about building and housekeeping, and they speak from solemn
conviction based on personal experience."
"Moral: When the doctors differ, do as you please."
Three of the letters, reserved for the last on account of their unusual
bulk, contained actual plans. One was from an old school friend who had
married an architect and couldn't afford to send a wedding present, but
offered the plans as a sort of apology, privately feeling that they
would be the most valuable of all the gifts; the second was from a
married brother in Kansas who had just built himself a new house, and
thought his sister could not do better than use the same plans, which
he had "borrowed" from his architect; and the third was from Aunt
Melville, who was supposed (by herself) to hold the family destiny in
the hollow of her hand.
"For once," she wrote, "your father has done a most sensible thing.
Every girl ought to have a present of a new house on her wedding-day.
You were very silly to make such a fuss about the house that Jack
built, for it is a very stylish-looking house, even if it isn't quite
so convenient inside; but of course you can improve upon it, and
fortunately I can contribute just what you need--the plans of the house
that your Uncle Melville built for George last year. It isn't as large
as it ought to be, but it will suit you and Jack admirably. You must
tell me how much you have to spend. This house can be very prettily
built for eight or ten thousand dollars, and if you haven't as much as
that you must ask for more. The hall is decidedly stylish, and, with
the library at one side and drawing-room at the other, you will have
just room enough for your little social parties. The room behind the
drawing-room Jack needs for his private use, his study, office,
smoking-room or whatever he calls it--a place to keep his gun, his
top-boots, his fishing-rod and his horrid pipes; where he can revel to
his heart's content in the hideous disorder of a 'man's room,' pile as
much rubbish as he likes on the table, lock the doors and defy the rest
of the household on house-cleaning days. The dining-room is good and
the kitchen arrangements are perfect. George's wife has changed
servants but three times since they began housekeeping, nearly a year
ago, which certainly proves that there is every possible convenience
for doing work easily. The outside of the house is not wholly
satisfactory. There should be a tower, and you must put one on
somewhere."
[Illustration: COUSIN GEORGE'S FIRST FLOOR.]
[Illustration: COUSIN GEORGE'S SECOND FLOOR.]
Then followed several pages of advice about furnishings and a
postscript announced that Colonel Livingston was charmed with the house
and would probably build one like it for Clara. The charm of Aunt
Melville's advice lay in its abundant variety. It was new every morning
and fresh every evening. The latest thing was always the best. The
plans of to-morrow were certain to be better than those of yesterday.
Jill therefore made a careful study of the first installment, not
doubting that others of superior merit would be forthcoming. She found
many things to approve. The hall promised comfort and good cheer,
whether stylish or not. The vista across through the parlor bay and the
wide library window would give a pleasant freedom and breadth. The
stairs were well placed, the second landing with its window of stained
glass being especially attractive, whether as a point of observation or
as a cosy retreat, itself partly visible from the hall below. Every
chamber had a closet of its own, not to mention several extra ones, and
there was a place for every bed.
"As for your sanctum, Jack, I don't at all approve. It will be hard
enough, I've no doubt, to keep you from lapsing into barbarism, and I
shall never allow you to set up a den, a regular Bluebeard's room, all
by yourself. I promise never to put your table in order, but I wouldn't
trust the best of men with the care of a closet or a bureau-drawer for
a single week, much less of an entire room with two closets, a case of
drawers, a cupboard and a chimney-piece. But the chief fault of the
plan is that it doesn't happen to suit our lot. The entrances are not
right, the outlooks are not right, the chimneys are not right."
"Turn it around."
"And spoil it? No; I learned a second lesson on our journey, and it was
well worth what it cost. We shall never find a plan made for somebody
else that will suit us."
"Not good enough?"
"It isn't a question of goodness--it's a question of fitness. Neither
Cousin George's, nor any other house I ever saw, is precisely what we
need."
"Moral: Draw your own plans."
"We must, and we'll begin to-morrow."
"Why not this evening?"
"We couldn't see."
"Light the gas."
"Oh, but we must make the plans out of doors on the lot. We shall then
know where every room will be, every door and especially every window.
We must fix the centre of the sitting-room in the most commanding
situation, and be certain that the dining-room windows do not look
straight into somebody's wood-shed. Then, if there are any views of
blue hills and forests far away over the river, I shall be
uncomfortable if we do not get the full benefit of them."
"Don't you expect to have anything interesting inside the house?"
"Except my husband? Oh yes! but it would be a wicked waste of
opportunities not to accept the blessings provided for us without money
and without price, which only require us to stand in the right places
and open our hearts and windows to receive them."
Jill's second lesson was indeed worth learning, even if it cost a
wedding journey. Every house must suit its own ground and fit its own
household, otherwise it can neither be comfortable nor beautiful.
The next morning, armed with a bundle of laths, sharpened at one end,
and equipped with paper, pencil and tape-line, the prospective
house-builders proceeded to lay out, not the house but the plan. They
planted doors, windows, fireplaces and closets, stoves, lounges,
easy-chairs and bedsteads, as if they were so many seeds that would
grow up beside the laths on which their respective names were written
and bear fruit each according to its kind. Later in the day a high
step-ladder was introduced, from the top of which Jill scanned the
surrounding country, while Jack stood ready to catch her if she fell.
The neighbors were intensely interested, and their curiosity was mixed
with indignation when, toward night, a man was discovered cutting down
two of the rock-maple trees that Jill's grandfather planted more than
fifty years before, and which stood entirely beyond any possible
location of the new house.
"This evening, Jack, you must write for the architect to come."
"I thought you were going to make your own plans."
"I have made them, or rather I have laid them out on the ground and in
the air. I know what I want and how I want it. Now we must have every
particular set down in black and white."
Jack wrote accordingly. The architect was too busy to respond at once
in person, but sent a letter referring to certain principles that reach
somewhat below the lowest foundation-stones and above the tops of the
tallest chimneys.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
MORAL SUASION FOR MALARIAL MARSHES.
"You are quite right," the architect wrote, "to fix the plan of your
house on the lot before it is made on paper, provided first the lot is
a good one. Nothing shows the innate perversity of mankind more
forcibly than the average character of the sites chosen for human
habitations in cities, in villages and in the open country. Or does it
rather indicate the instinctive struggle for supremacy over nature? The
'dear old nurse' is most peaceably inclined toward us, yet we shall
never be satisfied till all the valleys are exalted and the hills laid
low. Not because we object to hills and valleys--quite the contrary;
but we must show our strength and daring. Nobody wants the North Pole,
but we are furious to have a breach made in the wall that surrounds it.
If we discover a mighty primeval forest we straightway grind our axes
to cut it down; an open prairie we plant with trees. When we find
ourselves in an unclean, malarious bog, instead of taking the short cut
out, shaking the mud from our feet and keeping clear of it forever
after, we plunge in deeper still and swear by all the bones of our
ancestors that we will not only walk through it dry-shod, but will
build our homes in the midst of it and keep them clean and sweet and
dry. The good mother beckons to us with her sunshine and whispers
with her fragrant breezes that on the other side of the river or across
the bay the land is high and dry, that just beyond the bluffs are the
sunny slopes where she expected us to build our houses, and, like saucy
children as we are, we say that is the very reason we prefer to go
somewhere else.
[Illustration: WARMTH IS BEAUTY.]
[Illustration: A HIDDEN FOE.]
"Now, if the particular spot of earth on which you expect to set up the
temple of your home is not well adapted to that sacred purpose, think a
bit before you commence digging. If it is low, wet and difficult of
drainage; if the surface water or the drains from adjacent lands have
no outlet except across it; if its size and shape compel your house to
stand so near your neighbor on the south that he takes all the sunshine
and gives you the odors of his dinner and the conversation of his cook
in exchange; if there are no pleasant outlooks; if it is shaded by
trees owned by somebody who will not be persuaded to cut them down for
love nor money--by all means turn it into a fish-pond, a sheep-pasture
or a public park. You can never build upon it a satisfactory home.
Perhaps it is within five minutes' walk of the post-office and on the
same street with Mrs. Adoniram Brown, and these considerations outweigh
all others. In that case there is no help for you. You must make the
best of it as it is.
[Illustration: A BURIED GRIDIRON.]
"If you have a suspicion that the ground is naturally wet, that it
contains hidden springs or conceals an impervious basin, making in
effect a pool of standing water underground, the first necessity is a
clean outlet--not a sewer--low enough to underdrain the lot at least a
foot and a-half below the bottom of the cellar. Having found the clean
outlet, lay small drain tiles, two or three inches in diameter, under
the entire house and for several feet all around it, like a big
gridiron. When this is buried under one or two feet of clean gravel or
sand you will have a permanently dry plot of ground to build upon. The
same treatment will be effective if the ground is "springy." But there
must be a "cut-off" encircling the house. This you can make by digging
a trench a foot wide, reaching down to the drain tiles, and filling it
nearly to the top with loose stones or coarse gravel, the surface of
the ground being graded to slope sharply toward the trench. The surface
water between it and the house, and any moisture creeping toward the
house from without, will then be caught in this porous trap and fall to
the gridiron.
[Illustration: THE PROTECTING "CUT-OFF."]
"It is possible, theoretically, to build an underground cellar so tight
that it may be lifted up on posts and used for a water-tank, or set
afloat like a compartment-built iron steamer. Such walls may be
necessary under certain circumstances. They may be necessary for
cellars that are founded in swamps, in salt marshes below the level of
the sea, and in old river-beds, where the original iniquity of the
standing water is made still more iniquitous by the inevitable foulness
of the washing from streets and the unclean refuse from sinks and back
doors. But for buildings that have four independent walls, with room
enough for a man to ride around his own house in a wheelbarrow without
trespassing on his neighbors, and which are not hopelessly depressed
below all their surroundings, it is better to use a little moral
suasion on the land itself than to spend one's resources in a defiant
water-proof construction. Instead of drain tiles, small stones covered
with a thin layer of hay or straw before being buried in the sand may
be used if more economical.
"If you cannot find the clean outlet for these buried drains or tiles
below the level of the cellar bottom, then raise the cellar, house and
all. No matter if you are accused of having a 'stuck up' house--better
be stuck up than stuck in the mud. Raise it till the entire cellar is
well above the level of thorough drainage. If this happens to carry it
above the surface of the ground, set the house on posts and hang the
cellar under the floor like a work-bag under a table or the basket to a
balloon.
"The foundation walls must indeed touch solid bottom and extend below
the action of frost; but if the wall above the gridiron and below the
paving of the cellar is of hard stones, or very hard bricks laid in
cement, there will be little risk from rising moisture.
"After all, the chief danger is not from underground springs, from
clean surface water or an occasional rising of the floods, but from the
unclean wastes that in our present half-civilized state are constantly
going out of our homes to poison and pollute the earth and air around
them."
"Half-civilized indeed!" said Jack, interrupting the reading of the
letter. "Besides, he is premature as well as impertinent. He doesn't
know but the house will stand on a granite boulder."
"I suppose he intends to warn us, and I am not certain that our lot is
as dry as it ought to be. At all events we will have some holes dug in
different places and see if any water comes into them."
"Of course it will. Haven't we just had the 'equinoctial'? The ground
is full of water everywhere."
"If it is full this spring it will be full every spring. We may as well
order the drain tiles."
"It shall be done," said Jack. "Now let us have the second proviso. I
hope it will be shorter than the first."
"And, secondly," Jill continued reading, "provided you know what your
house is for. It is my conviction that of all the people who carefully
plan and laboriously build themselves houses, scarcely one in ten could
give a radical, intelligent reason for building them. To live in, of
course; but how to live is the question, and why. As they have been in
the habit of living? As their neighbors live? As they would like to
live? As they ought to live? Is domestic comfort and well-being the
chief motive? It is not, usually; hence, there are in the world a great
many more houses than homes."
"Oh, bother the preaching! It's all true, but we don't happen to need
it. When is he coming?"
"Next week, and he hopes we shall have 'some general idea of what we
want.' How very condescending! We know precisely what we want, as I can
easily show him."
[Illustration: A "CROSS-SECTION" PROPHECY.]
Jill accordingly produced a fresh sheet of "cross-section" paper, on
whose double plaid lines the most helpless tyro in drawing can make a
plan with mathematical accuracy provided he can count ten, and on this
began to draw the plan of the first floor, expounding as she drew.
"If we call the side of the house which is next the street the front,
the main entrance must be at the east side, because we need the whole
of the south side for our living rooms. You know the view toward the
southwest is the finest we shall have, especially from the chambers."
"How do I know? I didn't climb the step-ladder."
"And we must have a large bay window directly on that corner. The hall
must run through the house crosswise, with the stairs on the west side
of the house. As there is nothing to be seen in this direction except
the white walls and green blinds of the parsonage, the windows on the
stair-landing shall have stained glass. The dining-room will be at the
north side of the hall, with plenty of eastern windows, and behind that
the kitchen with windows at opposite sides. But you wouldn't understand
the beauty of my kitchen arrangements now. By-and-by, when you are
wiser, I will explain them. Do you like a fireplace in the hall, Jack?"
"I don't know as I do. Do you?"
"Of course! certainly."
"I shall be of all men most miserable without one. Can't we have two?"
"Perhaps so; but first let me read you Cousin Bessie's letter:
MY DEAREST JILL: I'm perfectly delighted to hear about the new
house. It will be an immense success. I _know_ it will--you are
so wise and so _practical_. How I _shall_ enjoy visiting you!
It is delightful to build houses now. Everybody thinks so much
more of the beautiful than they used to. Some of my friends
have the _loveliest_ rooms. The tones are _so_ harmonious, the
decorations so _exquisite_! Such sympathetic feeling and
spiritual unity! I _wish_ you could see Kitty Kane's hall. It
isn't bigger than a bandbox, but there's the _cunningest_
little fireplace in one corner, with real antique andirons and
the quaintest old Dutch tiles. They never make a fire in it;
couldn't if they wanted to--it smokes so. But it is _so_ lovely
and gives the hall such a sweet expression. You _will_ forgive
me, won't you, Jill, dear? but you know you are _so_ practical,
and I _do_ hope you won't forget the esthetic needs of home
life. Your loving cousin, BET."
"Let's give up the hall fireplace," said Jack.
[Illustration: HEAT FROM ALL SIDES.]
"By no means; our hall is large and needs a fireplace--one that will
not smoke and will warm not only the hall in very cold weather, but the
whole house when it isn't quite cold enough for steam. The sides and
back will be of iron with an air-chamber behind them, into which fresh
air will be brought from out of doors and come out well warmed at the
sides." (Jill's idea was something like the above figure for the plan.)
"It will be a capital ventilator, too, for the centre of the house.
There will be a damper in the hearth to let the ashes down into the
ash-pit. I suppose a stove would answer, but this will be better
because it won't have to be blacked, and it will last as long as the
house."
"How will it look standing out there all alone by itself?"
"Haven't I told you, my dear, that whatever _is_ well looks well?"
"Yes, but it takes a mighty faith to believe it, and I'm not even a
mustard-seed. What is the little room in the southwest corner for?"
"That is the library, and for an ordinary family it is large enough. It
is twelve feet by fourteen. It will hold three or four thousand books,
a table, a writing-desk, a lounge and three or four easy chairs. More
room would spoil the privacy which belongs to a library and make it a
sort of common sitting-room. Moreover, by drawing aside the portières
and opening the doors we can make it a part of the large room when we
wish to; and, on the other hand, when they are closed and the bay
window curtains drawn, instead of one large room we shall have three
separate apartments for three solitary misanthropes, for three
_tête-a-têtes_, or for three incompatible groups, not counting the
hall--no, nor the stair-landing, which will be a capital place for a
quiet--"
"Flirtation."
At this point they were interrupted by a telegram from Aunt Melville,
begging them not to begin on George's plan, as she had found something
much more satisfactory.
CHAPTER III.
A FIRST VISIT AND SAGE ADVICE.
They didn't begin to build, from Cousin George's nor from any other
plan, for many weeks. Until the new house should be completed, Jill had
agreed to commence housekeeping in the house that Jack built, without
making any alterations in it, only reserving the privilege of finding
all the fault she pleased to Jack privately, in order, as she said, to
convince him that it would be impossible for them to be permanently
happy in such a house.
"I supposed," said Jack, with a groan, "that my company would make you
blissfully happy in a cave or a dug-out."
"So it would, if we were bears--both of us. As we are sufficiently
civilized, taken together, to prefer artificial dwellings, it will be
much better for us to find out what we really need in a home by actual
experiment for a year or two. You know everybody who builds one house
for himself always wishes he could build another to correct the
mistakes of the first."
"Yes, and when he has done it probably finds worse blunders in the
second. Still, I'm open to conviction, and after our late architectural
tour perhaps my house won't seem in comparison so totally depraved."
[Illustration: AUNT MELVILLE'S AMBITION.]
When they visited it, preparatory to setting up their household
gods--Jack's bachelor arrangements being quite inadequate to the new
order of things--Jack, with a flourish, threw the highly ornamental
front door wide open. Jill walked solemnly in, and, looking neither to
the right nor the left, went straight up stairs.
"Hello!" Jack called after her, "what are you going up stairs for?"
"I supposed you expected everybody to go to the second floor," said
Jill, looking over the bannister, "or you wouldn't have set the stairs
directly across the front entrance."
"I do, of course," Jack responded, following three steps at a time.
"And now will you please signify your royal pleasure as to apartments?"
"Oh, yes! The first requisite is a room with at least one south
window."
"Here it is. A southerly window and a cloudy sky--two windows, in fact.
And look here: see what a glorious closet. It goes clear up to the
ceiling."
"It isn't a closet at all; only a little cupboard. It wouldn't hold
one-half of your clothes nor a tenth part of mine. And there's no
fireplace in the room--not even a hole for a stovepipe."
"Furnace, my dear. We shall be warmed from the regions below. There's
the register."
"I see. But where shall the bed stand? On these two sides it would come
directly in front of a window; on this side there isn't room between
the two doors; on that, there's the 'set bowl'--I hate 'set
bowls'--and the furnace register in the floor."
[Illustration: NO PLACE FOR THE BED.]
"That's so. I never had any bed in this room. Try the dining-room
chamber; that has a south window. The bed can stand on the north side
and the dressing table over in the other corner."
"Yes, in the dark, with a window behind my back. Oh! Jack, why didn't
you get a wife before you planned your house?"
"I did try."
"You did! You never mentioned it to me before. What is this little room
for?"
"Why, nothing in particular. It came so, I suppose--part of the hall,
you know; but it wouldn't be of any use in the hall, so I made a room
of it. It will hold a cot bed if we should happen to have a house full
of company."
"It will never be needed for that with three other guest rooms; but I
see what can be done. You know I promised not to make any alterations;
but destruction isn't alteration, and as this little room is beside the
front chamber, with only the little cupboards between, a part of the
partition between the rooms can be destroyed. There will be no need of
a door; a portière will be better, and I can use the small room for a
dressing-room and closet. So _that_ is nicely arranged; and while you
are marking where the partition is to be cut away I will explore the
first story."
[Illustration: ENLARGED BY DESTRUCTION.]
Now, the stairs were built in a very common fashion, having a sharp
turn at the top, which made the steps near the balustrade exceedingly
steep and narrow. Jill's foot slipped on the top step and down she
went, feet foremost, never stopping till she reached the hall floor
below. Jack, hearing the commotion, ran to the rescue, caught his foot
in the carpet and came tumbling after, with twice as much noise and not
half as much grace. Happily the staircase was well padded under the
carpet, and finding Jill unhurt as well as himself, Jack helped her to
rise and coolly remarked:
"You certainly can't find any fault with the stairs, Jill, dear. If
there had been one of those square landings midway it would have taken
twice as long to come down. I--I had them made so on purpose. Will you
walk into my parlor?"
They went in and sat down in easy-chairs.
"I suppose," said Jill, "that our native land contains about a million
houses with stairs like these and just such halls--if people will
persist in calling them 'halls,' when they are only little narrow,
dark, uncomfortable entries. If we were going to make any alterations
in this house--which we are not, only destructions--- I should take
these out, cut them in two in the middle, double them up, straighten
the crook at the top and shove them outside the house, letting the main
roof drop down to cover them. Then I would make a large landing at the
turn, large enough for a wide seat, a few book shelves and a pretty
window. This could be of stained glass, unless the view outside is more
interesting than the window itself. The merit of a stained-glass
window," Jill observed, very wisely, "is that the sunlight makes a
beautiful picture of it inside the house during the day, and the same
thing, still more beautiful, is thrown out into the world by the
evening lamps, and the darker the night the brighter the picture. After
the stairs were moved out, the little hall, if joined by a wide
doorway, to the room we are now in would become of some value. There is
no grate in this room, and a chimney might be built in the outer wall,
with a fireplace opposite the wide doorway. Then, taken all together,
we should have a very pretty sitting-room. I shouldn't call that an
alteration--should you, Jack?--only an addition."
[Illustration: A SLIGHT ADDITION.]
"Certainly not. Tearing down partitions, taking out plumbing, building
a few chimneys, moving stairways, and such little things, can't be
called 'alterations'--oh, no."
"And the house will be worth so much more when you come to sell it."
"Of course. But why do you call this a 'sitting-room?' It wouldn't be
possible to sell a house that has no parlor; besides this is marked
'parlor' on the plan."
"I prefer the spirit of the plan to the letter of it. This is the
pleasantest room--almost the only pleasant room on this floor. It is
sunny and convenient, it looks out upon the street and across the lawn,
and whatever it is labeled it will _be_ our common every-day
sitting-room. For similar reasons we will take the chamber over it for
our own room."
"What becomes of our hospitality if we keep the best for ourselves?"
"What becomes of our common sense if we make ourselves uncomfortable
the year round in order to make a guest a little less uncomfortable
over night. I try to love my neighbor as myself; I can't love him three
hundred and sixty-five times as well. Now, if you are rested, we will
go and see if the architect has come."
He had not arrived, but they found a ponderous package of plans from
Aunt Melville, with an explanatory note, a letter from Cousin Bessie
admonishing Jill that her new home ought to be "a perfect poem,
pervaded and perfumed by a rare feeling of tender longing and homely
aspiration," and another from her father's oldest sister.
[Illustration: GROUND FLOOR OF AUNT MELVILLE'S AMBITION.]
[Illustration: FIRST FLOOR OF AUNT MELVILLE'S AMBITION.]
"For fifty years," Aunt Jerusha wrote, "I have lived in what would now
be called an old-fashioned house, though it was new enough when I came
to it, and I always think of the Scripture saying when I hear about the
many inventions that men have sought out and are putting into houses
now-a-days. The danger is not so much from the inventions themselves as
from what they lead to. They promise great things, but I've learned to
be suspicious of anything or anybody that makes large promises. I've
learned, too, that realities sometimes go by contraries as well as
dreams. The poorest folks are often the richest, and the greatest
saving often turns out to be the greatest waste. Air-tight stoves saved
the wood-pile, but they gave us colds and headaches. So your uncle put
them away and we went back to the fireplaces. Then came the hot-air
furnaces, which seemed so much less trouble than open fires, but taking
care of the open fires wasn't half so troublesome as taking care of
sick folks; and the same thing we learned to our bitter cost of the
plumbing pipes that creep around like venomous serpents and promise to
save so many steps. Perhaps they do, but it seems to me that much of
our vaunted labor-saving is at best only a transfer. We work all the
harder at something else or compel others to work for us. When I began
housekeeping I had no difficulty in taking care of my large house
without any help, nor in caring for my family while it was small. Yet I
hadn't a single modern invention or labor-saving machine, I have had a
great many since and have tried a great many more. When I find one that
helps in the work that _must_ be done I am glad to keep it. If it
merely does something new--something I had never done before--I keep
the old way. Multiplying wants may be a means of grace to the
half-civilized, but our danger lies in the other direction: we have too
many wants already. And this is what I sat down to say to you, my dear
child: Don't make housekeeping such a complex affair that you must give
to it all your time and strength, leaving no place for the 'better
part.' Don't fill your house with furniture too fine to be used, and
don't try to have everything in the latest fashion. I see many
beautiful things and read of many more, but nothing is half so
beautiful to me as the things that were new fifty years ago and are
still in daily use. Of planning houses I know but little. For one
thing, I should say, have the kitchen and working departments as close
at hand as possible. This will save many weary steps, whether you do
your own work or leave it with servants, the best of whom need constant
watching and encouragement, or they will not make life any easier or
better worth living."
"Isn't this rather a solemn letter?" Jack inquired.
"Yes; it's a solemn subject."
"_Shall_ you 'do your own work'?"
"Of course I shall. How can I help it?
'Each hath a work that no other can do;'
but just precisely what my own work will be I am not at present
prepared to say."
"Is Aunt Melville as solemn as Aunt Jerusha?"
"Aunt Melville assures her dear niece that 'the last plans are
absolutely beyond criticism: the rooms are large and elegant, the
modern conveniences perfect, the kitchen and servants' quarters
isolated from the rest of the house'--"
"That won't suit the other aunty."
"The porte cochère and side entrance most convenient and the front
entrance sufficiently distinguished by the tower. I particularly like
the porte cochère at the side. If none of your callers came on foot
there would be no objection to having it at the front entrance, but it
isn't pleasant to be compelled to walk up the carriage-way. As you
see, this is a brick house, and I am persuaded you ought to build of
bricks. It will cost ten or fifteen per cent. more--possibly
twenty--but in building a permanent home you ought not to consider the
cost for a moment.'"
"That's a comfortable doctrine, if everybody would live up to it," said
Jack.
"Yes; and like a good many other comfortable doctrines, it contains too
much truth to be rejected--not enough to be accepted. We _must_ count
the cost, but if we limit ourselves to a certain outlay, and positively
refuse to go beyond that, we shall regret it as long as we live. We may
leave some things unfinished, but whatever is done past alteration,
either in size or quality, must be right, whatever it costs."
And herein Jill displayed her good sense. It is, indeed, a mistake to
build a house beyond the possibility of paying for it, or of
maintaining it without a constant struggle, but in building a permanent
home there is more likely to be lasting regret through too close
economy in the first outlay, than through extravagance--regret that can
only be cured by an outlay far exceeding what the original cost would
have been.
The architect came as the sun went down, and, after being duly warmed,
fed and cheered, was informed by Jill that all she expected from him
that evening was an explanation of the respective merits of wood and
brick houses. Jack begged the privilege of taking notes, to keep
himself awake, Jill begged the architect to be as brief as possible,
and the architect begged for a small blackboard and a piece of chalk,
that he might, in conveying his ideas, use the only one, true, natural
and universal language which requires no grammar, dictionary or
interpreter.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
MANY FIRES MAKE SMALL DIVIDENDS.
There are two things belonging to modern civilization," the architect
began, "that fill me with amazement. This morning, at the usual hour, I
sat at my own breakfast table. During the day I have been reading and
writing, eating, drinking and making merry with pleasant acquaintances,
old and new. I have observed the architecture of a dozen cities and a
hundred villages and have seen landscapes without number. I have been
occupying an elegantly finished and furnished drawing-room all the
time, with every possible comfort and convenience at hand, and now am
sitting at your fireside, two hundred and fifty miles from home. I have
just assured the girl I left behind me of my safe arrival, and have
listened to her grateful reply. With my ten thousand companions going
in the same direction I have met ten thousand others crossing and
recrossing our path, every one of whom was as safe and comfortable as
ourselves, every one of whom knew the hour and the minute at which he
would reach his destination. To an observer above the clouds our
pathways would appear more frail than the finest gossamer; and the most
daring engineer that ever lived, seeing for the first time our mode of
travel, would stake his reputation that we were rushing to
inevitable destruction. Yet every foot of our way has been so guarded
that not one of these swiftly-moving palaces has swerved from its track
or been hindered on its course. This annihilation of space, with the
human skill, vigilance and fidelity incidental to it, are more
wonderful to me than any tales of magic, stranger than any fiction. I
believe because I see; nevertheless it is incredible. My second
amazement is that fire insurance companies should continue to live and
thrive against such apparently fearful odds, for I see whole villages
and cities composed of buildings that seem expressly designed to invite
speedy combustion, and at the same time to resist all attempts to
extinguish a fire once started in their complex interiors. Indeed, the
most effective modes of treatment yet discovered for a burning building
are drowning it with all its contents in a deluge of water or blowing
it up with gunpowder. It is an open question which of the two methods
is to be preferred.
[Illustration: A SECURE OUTLOOK.]
"Let me show you how a wooden house is built. The sills and joists of
the first floor are comparatively safe, because they are not boxed in
with dry boards, and even with furnace and ash-pits in the cellar there
would be little danger from a fire down below if it were not for the
careful provision made for carrying it into the upper part of the
structure. This provision, however, is most effectively made by means
of the upright studs and furrings that stand all around the outside of
the building and reach across it wherever a partition is needed.
Accordingly, every wooden house has from one hundred to one thousand
wooden flues of a highly inflammable character arranged expressly to
carry fire from the bottom to the top, valiantly consuming themselves
in the operation. Furthermore, they are frequently charged with
shavings and splinters of wood, which, becoming dry as tinder, will
respond at once to a spark from a crack in the chimney, an overheated
stove or furnace-pipe, or a match in the hands of an inquisitive
mouse. They are, likewise, so arranged that no water can be poured
inside them till they fall apart and the house collapses, for they
reach to the roof, whose sole duty is to keep out water, whether it
comes from the clouds or from a hose-pipe, but which, for economical
reasons, is made sufficiently open to allow the air to pass through it
freely, thus insuring a good draught when the fire begins to burn. To
complete the system and prevent the possibility of finding where the
fire began, the spaces between the joists of the upper floors
communicate with the vertical flues, and these highways and byways for
rats and mice, for fire and smoke, for odors from the kitchen, noises
from the nursery and dust from the furnace and coal-bin, are also
strewn with builders' rubbish, which carries flame like stubble on a
harvest-field.
[Illustration: MINED AND COUNTERMINED.]
"Brick houses, as usually built, are not much better, but that is not
the fault of the bricks--_they_ are tougher than good intentions; they
have been burned once and fire agrees with them. In fact, there is no
building material so thoroughly reliable, through thick and thin, in
prosperity and in adversity, as good, honest, well-burned bricks. But
the ordinary brick house is double--a house within a house--a wooden
frame in a brick shell. Like logs in a coal-pit, the inner house is
well protected from outside attacks, but the flames, once kindled
within, will run about as freely as in a wooden building, and laugh at
cold water, which, however abundantly it is poured out, can never reach
the heart of the fire till its destructive work is accomplished. Thrown
upon the outer walls, it runs down the bricks or clapboards; poured
over the roof, it is carried promptly to the ground, as it ought to
be; shot in through the windows, it runs down the plastering, washes
off the paper, soaks the carpets, ruins the merchandise and spoils
everything that water can spoil, while the fire itself roars behind the
wainscot, climbs to the rafters and rages among the old papers, cobwebs
and heirlooms in the attic till the roof falls in, the floors go down
with a crash and an upward shower of sparks, and only the tottering
walls, with their eyeless window sockets, or the ragged, blackened
chimney's, remain."
"One road leads to fire and the other to combustion; that's plain
enough," said Jack; "but where do the merits come in? I thought we were
to learn the relative merits of bricks and wood."
"Wood has one conspicuous merit, a virtue that covers a multitude of
sins--it is cheap; but let me first arrange the fire-escapes."
"By all means. Otherwise we shall be cremated before morning."
"If you understand my sketch you will see that but one thing is needful
to retard the progress of hidden fire, even in a wooden building, long
enough at least for one to go up the hill and fetch a pail of water.
This remedy consists simply in choking the flues and stopping the
draught, which can easily be done by filling in with bricks and mortar
between all the studs of both outer walls and inner partitions at or
near the level of each floor. A cut-off half way up is an additional
safeguard. The horizontal passages between the floor-joists should also
be closed in a similar manner, otherwise the smoke and sparks from a
burning lath next the kitchen stove-pipe will come up through the
cracks in the floor of the parlor, chamber, or around some remote
fireplace, where the insurance agent will be assured 'there hadn't been
a fire kindled for six months.' These occasional dampers are a partial
remedy, and if carefully fitted in the right places will save many tons
of coal and greatly diminish the chances of total destruction in case
of fire. The complete remedy is to leave no spaces that can possibly be
filled.
[Illustration: A DORMER OF BURNED CLAY.]
"I supposed air spaces were necessary for warmth and dryness," said
Jill.
"So they are. But there are air spaces in a woolen blanket, in a
brickbat and in common mortar, as well as in sawdust, ashes and
powdered charcoal, quite enough to serve as non-conductors of heat and
of moisture too, if properly protected. One of the best and most
available materials at present known for this purpose is 'mineral
wool,' a product of iron 'slag.' If the open spaces between the studs
and rafters of a wooden building (or in a brick building between the
furrings) are filled with this substance, or anything else equally
good, if there is anything else--of course sawdust or other
inflammable material would not answer except for an ice-house or a
water-tank--'fire-bugs' would find it difficult to follow their
profession with any success, and the insurance companies would build
more elegant offices and declare larger dividends than ever before.
Houses might be burned possibly, but the inmates would have ample time
to fold their nightgowns, pack their trunks, take up the carpets and
count the spoons before vacating the premises."
"How much will that sort of stuffing cost?"
"For a wooden dwelling house of medium size a few hundred dollars would
cover the first outlay, and the saving in worry would be worth twice as
much every year."
"Now to consider the relative merits of brick and wood, for I see Jack
is going to sleep again: The chief excellence of wood has already been
mentioned. It is cheap, so cheap that any man who can earn a dollar a
day and live on fifty cents, may at the end of a year, have a house of
his own in which he can live and begin to bring up a family in comfort
and safety. He that builds of bricks may rejoice in the durability and
strength of his house, in its security against fire and sudden changes
of temperature, in economy of fuel in cold weather, of ice in warm
weather, and of paint in all weathers; in the possibility of the
highest degree of external beauty, and in the blessed consciousness
that his real estate will not deteriorate on his hands or be a worn-out
and worthless legacy to his children."
"You must wear peculiar spectacles if you can discover beauty in a
square brick house!"
[Illustration: THE TOPMOST PEAK.]
"Rectitude, of which a brick is the accepted type, certainly has a
beauty of its own. But if a brick house is not beautiful--here again
the fault is not, dear Jack, in the bricks; but in ourselves, our
prejudices and our architects--other things being equal, it should be
more beautiful than a wooden house, because the material employed is
more appropriate for its use. (I should like to deliver an oration at
this point, for upon this Golden Rule of utility hang all the law and
the prophets of architectural beauty, but will defer it to a more
fitting occasion.) There is, in truth, no limit to the grace of form,
color and decoration possible with burned clay. As a marble statue is
to a wooden image, so, for the outer walls of a building, is clay that
has been moulded and baked, to the products of the saw-mill, the
planing-mill, lathe and fret-saw."
"Oh, you mean terra cotta?"
"I mean clay that has been wrought into forms of use and beauty, and
prepared by fire to endure almost to the end of time. It is most
commonly found in plain rectangular blocks, but in accordance with the
artistic spirit of the age, brains are now mixed with the sordid earth,
and lasting beauty glows upon the rich, warm face of the strong brick
walls."--
"Yea, verily, amen and amen! Beauty, eloquence and true poetry, bright
gleams of prophetic fire, patriotism, piety and the music of the
spheres. I can see them all in my mind's eye and hear them in my mind's
ear. Jill, my dear, our house shall be bricks--excuse me, I mean
_brains_--and mortar, from turret to foundation stone. Consider that
settled, and if the meeting is unanimous we will now adjourn till
to-morrow morning."
"One moment, if you please. Filling the spaces behind the lathing in a
brick house with some fireproof and non-conducting material is a
concession to usual modes of building. A more satisfactory construction
still would be to build the wails of hollow bricks and with air spaces
so disposed that neither wood furrings nor laths would be necessary.
There is, moreover, no good reason why the inner surfaces of the main
walls of a brick house and both sides of the partitions should not form
the final finish of the rooms. Glazed bricks or tiles built into the
walls, or secured to them after they are built, are vastly more
satisfactory than a fragile and incongruous patchwork of wood, leather,
metal, paper, paint and mortar, thrown together in some of the thousand
and one fantastic fashions that spring up in a day, run their little
course, and speedily return to the dust they have spent their short
lives in collecting. I am afraid to dwell on this theme lest I should
lie awake all night in a fever of futile protest."
"Pray don't run any risks. I move we now adjourn."
"Yes; but first let me ask one question," said Jill. "Would not the
difference of cost between a house built in the ordinary combustible
style and the same made fire-proof, or even 'slow-burning,' pay the
cost of insurance at the usual rates many times over and leave a large
margin besides?"
"Undoubtedly it would."
"Then, as an investment, what object is there in attempting to make
buildings fireproof or even approximately so?"
"Excuse me. I thought you were going to ask only one question."
CHAPTER V.
WHEN THE FLOODS BEAT AND THE RAINS DESCEND.
After the architect had retired to his room it occurred to him that he
might have answered Jill's conundrum as to the profit of building
fire-proof houses by reminding her that pecuniary loss is not the sole
objection to being burned out of house and home whenever the fire fiend
happens to crave a flaming sacrifice, in the daytime or in the night,
in summer or in midwinter, in sickness or in health; that not only
heir-looms, but hearthstones and door posts, endeared by long
associations, have a value beyond the power of insurance companies to
restore, and that protection against fire means also security against
many other ills to which the dwellers in houses are liable, not to
refer to the larger fact that there is no real wealth without
permanence, while the destruction of anything useful in the world,
wherever the loss may seem to fall, impoverishes the whole. Having
settled this point to his own satisfaction, he sought his pillow in a
comfortable frame of mind. Comfortable, but not wholly at rest, for no
sooner did he close his eyes than the "fever of futile protest"
asserted itself in turbulent visions of paper, paint and plastering.
Dados danced around in carnival dress; wall decorations went waltzing
up and down, changing in shape, size and color like the figures in a
kaleidoscope; Chinese pagodas on painted paper dissolved into brazen
sconces, and candelabra sat where no light would ever shine; glazed
plaques turned into Panama hats and cotton umbrellas, the classic
figures in the frieze began to chase the peacocks furiously across the
ceilings, the storks hopped wildly around on their one available leg,
draperies of every conceivable hue and texture, from spider webs to
sole leather, shaking the dust from their folds, slipped uneasily about
on their glittering rings, and showers of Japanese fans floated down
like falling apple blossoms in the month of May. He seemed to see the
Old Curiosity Shop, the uncanny room of Mr. Venus, a dozen foreign
departments of the Centennial, ancient garrets and modern household art
stores, all tumbled together in hopeless confusion, and over all an
emerald, golden halo that grew more and more concentrated till it burst
into gloom as one gigantic sunflower, which, suddenly changing into the
full moon just rising above the top of a neighboring roof, put an end
to his chaotic dreams.
Not willing to be moonstruck, even on the back of his head, he arose
and went to the window to draw the curtain. There was a sort of
curtainette at the top, opaque and immovable, serving simply to reduce
the height of the window. At the sides there were gauzy draperies, too
fancifully arranged to be rashly moved and too thin to serve the
purpose of a curtain even against moonlight. He tried to close the
inside shutters, but they clung to their boxes, refusing to stir
without an order from the carpenter. At the risk of catching a cold or
a fall, he opened the window and endeavored to bring the outside
blinds together. One fold hung fast to the wall, the other he contrived
to unloose, but the hook to hold it closed was wanting, and when he
tried to fasten it open again the catch refused to catch, so he was
compelled to shut the window and leave the swinging blind at the mercy
of the wind. He then improvised a screen from a high-backed chair and
an extra blanket, and again betook himself to bed. Stepping on a tack
that had been left over when the floor matting was laid provoked
certain exclamations calculated to exorcise the demon--or should I say
alarm the angel?--of decorative art, and he was soon wrapped in the
slumber of the just, undisturbed by esthetic visions.
[Illustration: WILL'S MASTERPIECE.]
After a time he became dimly conscious of a sense of alarm. At first,
scarcely roused to understand the fear or its cause, he soon recognized
a noise that filled his soul with terror--the stealthy sound of a
midnight assassin; a faint rasping, intermittent and cautious, a sawing
or filing the bolt of his door. He made a motion to spring up, upset a
glass of water by his bedside and--frightened the rats from the
particular hole they were trying to gnaw. In their sudden fright they
dropped all pretense of secresy. They called each other aloud by name
and scattered acorns, matches, butternuts and ears of corn in every
direction, which rolled along the ceiling, fell down the partitions,
knocked the mortar off the back of the laths and raised such a noisy
commotion as ought to have roused the whole neighborhood. No one
stirred, and the architect once more addressed himself to blessed
sleep, feeling that morning must soon put an end to his tribulations.
How long he slept he had no means of knowing. It was still dark when he
awoke: dark but not still. A distant footfall tinkled on the matted
floor, followed by another and another in rapid, measured succession.
Could there be a cat or a dog in the room? He could see nothing. The
moon was gone and the room was dark as Egypt. Possibly some animal
escaped from a traveling menagerie had hidden in the chamber. He lay
still and listened while the step--step--step--kept on without break or
change. Presently he thought of ghosts, and as ghosts were the one
thing he was not afraid of he turned over and went to sleep for good
just as the village clock struck eleven.
In the morning when he awoke, it rained. The ghostly footfalls
continued; in fact, they had considerably increased, but they were no
longer ghostly. A dark spot on the ceiling directly over the portfolio
of plans he had laid on the floor betrayed their source. Portfolio and
contents were as well soaked as if the fire companies had been at
them--all from a leak in the roof.
After breakfast, when Jill proposed to spend the time till it cleared
off in looking over the plans he had brought, the architect was obliged
to explain the disaster.
"It is just as well," said he. "I brought them because you asked me to
bring them, not because I supposed there would be one among them that
would suit you. But they are not wasted. These poor, dumb, dripping
plans preach a most eloquent sermon, the practical application of which
is only too evident."
"But how _can_ you make a tight roof? There has always been a leak here
when it rains with the wind in a certain quarter. We keep a pan under
it all the time, but somebody forgot to empty it; so it ran over last
night."
"You ought to see the house that I built," said Jack. "The wind may
blow where it listeth and never a drop comes through the roof."
"Oh, Jack, what a story! Only yesterday you showed me where the ceiling
was stained and the paper just ready to come off."
"That wasn't from rain water. It was from snow and ice water, which is
a very different affair. We had peculiar weather last winter. I know a
man who lost three thousand dollars' worth of frescoes in one night."
"It is indeed a different matter as regards the construction of the
roof, but the water is wet all the same, and a roof is inexcusable that
fails to keep all beneath it dry, however peculiar the weather may be.
No, it is not difficult to make a tight roof with the aid of common
sense and common faithfulness. The most vulnerable spots during a rain
storm are beside the dormers and the chimneys, over the bay-window
roofs and in the valleys, that is, wherever the plane surface and the
uniform slope of the roof is broken. In guarding these it is not safe
to assume that water never runs up hill; a strong wind will drive it up
the slope of a roof under slates, shingles or flashings as easily as it
drives up the high tide of Lincolnshire. It will cause the water
pouring down the side of a chimney, a dormer window, or any other
vertical wall, to run off in an oblique direction and into cracks that
never thought of being exposed to falling rain. 'Valleys' fail to
carry their own rivers when they are punctured by nails carelessly
driven too far within their borders; when the rust that corrupts the
metal of which they are commonly composed has eaten their substance
from the under side perhaps, their weakness undiscovered till the
torrent breaks through; when they become choked with leaves and dust
and overflow their banks; when they are torn asunder by their efforts
to accommodate themselves to changes of temperature, and when ice cakes
come down from the steep roofs and break holes through them.
"The other danger is peculiar to cold climates, where the roof must
protect not only from driving rain but from snow and ice in all their
moods and tenses. When the higher peaks feel the warmth of the sun or
the internal heat of the building, the lower slopes and valleys being
without such influence, it sometimes happens that the rills will be set
to running by the warmth of the upper portions, while the colder
climate below will stop them in their course, building around the
slate, shingles or tiles an impervious ice dam, from which the
descending streams can find no outlet except by 'setting back' under
the slates and running down inside. Eave spouts and conductors are
especially liable to this climatic influence, for nothing is more
common than to find them freezing in the shade while the roofs above
are basking in the sun. As Jack observes, admitting water above an ice
dam is a different kind of sin in a roof from that which caused the
ruin of my plans last night, but it is no less unpardonable. The same
treatment that will make a roof non-conducting of fire will, to some
extent, overcome this danger, or a double boarding may be laid upon the
rafters, with an air space between. This or the mineral wool packing
will prevent the premature melting of snow from the internal heat. The
only sure salvation for gutters is to take them down and lay them away
in a cool, dry place. Thorough work, ample outlets and abundant room
for an overflow on the outward side will make them reasonably safe. In
general it is better to let the water fall to the ground, as directly
as possible, and let the snow slide where it will, provided there is
nothing below to be injured by an avalanche. A hundred-weight of warm
snow or a five-pound icicle falling ten feet upon a slated roof or a
conservatory skylight is sure to make a lasting impression."
"Isn't this discourse a little out of season?" said Jack. "We don't buy
furs in July nor refrigerators in January. If you expect advice to be
followed, you mustn't offer it too long beforehand. Now, as your plans
haven't yet recovered from their bath, let us see if Jill's air-castles
can be brought down to the region of human possibilities."
"I am not quite ready for that," said Jill. "First, let me show you the
plans my old friend has sent me, and read you her description of them.
Here are the plans and here is the letter:
"'Of all the plans Will has ever made'--her 'Will' is an architect, you
know--'these seem to me most likely to suit you and Jack, although they
are by no means, adapted to conventional, commonplace housekeepers. In
the centre of the first floor the large hall, opening freely to the
outside world, is a sort of common ground, hospitable and cheerful,
where the stranger guest and the old friend meet; where the children
play, where the entire household are free to come and go without
formality. The furniture it contains is for use and comfort. It is
never out of order, because it is subject to no formal rules. At the
left of the hall is the real family home, more secluded and more
significant of your own taste and feeling. Instead of many separate
apartments for general family use, here are drawing-room, sitting-room,
library and parlor, all in one. This is the domestic sanctuary, the
essential family home into which outsiders come only by special
invitation. From the central hall runs the staircase that leads to the
still more personal and private apartments above, one of which belongs
to each member of the family. At the right of the hall is the
dining-room, near enough to make its contribution to physical comfort
and enjoyment at the proper time, but easily excluded when its inferior
service is not required.'
"I don't understand that," said Jill.
"I do," said Jack. "It means that the meat that perisheth ought not to
be set above the feast of reason and flow of soul; that the dining-room
ought to be convenient but subordinate, not the most conspicuously
elegant part of the establishment, unless we keep a boarding-house and
reckon eating the chief end of man. Where do you say the library is?"
"Included in the drawing-room. Probably the corner marked 'Boudoir'
contains a writing desk with more or less books and other literary
appliances. It has a fireplace of its own and portières would give it
complete seclusion."
[Illustration: FIRST FLOOR OF WILL'S MASTERPIECE.]
"Where is the smoking-room?"
"I don't know. She didn't send the plans for the stable."
"How savage! Please go on with the letter."
Jill continued:
"'The floors of the dining-room and hall are on the same level, but
that of the drawing-room is one or two feet higher--'
"I don't like that at all. Should stumble forty times a day."
"'--which is typical of its higher social plane, makes a charming
raised seat on the platform at the foot of the stairs, and gives a more
picturesque effect than would be possible if all the rooms were on a
par.'
"Can't help that. I shouldn't like it. I'd rather be a commonplace
housekeeper."
"'The higher broad landing in the staircase, running quite across the
hall, makes a sort of gallery with room for a few book-shelves, a
lounging-seat in the window, a band of musicians on festival occasions,
with perhaps a pretty view from the window.'
"If the landscape happens to fit the plan."
"'Under the lower portion, of the stairs there is a toilet room, and at
the same end of the hall wide doors lead to the piazza. A long window
also gives access to the same piazza from the drawing-room. In the
second story the chambers have plenty of closets and dressing-rooms,
and yet but few doors. Indeed, many of these may be omitted by using
portières between each chamber and its dressing-room. You will notice,
too, that by locking one door on each story the servants' quarters can
be entirely detached from the rest of the house.'
"Yes," said Jill, laying down the letter; "and that suggests another
question: What do you think of a plan like this which provides no
passage from the kitchen to the front part of the house except across
the dining-room?"
[Illustration: SECOND FLOOR OF WILL'S MASTERPIECE.]
"I should refer the question back to the housekeepers themselves; it
is domestic rather than architectural. If the kitchen servant attends
to the door bell, and is constantly sailing back and forth between the
cooking-stove and the front door like a Fulton Ferry boat, the amount
of travel would justify a special highway--even a suspension bridge.
Likewise, when the side entrance for the boys and other careless
members of the family is behind the dining-room, that apartment will
become a noisy thoroughfare, unless there is a corridor passing around
it. This is a common dilemma in planning the average house, and while a
direct communication between the front and rear portions is always
desirable, crossing one of the principal rooms is often the least of
two evils. It seems to be so in this plan."
"Go on, Jill."
"There is but one more sentence about the plan: 'The outside of the
house is severely plain, but you can easily make it more ornamental.'"
"That's true. Nothing is easier than to make things ornamental. The
hard thing is to make them simply useful. Now if you want my candid
opinion of this plan," Jack continued, "I should say it is first-rate
if the front door looks toward the east: if there is a grand view of
rivers and mountains toward the southwest; if the family live on the
west piazza all the forenoon; if they board a moderate family of
servants in the north end (which I notice is a few steps lower than the
dining-room--for social reasons, I suppose)--if they keep up rather a
'tony' style of living in the south end; are not above condescending to
men of low estate to the extent of receiving common people in the big
hall, but holding themselves about two steps above the average human;
and, finally, if and provided the butler's pantry is made as large
again for a smoking-room, and the kitchen pantry made large enough to
hold the butler. With these few remarks, I think we may lay this set of
plans on the table."
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VI.
THE WISDOM OF JILL IN THE KITCHEN.
"Perhaps Jack will remember," said Jill, as she prepared to explain her
plans, "that we examined not long ago a large number of somewhat
pretentious houses, but did not find one that was satisfactory, the
defects being usually in what I should call the working department of
the house. The large front rooms were often exceedingly charming,
elegantly furnished and well arranged."
"For which reason," said Jack, "the family seemed to be religiously
kept out of them unless they had on their company manners and their
Sunday clothes, or wished to make themselves particularly miserable by
having a wedding, a sewing society or an evening party."
"The rear boundary of the dining-room seemed like Mason and Dixon's
line in the old times; once beyond it, we entered a region 'without law
or ornament or order,' a realm of architectural incompetence, confusion
and evil work--if it is fair to call the arrangements of the domestic
part of a house an architectural matter."
"Certainly it is," Jack affirmed, "and it's my opinion that no
architect ought to receive his diploma until he has served one year in
a first-class family as cook, butler and maid-of-all-work."
[Illustration: THE OUTSIDE OF TED'S HOUSE.]
"One would almost be inclined to think that such an experience, with
another year at bridge building, had been with certain 'practical
architects and builders' the entire course of study."
"It was plain enough," Jill continued, "that these houses were planned
by _men_, who were not only ignorant of the details of housework but
who held them in low esteem, as of no special importance. They
evidently exhausted their room and their resources on what they are
pleased to call the 'main' part of the house, leaving the kitchen and
all its accessories to be fashioned out of the chips and fragments that
remained. It would be a similar thing if a man should build a factory,
fill it with machinery, furnish and equip the offices, warerooms and
shipping docks, but leave no room for the engine that is to drive the
whole or for the fuel that feeds the engine. When 'we women' practice
domestic architecture, as we surely ought and shall,--"
"When it's fashionable."
"--we shall change all that. If there can be but two good rooms in a
house it is better to have a kitchen and sitting-room than a
dining-room and parlor. I propose to begin at the other end of the
problem in planning our house. It may not suit anybody else, but if it
suits Jack and I it will be a model home."
"That sentiment is a solid foundation to build upon," said the
architect. "I wish it was more popular. Build to suit yourselves, not
your neighbors."
"And now if you will walk into my kitchen, which is _not_ up nor down a
winding stair? but on the same level with the dining-room, you shall
judge whether it can be made a stern reality or must always remain the
ghostly wing of a castle in the air. The approach from outside is
through the little entry at the farther corner, where 'the butcher, the
baker, and the candlestick maker,' the grocer, the fish-man, the
milk-man and the ice-man bring their offerings. The other entrance is
by way of the lobby adjoining the main staircase hall. This lobby or
'garden entrance' is a sort of Mugby Junction, where we can take the
cars for the cellar, for the second floor by the back stairs route, for
the dining-room or for out of doors, and where we find refreshment in
the way of a wash-basin and minor toilet conveniences. Under the main
staircase there is also a large closet opening into this same lobby. My
kitchen you see has windows at opposite sides, not only to admit plenty
of light, for cleanliness is a child of light--"
"That's true," said Jack. "In a dark room it's hard to tell a dried
blueberry from a dried--currant."
"Not only for light, but that the summer breezes may sweep through it
when the windows are open, and, as far as possible, keep a river of
fresh air rollings between the cooking range and the dining-room. It is
long and narrow, that it may have ample wall space and yet keep the
distance between the engine and machine shop, that is, the range with
its appurtenances, and the packing-room--I mean the butler's pantry--as
short as possible."
"I'm glad there's going to be a 'butler's pantry,' it sounds so
stylish. I notice that among people who have accommodations for a
'butler' in their house plans, about one in a hundred keeps the
genuine article. All the rest keep a waitress or a 'second girl.'
Sometimes the cook, waitress, butler, chambermaid, valet and
housekeeper are all combined in one tough and versatile handmaiden."
[Illustration: JILL'S KITCHEN IN BLACK AND WHITE.]
"Well, call it china closet, though it is really something more than
that, or serving-room, or dining-room pantry--whatever you please. We
shall keep two servants in the house, one of whom will wait on the
table; consequently I do not want a door from this room-of-many-names
to the kitchen. It is much easier to maintain the dignity and order
that belong to our precious pottery, our blue and crackled ware, our
fair and frail cut glass, if they are not exposed to frequent attacks
from the kitchen side. There is, however, an ample sliding door or
window in the partition, and a wide serving table before it, on which
the cook will deposit the dinner as she takes it from the range. A part
of the top of this table is of slate, and may be kept hot by steam or
hot water from the range. With but one servant it would of course be
necessary to make the route from the kitchen range to the dining-room
table more direct."
"What if you had none?"
"If I had none, my kitchen, dining-room, store-room, china-closet,
butler's pantry and all the blessed facilities for cooking, serving and
removing the meals should be within a radius of ten feet. How any
mortal woman with a soul above dress trimmings can be content to spend
three hours in preparing meals to be eaten in thirty minutes passes my
comprehension. When I 'do my own work,' as Aunt Jerusha says, there
will be no extra steps, no extra dishes, no French cooking, no
multiplying of 'courses.'"
"No cards, no cake, no style."
"Yes, indeed! The most distinguished and elegant style. Such style as
is not possible except where all the household service is performed by
the most devoted, the most thoughtful, the most intelligent, if I may
say so--"
"Certainly the most intelligent, amiable, accomplished and altogether
lovely member of the family. I agree to that."
"There will be no _pretense_ of style--if that is what you mean, no
vain endeavor to conceal poverty or ignorance, but a delightful
Arcadian candor and simplicity that will leave the mistress of the
house, who is also housekeeper, nurse, cook, dairymaid, butler,
waitress, laundress, seamstress, governess and family physician,
abundant time and strength for such other occupations and amusements as
may be most congenial. It would be a delightful way of living, and I
should not hesitate to try it if I felt certain that I _had_ a soul
above dress trimmings. I am not willing to be a household drudge,
overwhelmed by the 'work that is never done;' therefore, to be on the
safe side, we will keep two servants.
"The cooking range, whether of the portable or 'set' kind, will have a
brick wall behind it and at each side, which, carried above, will form
a sort of canopy to conduct into the chimney the superfluous heat in
warm weather and the steam and smoke from cooking at all times. I
suppose some housekeepers would object to separating the two pantries,
but they have no common interests requiring close proximity. The
kitchen pantry is a store-room and a kind of private laboratory, where
the mysterious experiments are made that develop our taste for esthetic
cooking and give us an experimental knowledge of dyspepsia. Its
operations precede the work of the range to which it is a near
neighbor, as it ought to be. It has also the merit of being in the cool
northwest corner of the house, with small windows on two adjacent
sides, which are better than a single window, for the air of a
store-room or pantry cannot be changed too freely in warm weather.
"Do you see the closets at the end of this pantry? One is for ice,
which is shoved in through a little door just above the sink where it
is brought by the ice-man; the other is for a cold closet and is built
in such a way as to get the full benefit of its cold-blooded neighbor.
Don't forget, in making the plan, that the door through which the ice
slides must be large enough to take in the largest cakes, and must be
so arranged that after being washed at the sink they will slide easily
without lifting or _banging_ into their proper places inside."
"And let me suggest," said the architect, "that the waste-pipe that
carries off the melted ice be allowed to run straight out of doors,
without making the acquaintance of the sewer or any other drain-pipe."
"Please remember that then, as well as the door. The kitchen sink is at
the west end of the room, between and under two windows, which must be
at least three feet from the floor. It is near to the pantry door, to
accommodate the dishes used in cooking; yet not so near that one cannot
stand beside it without danger of being roasted or broiled; near to the
cellar door, from whence come the Murphys and other vegetables to have
their faces washed and their eyes put out. Of course there is a china
sink in the china closet, to insure tender treatment for all the table
ware, and I should like a sort of window or slide behind the sideboard
opening through it. Sometimes it will be convenient for the waitress to
arrange the articles to be used on the table within reach from the
dining-room side, and save a special journey whenever a dish, or a
spoon is changed."
"It strikes me," said Jack, "that when it comes to spoons you're
drawing it pretty fine. I suppose these are modern improvements, but
how much better will the dinners be than the dinners cooked in my
kitchen? Two servants will do all the work for the same wages."
"Real labor-saving is a religious duty, like all other economy; and if
we don't have better domestic service with better facilities for doing
work the fault is our own."
"But I don't see that this kitchen is any better than mine."
"Of course you don't; you're a man; but for one thing, your china
closet hasn't even a window of its own. How do you expect glasses to be
made clean and silver bright in such a place? Now observe my plan: Not
only is the kitchen light, but the entry where the ice comes in, the
pantry where the food is prepared, the butler's pantry, the stairs to
the cellar and to the second floor, and Mugby Junction, are all light.
There isn't a dark corner on the premises, and consequently no excuse
for uncleanness or accidents."
"Just think of the flies."
"Windows are easily darkened. But I am not quite ready to talk over
these minor matters. The general plan is the first thing, and I think
you will agree with me that it is well begun."
"According to Poor Richard, then, it is half done. So it's time for
recess."
"Very well; way of change let us look at the plans of brother Ted's
house in Kansas. Its situation is different from ours, as it stands on
a high bluff in a bend of the Missouri, and the parlor looks over the
water in three different directions, up and down and across the river.
The piazza seems to be arranged to make the most of this situation, and
Ted thinks it impossible to contrive a more charming arrangement for
hall, parlor and dining-room. They use the parlor as a common
sitting-room, and the hall still more commonly, especially in warm
weather. Ted doesn't realize that half the charm of the house lies in
its adaptation to the site."
[Illustration: THE FIRST FLOOR OF TED'S HOUSE.]
"That ought to be the case with every country or suburban house."
"It certainly will not fit our lot, and it seems to me best suited for
a summer home or for a warm climate."