Here Jack was called to his office, and Jill withdrew to attend to some

household duties, first requesting the architect to redraw the plans so

as to show accurately the construction and details.

"That is to say," said Jack, "while Jill makes a pudding for dinner and

I write a business letter of three lines, you are to lay out in

complete shape the plans for a house containing all the modern

abominations and improvements, that will cost ten thousand dollars,

occupy two years in building and last forever. That's a modest

request."

"Not extravagant compared with the demands often made upon domestic

architects, for it involves no downright contradictions. I am not asked

to show how a house worth ten thousand dollars can be built for five,

or to break the Golden Rule, or to change the multiplication table and

the cardinal points of the compass."

CHAPTER VII.

BE HONEST AND KEEP WARM.

The architect went home to translate the instructions he had received

into the language that builders understand. Jack and Jill established

themselves in the house that Jack built. The proposed amendments were

indefinitely postponed; Jill having consented to take the house

temporarily as she had taken Jack permanently--for better or

worse--only claiming her reserved right, in the case of the house, of

privately finding all the fault she pleased. Even the staircase, so

favorable to a swift descent, remained unchanged, and in their own room

the bed stood squarely in the middle of the floor. Jack averred that

this was intended when the house was planned, because the air is so

much better in the centre of a room, and there is not so much danger of

being struck by lightning.

One day there came a cold, gloomy rain on the wings of a raw east wind,

and after Jack had gone to his office it occurred to Jill that a fire

on the hearth in the parlor, which they used as a common sitting-room,

would be exceedingly comfortable, but on removing a highly ornamental

screen that served as a "fireboard," she found neither grate nor

fireplace, only a blank wall plastered and papered. Her righteous

wrath was kindled, not because she was compelled to get warm in some

other way, but by the fraudulent character of the chimney-piece. "I can

imagine nothing more absurdly impertinent," she declared to Jack when

he came home, "than that huge marble mantel standing stupidly against

the wall where there isn't even a chimney for a background. As a piece

of furniture it is superfluous; as a wall decoration it is hideous; as

a shelf it is preposterous; as a fireplace it is a downright lie. If

our architect suggests anything of the kind he will be dismissed on the

instant."

[Illustration: THE POOR BUT MODEST ATTORNEY'S COTTAGE]

"Don't you think the room would look rather bare without a mantel? You

know it's the most common thing in the world to have them like this. I

can show you a hundred without going out of town."

"Common! It's worse than common; it is vulgar, it is atrocious, it is

the sum of all villainies!" said Jill, her indignation rising with each

succeeding epithet. "A fireplace is a sacred thing. To pretend to have

one when you have not is like pretending to be pious when you know you

are wicked; it is stealing the livery of a warm, gracious, kindly

hospitality to serve you in making a cold, heartless _pretense_ of

welcome."

"I didn't mean to do anything wrong," Jack protested with exceeding

meekness. "Such mantels were all the fashion when this house was built,

and fashions in marble can't be changed as easily as fashions in paper

flowers."

"There ought not to be 'fashions' in marble, but of course it was

fashion. Nothing else than the blindest of all blind guides could have

led people into anything so hopelessly silly and unprincipled. I shall

never enjoy this room again," she continued, "knowing, as well I know,

that yonder stately piece of sculpture is a whited sepulchre, a

delusion and a snare. I shall feel that I ought to unmask it the moment

a visitor comes in, lest I should be asked to make a fire on the hearth

and be obliged to confess the depravity in our own household."

[Illustration: A DOUBLE TEAM.]

"Now, really, my dear, don't you think you are coming it rather strong,

if I may be allowed the expression? Isn't it possible that your present

views may be slightly tinged by the color of the east wind, so to

speak?"

"Not in the least. You know perfectly well, Jack, that insincerity is

the bane of domestic and social life; that hypocrisy is a child of the

Evil One, and that vain and false pretensions are the fatal lures that

lead us on to destruction. How can we respect ourselves or expect our

friends to respect us if the most conspicuous thing in the house is a

palpable fraud?"

"Very well, dear, I'll bring up a can of nitro-glycerine to-morrow and

blow the whole establishment into the middle of futurity. Meanwhile,

let us see if anything can be done to make it endurable a few hours

longer."

Dropping on his knees in front of the fictitious fireplace, Jack pulled

the paper from the wall, disclosing a sheet-iron stove-pipe receiver,

set there for a time of need, and communicating in some mysterious way

with a sooty smoke flue. Having found this, he telephoned to the stove

store for a portable grate--that is to say, a Franklin stove with

ornamental tiles in the face of it--and in less than an hour the room

was radiant with the blaze of a hickory fire, while a hitherto unknown

warmth came to the lifeless marble from its new neighbor. By sitting

directly in front of it Jill discovered that in appearance the general

effect was nearly as good as that of a genuine fireplace, the warmth

diffused being decidedly greater.

"I'm sorry I lost my temper," said she, after they had sat a while in

silence enjoying the ameliorating influence of the blaze, "but I _do_

hate a humbug. We will let this stove stand here all summer to remind

you that neither your house nor your wife is perfect, and to keep me

warm when the east wind blows."

[Illustration: WARMTH UNDER THE WINDOW.]

Jack's response to this magnanimous remark must be omitted, as it had

no direct bearing upon house-building.

"When I went into the kitchen this morning to get warm," Jill observed

later in the evening, "I found Bridget ironing; the stove was red-hot,

the bath boiler was bubbling and shaking with the imprisoned steam, and

the outside door was wide open. It struck me that there was heat enough

going out of doors, not to mention the superheated air of the kitchen

itself, to have made the whole house comfortable such days as this, if

it could only be saved. Don't you think it would be possible to attach

a pipe to some part of the cooking-range that would carry steam or hot

water to the front of the house. We shouldn't want it when the furnace

was running, nor in very warm weather, and at such times it could be

turned off."

Jack thought it could be done, and expressed a willingness to be a

roasted martyr occasionally if he could by that means make some use of

the perennial fire in the kitchen, a fire that seemed to be the hottest

when there was no demand for it.

[Illustration: STEAM PIPES BESIDE THE FIREPLACE.]

"It's my conviction," said he, "that if the heat actually evolved from

the fuel consumed by the average cook could be conserved on strictly

scientific principles, it would warm the house comfortably the year

round without any damage to the cooking, and with a saving of all the

bother of stoves, fireplaces and furnaces." And his conviction was well

founded, provided the house is not too large and the weather is not too

cold. "Shall we try it in the new house?"

"No, not unless somebody invents a new patent low-pressure,

automatic-cooking-range-warming-attachment before we are ready for it.

We shall have fireplaces in every room--real ones--and steam radiators

beside."

"What! in every room, those ugly, black, bronzy, oily, noisy, leaking,

sizzling, snapping steam radiators that are always in the way and keep

the air in the room so dry that everybody has catarrh, the doors won't

latch, and the furniture falls to pieces? You know how the old heirloom

mahogany chair collapsed under Madam Abigail at Mrs. Hunter's

party--went to pieces in a twinkling like the one-horse shay--and all

on account of the steam heat."

"Yes, I remember; it was a comical tragedy; and before we run any such

risks let us look over our advisory letters. Here's one from Uncle

Harry, who, as you know, is never without a hobby of some sort. Just at

present he is devoted to sanitary questions. To be well warmed,

ventilated and plumbed is the chief end of man. He begins by saying

that 'sun's heat is the only external warmth that is natural or

beneficial to human beings. When men have risen above the dark clouds

of sin and ignorance they will discover how to preserve the extra

warmth of the torrid zone and of the hot summers in our own latitudes

to be evenly diffused through colder climes and seasons. Next to sun's

heat is that which comes from visible combustion--the burning of wood

and coal. Such spontaneous, radiant, living warmth differs essentially

from that which we receive by contact with artificially-warmed

substances, somewhat as fruit that has been long gathered differs from

that taken directly from the vine.'"

"Isn't this getting sort of misty, what you might call 'transcendental

like'?"

"Possibly, and this is still more so: 'Warmth is the vital atmosphere

of life, and a living flame imparts to us some of nature's own

mysterious vitality. Hence, the sun's rays and the blaze of burning

fuel give not only a material but a spiritual comfort and cheer, which

mere warm air is powerless to impart. Here is another reason why direct

radiation, even from a black iron pipe, is preferable to a current of

warm air brought from a distance: in a room warmed by such a current

nothing is ever quite so warm as the air itself unless so situated as

to obstruct its flow, but every solid substance near a hot stove or

radiator absorbs the radiated heat and is satisfied, while the air for

respiration remains at a comparatively low temperature.'"

"There may be a little sense in that," said Jack, "but the rest is

several fathoms too deep for me. Has he any practical advice to give?"

"That depends upon what you call practical. 'I have little patience,'

he says, 'with the common objection to direct radiation, that it brings

no fresh air. Fresh air can be had for the asking under a small stove

or radiator standing in a room as well as under a large stove or boiler

standing in the cellar; neither does the dampness or dryness of the

atmosphere depend primarily upon the mode of warming it, while, as for

the appearance of steam pipes, if they are not beautiful as usually

seen, it only proves that art is not wisely applied to iron work, and

that architects have not learned the essential lesson that whatever

gives added comfort to a house will, if rightly treated, enhance its

beauty. Steam-pipes or radiators may stand under windows, behind an

open screen or grill of polished brass, or they may be incorporated

with the chimney piece, and need not, in either case, be unsightly or

liable to work mischief upon the carpets or ceilings under them.

Wherever placed, a flue to bring in fresh air should be provided and

fitted with a damper to control the currents.'"

"I like the notion of putting them beside the fireplace," said Jack.

"When they are both running, it would be like hitching a pair of horses

before an ox-team or a steam engine attachment to an overshot

water-wheel. It means business. Uncle Harry improves. What next?"

"He expounds his theories of light and shade, of plumbing, sewer-gas

and malaria, and casually remarks that 'the variation of the north

magnetic pole and the points of compass are not yet fully understood in

their relation to human welfare.'"

"I should hope not! He must be writing under the influence of a full

moon. Let us try a fresh correspondent."

"Very well. Here is Aunt Melville's latest, with a new set of plans.

There will be neither trancendentalism nor vain repetitions here:

"'MY DEAR NIECE: Since writing you last I have had a most

interesting experience, and hasten to give you the benefit of

it. You remember Mr. Melville's niece married a young attorney

in Tumbledonville; very talented and of good family, but poor,

_desperately_ poor. He hadn't over two or three thousand

dollars in the world, but he has built a marvelous little

house, of which I send you the plans. You enter a lovely hall,

positively larger than, mine, an actual room in fact, with a

staircase running up at one side and a charming fireplace at

the right, built, if you will believe it, of common red bricks

that cost only five dollars a thousand. It couldn't have taken

over two hundred and fifty to build it.--'

[Illustration: THE ATTORNEY'S FLOOR PLAN.]

"Just think of that! A charming fireplace for a dollar and a

quarter!--"

"Communicating with the hall by a wide door beautifully draped

with some astonishingly cheap material is the parlor, fully

equal in every respect to my library, and adjoining that the

dining-room, nearly as large. On the same side is a green-house

between two bay windows, the whole arrangement having a

wonderful air of gentility and culture. I am convinced that you

ought to invest three-fourths of your father's wedding present

in some safe business, and with the remainder build a house

like this, buying a small lot for it, and defer the larger

house for a few years. Keeping house alone with Jack and

perhaps one maid-of-all-work will be perfectly respectable and

dignified; the experience will do you good, and I have no doubt

you will enjoy it. It will not only be a great economy in a

pecuniary way, but society is very exacting, and a large house

entails heavy social burdens which you will escape while living

in a cottage. This will give you plenty of time to improve your

taste in art, which is indispensable at present. There will be

great economy, too, in the matter of furniture. A large house

_must_ be furnished according to prevailing fashions, but in a

small one you may indulge any unconventional, artistic fancy

you please.'"

"If Aunt Melville's advice and plans could be applied where they are

needed they would be extremely valuable. Suppose we found a society and

present them to it for gratuitous distribution."

"We can't spare them yet; we shall not use them, but it is well to hear

all sides of a question."

CHAPTER VII.

TRUTH, POETRY AND ROOFS.

"How the wind does blow!" said Jill, as she laid aside Aunt Melville's

latest, and Jack laid another log into the open stove. "It is a genuine

'gale from the northeast.'"

"So it is, and that reminds me," Jack exclaimed, jumping up, "that a

driving rain from the northeast always gets the better of the attic

window over the guest-room. There's something mysterious about that

window," he explained. "It opens like a door; I believe they call it a

'casement' window, and in such a storm as this I have to keep sopping

up the water that blows in. I had a carpenter look at it, but he said

it couldn't be fixed without making a new one or fastening it up so it

couldn't be opened at all. We don't have a northeast rain-storm very

often, and that's the only window that ever leaks--except the skylight

and the round one in the west gable which is hung at the top to swing

inward and couldn't be expected to hold water."

Jill found some towels, and they hurried to the attic to "sop up" the

rain that was driving under the sash and had already made its mark on

the ceiling below. Then they examined the skylight and the round

window, and just as they were about to descend perceived a smell of

burning wood. Jack rushed down to the sitting-room, telling Jill to fly

for a pail of water, found the wall beside the stove-pipe very hot, ran

for an axe, and, smashing a hole through the lath and plastering,

discovered a bit of wood furring to which the laths had been nailed

resting directly against the sheet iron pipe. Catching the pail of

water which Jill was about to pour into the stove, he cooled the hot

pipe and extinguished the wood about to burst into flame, the smoke of

which, rising beside the chimney to the attic, had warned them of the

danger below. He then cut away around the pipe till the solid brick

chimney was exposed, gathered up the rubbish, piling the chips upon the

fire in the stove, and lay back in his chair, evidently enjoying the

situation.

"How can you be so reckless, Jack, as to keep a fire in such a

chimney?"

"The chimneys are all right, my dear. I took special pains with them

when the house was built. The only danger there ever was lay in that

little piece of inch board that happened to be too near the pipe."

"And how are we to know what other little pieces of board may be too

near? I think it's a very dangerous house to live in. If we hadn't gone

up to the attic when we did it would have been all in flames."

"And we shouldn't have gone to the attic at all if my windows had been

proof against the east wind."

"No, nor would you have known we were having a gale from the northeast

if I hadn't quoted the 'Wreck of the Hesperus.'"

[Illustration: NO CONCEALMENT OR DISGUISE.]

"Consequently we owe our preservation to the well-beloved poet."

"Moral: Study the poets."

"Moral number two: Build leaky casements."

"Number three: When the wood around a chimney takes fire it doesn't

prove a 'defective flue.'"

"Number four: A small fault hidden is more dangerous than a large one

in sight."

"Very true; and if modern builders had kept to the poet's standard,

and, like those in the elder days of art,

'wrought with greatest care,

Each minute and hidden part,'

we should not be trembling before a black and ragged chasm in the wall,

afraid to go to bed lest the fire should break out anew and burn us in

our sleep."

"There's not the least danger. We are as safe as a barrel of gunpowder

in a mill pond. There is nothing to set us on fire. That bit of dry

wood was the key to the whole situation. We have captured that and can

make our own terms. Still, if you feel nervous we will sit up and 'talk

house' till the fire goes out."

Jill acceded to this proposal and began to discourse, taking moral

number four for a text.

"I wish it were possible," said she, "to build a house with everything

in plain sight, the chimneys, the hot-air pipes from the furnace, if

there are any, the steam pipes, the ventilators, the gas pipes, the

water pipes, the speaking tubes, the cranks and wires for the

bells--whatever really belongs to the building. They might all be

decorated if that would make them more interesting, but even if they

were quite unadorned they ought not to be ugly. If we could see them we

shouldn't feel that we are surrounded by hidden mysteries liable at any

time to explode or break loose upon us unawares. Those things that get

out of order easily ought surely to be accessible. I don't believe

there would have been half the trouble with plumbing, either in the way

of danger to health or from dishonest and ignorant work, if it had not

been the custom to keep it as much as possible out of sight. There is a

great satisfaction, too, in knowing that everything is genuine."

"We might build a log house. The logs are solid, and the chimney, if

there happens to be one, won't pretend to be of the same material as

the walls of the building."

"I like better the notion of letting the material of which brick walls

and partitions are composed form the actual finish inside as well as

outside. The floors, too, should be bare, and the beams that support

them ought to be visible, and in case of a wooden house, the posts,

braces and other timbers should be left in sight when the building is

finished. It is a sad pity that modern modes of building, like modern

manners and fashions, conceal actual construction and character, making

a mask that may hide great excellence or absolute worthlessness."

"Won't all these pipes, wooden beams, bell ropes and things be

fearfully dusty and cumber the housekeeper with too much serving? I

supposed you would vote for smooth, flat, hard wood and painted walls,

they are so much easier to keep clean."

"Perhaps I shall; but we must remember the gnat and the camel and try

to be consistent. A single portière, especially if it be of the

rag-carpet style, has a greater dust-collecting capacity than a whole

houseful of wooden floors, ceilings and wainscots, even when they are

moulded and ornamentally wrought. Surely they will not be troublesome

if they are plain and simple, and only think how much more interesting

than flat square walls and ceilings, which we feel compelled to cover

with some sort of decoration to make them endurable. I suppose

architects have outgrown the sheet-iron and stucco style of building,

and do not generally approve of 'graining' honest pine in imitation of

coarse-grained chestnut. But these are not the only concealments and

disguises that ought to be reformed. If we cannot make our house a

model in any other respect, I hope it will be free from hypocrisy and

silly affectations."

"By all means; but you mustn't forget that reformers risk martyrdom.

However, you can't be too honest for me; I am ready to sign any pledge

you offer, even though it prohibit paint, putty and all other cloaks

for poverty, ignorance and dishonesty."

"There's a time and place for paint and putty, lath, plaster and paper,

but we ought not to be helplessly dependent upon them."

"Have you any idea how the house will look outside," asked Jack, giving

the fire a poke, "or is that to be left to take care of itself?"

"No, indeed! not left to take care of itself. In that part of the

undertaking we are bound to believe that the architect is wiser than

we, and must accept in all humility what he decrees. Still I think the

law of domestic architecture at least should be 'from within out.' For

the sake of the external appearance it ought not to be necessary to

make the rooms higher or lower than we want them for use, neither

larger nor more irregular in shape. It ought not to be necessary to

build crooked chimneys for the sake of a dignified standing on the

roof, or to make a pretense of a window where none is needed. The

windows are for you and me to look out from and to let in the sunlight,

not for the benefit of outside observers, and should be treated

accordingly. We will not have big posts--mullions, do you call

them?--in the middle of them, as there are in these. When I try to look

down the street to see if you are coming home I can scarcely see

obliquely to the corner of the lot, and we don't get half as much

sunshine as we should if the windows were all in one."

[Illustration: WITH A MULLION AND WITHOUT.]

"Why not, if there's the same amount of glass?"

"Because the sun can't shine around a corner; and Jack, why did you set

them so near the floor? There's no chance for a seat under them, and

they do not give as much light or ventilation as they would if they ran

nearly up to the ceiling."

"What is the use of making them long at the top? They are always half

covered up with lambrequins or some fanciful contrivance."

"Indeed, they will not be; our windows will be arranged to be wholly

uncovered whenever we need the light. Too many windows are not so

unmanageable as too many doors, and I should like one room with a whole

broadside of glass; but for most rooms the fewer windows the better,

provided they are broad and high. I despise a room in which you can't

sit down without being in front of a window or walk around without

running against a door, that has no large wall spaces for pictures and

no room for a piano, a book-case, a cabinet or a large lounge. A small

room, that has doors or windows on all sides does not seem like a room

intended for permanent occupation, but rather as a sort of outer court

or vestibule belonging to something farther on."

"I suppose the architect will claim the porches, balconies, and things

of that sort, as belonging to the exterior, and design them as he

pleases; but I think we have a right to insist that they shall add to

our comfort. They must be large enough to be used, they must be put

where we can use them conveniently, and they must not interfere with

the interior arrangements; beyond that we shall accept what the

architect sets before us."

"'Asking no questions for conscience sake.' How about the roof--is that

also a matter of evolution?"

"No; because the inside of the roof is of but little consequence. It

must keep out the rain and wind, snow and ice; it must be strong and

economically built and have a reasonable amount of light. The rest we

shall leave to the architect. As Uncle Harry observes, 'the material

part of the house rests upon the foundation stones; its spiritual

character is displayed chiefly in the roof, which may change to an

unlimited extent the expression of the building it covers.'"

[Illustration: JACK'S ARCHITECTURAL PHRENOLOGY.]

"That's so. Let me make the roofs for a people and I care not who

builds the houses. The roof on the house is like the hat on the man, as

I can show you," said Jack, taking a piece of charcoal from the stove

and drawing on the back of the fireboard some astonishing illustrations

of his theory.

"Here is the president of a big corporation who must be dignified

whether he has a soul or not. He represents the 'renaissance.' No

nonsense about him, no sentiment, no sympathy, no anything but--himself

and his own magnificence."

"This fellow is a brakeman--prompt, efficient, laconic. Same head, you

see, but different hat. He stands for the hipped roof which has one

duty to do and does it."

[Illustration: THE HAT MAKES THE MAN.]

"Give the dignified president a smashing blow on the head and you see

what he may become after an unsuccessful defalcation--an unfortunate

tramp, who has 'seen better days.' He is a capital illustration of the

roofs called 'French,' that were so imposing a few years ago, and are

about as agreeable in the way of landscape decoration as the tramp

himself, but not half so picturesque.

"Pull the string again and we have a benevolent 'broad-brim,' stiff,

symmetrical and proper to the last degree, like an Italian villa; and,

once more changing the straight lines to crooked ones, the conventional

formalist becomes the unconventional, free-and-easy South-westerner,

who may stand for Swiss or any other go-as-you-please style."

"It is midnight and the fire is out; let's adjourn."

[Illustration.]

CHAPTER IX.

PROFESSIONAL ETIQUETTE--BLINDS AND BESSIE.

The next demonstration from the architect was a pencil drawing of the

floor plans, submitted for inspection and criticism. Concerning these

he wrote to Jill's entire satisfaction. "From many of my clients I

should expect the first question would be, 'Will a house built in this

shape look well outside?' It is not necessary to remind you that at

this stage of the proceedings such an inquiry is wholly irrelevant. The

interior arrangements should be made without a thought of the exterior

effect, precisely as if the house were to wear the ring of Gyges and be

forever invisible to outsiders. There are several points, however, on

which I await further instructions----"

"What's the use of having an architect," Jack inquired, "if you've got

to keep instructing him all the time?"

----"provided you wish to give instructions," Jill continued reading.

"There is often a misunderstanding between architect and client, and I

wish to avoid it in the present case by saying at the outset that while

there are many things which, in my opinion, should be referred to you,

I am ready to decide them for you if you wish me to do so; but even in

such cases I prefer to set before you the arguments pro and con, after

which, if you still desire it, I shall accept the arbitration. This is

not a rule that works both ways or applies universally, for while

referring to you matters relating to use and expenditure, and at the

same time standing ready to decide them for you, I cannot promise to

accept your advice in matters of construction and design. I trust I

have not yet reached the fossiliferous state of mind that prevents my

listening with sincere respect to candid suggestions, even from those

who are not fairly competent to give advice; but on these points you

must not expect me to follow your taste and judgment in opposition to

my own, even if you do pay the bills. When your physician prescribes

arsenic and you inform him that you shall give it to your poodle and

take strychnine instead, he will doubtless infer that his services are

no longer desired; he will know that while he might be able to kill

you, he could not hope to cure you. Patients have rights that

physicians are bound to respect, but the right to commit suicide and

ruin the physician's reputation is not among them. The relations of

client and architect are similar.

"This is one of the questions which I refer to you, but will answer for

you if you send it back: How shall the eyes of the house be closed?

Shall the eyelids be outside blinds, inside folding shutters, 'Queen

Anne' rolling blinds, sliding blinds or Venetian shades? There are good

reasons for and against each kind; either, if adopted, compels some

compromise. Whichever road you take you will wish you had taken the

other.

[Illustration: THE CONTRIBUTION OF BESSIE'S FATHER.]

"For instance, in hot weather outside blinds that shield the glass

from the direct rays of the sun keep the rooms cooler than any form of

inside shutters; they allow a gradation of light and a free circulation

of air. You can even leave the window open during a summer shower

without danger of being drenched. Last but not least they are

inexpensive. The wrong side of the outside blinds appears when you wish

to make wide windows, or mullioned windows, or windows that cannot

command at each side an unobstructed wall space equal to at least half

their own width for the blinds to rest against when open. Under such

circumstances, which are by no means rare, outside blinds are

stubbornly unmanageable.

"Inside blinds that fold back and swing away from the windows must have

wide recessed jambs to hold them when they are not in use. If the

windows are broad these 'pockets' will require a thick wall and thus

increase the actual size of the house. A little space may be saved by

allowing them to stand out obliquely when open, or turn around upon the

inside face of the wall, but either mode increases the cost of

finishing the rooms. If these blinds are made of open slats, many

housekeepers despise them as being no better than small cabinets

maliciously contrived to accumulate dust; if of solid panels, they make

a room perfectly dark, or when opened ever so slightly admit unbroken

rays of sunlight. On the other hand, inside blinds are accessible; they

can be opened and closed without leaning half one's length out of the

window; they do not hide the glory of plate glass; they graciously

permit windows to stand where they please and to be as large as they

please; and they never quarrel with piazza roofs, awnings, hoods or

other outside accessories.

"Shutters that coil up into a box over the window or down into a box

below it have the modest excellence of being always out of the way when

they are not wanted, of staying where they are put when partially open,

of occupying but little space and never standing in the way of the

window curtains. They are, in fact, wooden shades similar to the

old-fashioned green slat curtains, that were rolled up by drawing a

cord, but are far more substantial. The single slats of which they are

composed do not revolve, and consequently it is not easy to 'peep

through the blind just to hear the band play.'

"Venetian shades, with their multiplicity of bright-colored straps,

cords, hooks and trimmings, are picturesque and graceful. They are

somewhat subject to dust and repairs, and when the window is open are

not proof against tornadoes and thunder showers.

"Inside blinds are sometimes contrived to slide sideways, like barn

doors, into cavities formed to receive them. If built with extreme care

and handled with the utmost tenderness they are a degree less obtrusive

than when wholly dependent on hinges. Likewise, outside blinds may be

contrived to swing horizontally as well as vertically, standing out

from the top of the window like a small shed roof. They are not quite

wide enough to serve as awnings, and are liable to catch more wind than

they can hold."

"It strikes me that the whole thing is a 'blind.' What is he driving

at?"

"The conclusion of the matter seems to be given in this sentence: 'You

will perceive, therefore, that a decision in regard to blinds should be

made even before the house is staked out, since the size of the

foundation itself may be affected by it, as well as the minor

details.'"

"I'm ready for the question; are you?"

"Yes. In the bay windows and for the long windows that give access to

the balconies and piazzas we will have blinds that roll up out of the

way. A few of the windows on the sunny side will have for summer use

outside blinds, a few more will have cloth awnings. The most of the

windows will have no blinds at all, only such shades and curtains as we

choose to furnish. I don't think the eyes of a house ought to be closed

much of the time. It is certainty absurd to hang blinds at all the

windows when we only need them at a few."

"Oh, but won't the neighbors rage and imagine vain things when they see

a house with here and there a blind and here and there an awning?"

"The wise ones will approve; the foolish ones will demonstrate their

folly by criticising what they don't understand."

"Very well, that point is settled. Unless the next is sharp and short

you must decide it without my help. It is high time I was at the

office."

"We will defer them all. It is time for me to be at my household

duties. You know Cousin Bessie comes this afternoon, and I've noticed

that extremely intellectual people are sometimes extremely fond of a

good dinner."

"If Bessie is coming I must anoint my beard with oil of sunflowers and

trot out my old gold slippers. Shall I send up some pale lilies for

dessert? And that reminds me--Jim came home last night and I asked the

old fellow to come up to dinner. How do you suppose Bess found it out?"

"Don't be spiteful, Jack. She didn't find it out at all. I invited her

a week ago. Now go to the office, please, while I put the house in

order."

During this important process Jill entertained herself by philosophical

reflection upon the style of living that requires a house to be

constantly "put in order." She recalled certain of Uncle Harry's

observations to the effect that in a truly civilized state housekeeping

would be so conducted and houses would be so contrived that instead of

causing care and labor proverbially endless, housekeepers would no more

be burdened by their domestic duties than are the fowls of the air.

Jill had too much of the rare good sense, incorrectly called "common,"

to attempt to reduce Uncle Harry's theories to practice all at once.

She knew that though we may not reach the summit of our ambition, it is

well to advance toward it even by a single step, or failing in that, to

help prepare a way for some one else. She understood the wisdom of

striving to increase the fraction of life by dividing the denominator,

and at the same time cherished the broader hope that her life and her

home might be filled with whatever is of most enduring worth.

Moralizing thus, but always with an architectural or house-building

background, she continued her work, noticing the sharp grooves and

projecting mouldings that caught the dust, the high, ugly thresholds,

the doors that swung the wrong way, compelling half a dozen extra steps

in passing through them; shelves that were too high or too narrow;

drawers that refused to "draw" or dropped helplessly on the floor as

soon as they were drawn out far enough to display the spoons and

spices they contained; window stools that came down behind tables and

shelves, forming a sort of receptacle for lost articles belonging to

the kitchen or pantry--all of which she resolved should not be

repeated. When Bessie arrived the house was in that most perfect order

which gives no sign of unusual preparation.

[Illustration: FIRST FLOOR OF THE CONTRIBUTION.]

"This is too perfectly lovely for anything," exclaimed Bessie. "I just

_dote_ on domestic duties. You can't help being overpoweringly happy,

Jill, with such a home and _such_ a husband. Then only to think of the

new house drives me completely frantic. What _will_ it be like? Are the

plans made? Oh! I do hope not, for I have a _million_ of things to tell

you about that are totally _unspeakable_."

"Then you are just in time. We had a long letter from the architect

this morning asking for instructions on various matters."

"How perfectly fascinating! Let's sit down this minute and begin upon

them."

But Jill preferred waiting till Jack came home, bringing with him his

younger brother, just home for summer vacation.

"It isn't necessary to announce dinner," said she. "The preliminary

odors have already advertised it through the entire house."

"I thought these observations were to be strictly confidential,"

observed Jack.

"That wasn't 'finding fault.' It was a mere casual remark. Some people

may think it pleasanter to be summoned by the odor of broiling fish

than by the noise of a dinner-bell."

"Indeed I do," said Bessie, taking Jack's proffered arm. "Odors are too

delicious for anything. They are so refined and spiritual I'm sure I

could live on them. I would far prefer the fragrance of a dish of

strawberries to the fruit itself."

"We shall get along capitally then. You can smell of the berries and

I'll eat them afterwards. You see now, Jill, the advantage of having a

house built like this. Cousin Bessie proposes that we live on the

fragrance of the food. It won't be necessary even to come to the

dining-room. We can all stay in the parlor or in our chambers and

absorb sustenance from the circumambient air, as the sprightly goldfish

gathers honey from the inside of a glass ball."

"Please don't make fun of me, Cousin Jack, for I do truly _revel_ in

fragrance, and I'm sure your house is _beautifully_ planned. Don't you

think so, Mr. James?"

"I realty don't know much about such things. I never did like to know

what I was going to have for dinner long beforehand--it makes me so

awfully hungry."

"Precisely so, Jim; it gives you am appetite. I had the house planned

in this way for that very purpose."

"Now that you have introduced the subject," said Jill, "I will tell you

how _I_ should have planned it. There should have been a 'cut-off'

somewhere--a little lobby between the kitchen and the rest of the

house, with a ventilating flue so large that neither smoke nor steam

nor perfumed air could pass it without being caught up and carried to

the sky. Of course these odors ought not to get away from the

ventilator above the range, but the best contrivances are not proof

against the carelessness of the cook when she is in a hurry--as she

always is just before dinner."

When they returned to the sitting-room Bessie brought down a set of

plans her father had sent for Jack and Jill to examine, thinking they

would suit their lot and taste. They did suit the lot fairly, but

Jill's mind was too fully made up to accept any change from her own

plan. The exterior she approved cordially, but to Bessie's despair

would not promise to imitate it, preferring to leave the outside to her

architect without reserve.

While they were spoiling their eyes in the twilight Jack pressed the

electric "button" that lighted the gas instantaneously all over the

house, causing Bessie to cry out in protest against such a sudden

transition. "It is so violent, so unlike the slow, sweet processes of

nature. I never shall learn to like gas, and the electric light is

absolutely _horrid_. Don't you love tapers, Mr. James?"

"Tapirs? I don't think I'm a judge; I never had one. I should rather

have a tame zebra."

"Oh, I mean tapers for light!"

"Excuse me--certainly: yes, that is, I think I do. We don't use them

very often. Do you mean tallow or wax?"

"Wax, of course! They have such elegant decorations on them. I had a

most exquisite sconce Christmas, with two of the loveliest tapers

completely covered with Moorish arabesques in crimson and old gold."

"What becomes of the decorations when the tapers burn up?"

"Well, we don't burn them much. Indeed, I don't think we ought to use

artificial light at all. The mysterious light of the moon and stars is

so much more enchanting. Don't you love to muse and dream in the fading

twilight?"

"No, not very well. The trouble is if I get to sleep before I go to bed

I don't sleep as well afterward."

"Oh, I don't mean actual dreams, but vague, dreamy musings, esthetic

aspirations and longings. Do you never long for abstract beauty?"

"Well, no, not long. If I can't get what I want pretty quick I

generally go for something else."

This irrelevant conversation was vastly entertaining to Jack, who,

knowing how unlike were the dispositions of his brother and his wife's

cousin, had contrived their meeting with special reference to his own

amusement. When the clock told the hour for retiring he brought Bessie

a tin candlestick, in which a tallow candle smoked and spluttered in a

feeble way, but filled the soul of the young lady with admiration, it

was so "full of feeling."

"Life is so much richer when our environment is illuminated and

glorified--"

"By tapers," said Jack as he bade her an affectionate good-night.

CHAPTER X.

MORE QUESTIONS OF FIRE AND WATER.

"We must devote this evening exclusively to the new house," said Jill,

as Jack started for his office. "The architect is waiting for

instructions, and every day we lose now will give us another day of

vexation and impatience when we are waiting for the house to be

finished."

"That's true, and it's a chronological fact that house-builders often

forget. Very well, I'll come home early. Will Bessie be here?"

"Certainly. She has come for a long visit."

"Then I shall bring up Jim again. One-half Bess says he can't

understand, and he doesn't approve of the other half; but we couldn't

keep him away if we tried. So we'll invite him to come. It's great fun

to hear Bessie's comments and witness Jim's helplessness."

"If you are going to devote yourself to Jim and Bessie," said Jill

severely, "I may as well answer these questions without consulting you

at all."

"Oh, pray don't do that. Give me a chance to express my opinions. Some

of them are strikingly bold and original. Besides, you will need me to

conduct the meeting."

It happened, accidentally of course, that Bessie's evening dress was of

a color that looked well by gaslight, and no objection was made to the

unnatural illumination.

Jill took up the architect's letter, where she had left it, at the

conclusion of the blind question. "Another point that was mentioned

when I was at your father's house must be decided soon: Shall there be

gutters to catch the water from the roof, with pipes of some sort to

convey it to the ground, or shall it be left to take care of itself? If

there are none, the ground around the house should pitch sharply away

from the walls and a slight depression should be formed, into which the

water would fall. This shallow ditch should be perhaps two feet wide,

as the drops will not always come down in straight lines. It may be

paved with small stones or bricks, between which the grass will grow,

or it maybe more carefully lined with asphalt paving. If it is desired

to conduct the water to a certain point, this drain can descend

slightly toward it, and, if the lawn will not be injured by an

occasional inundation, even the shallow ditch may be omitted, making

merely a one-sided slope, hardened to prevent the water from wearing a

ragged, unsightly channel around the house. The advantages of disposing

of the water in this way, dispensing with the gutters, are its economy

and its permanence. Whatever the material may be of which they are

made, gutters attached to the eaves or roof cause more or less trouble

and expense from the time they are put in place till the house is given

up to the owls and the bats. They are liable to be corroded by rust, to

be clogged with leaves and dust, to be choked with ice, or to become

loosened from their fastenings. If used at all, they should be frankly

acknowledged. This is not, however, a point on which I am in need of

instructions, but would remind you that one of the interesting

illustrations of the happy skill of the old masters in making a virtue

of necessity is found in the effective treatment of the waterspouts and

conductors. They made them bold, quaint and picturesque in appearance,

far removed from the tin contrivances that we hang in frail awkwardness

to our roofs."

[Illustration: A GARGOYLE]

"How perfectly delightful!" exclaimed Bessie. "Those horribly grotesque

old gargoyles are just glorious. Don't you delight in the antique, Mr.

James, when it isn't too horrible?"

"Yes, they are awfully jolly. We had a great time with them last

'Fourth.' I got myself up as a pirate king--black flag, skull and

cross-bones, you know. It was awfully jolly."

"I never saw any of that kind, but you _will_ have some gargoyles,

won't you, Jill?"

"Possibly, for the architect says' whether you have gutters entirely

around the house or not; it will doubtless be necessary to catch the

water that would fall upon the steps or balconies in short

eave-troughs, and as they are certain to be conspicuous they should be

respectfully treated. As they add to the comfort of the house they

should also add to its beauty.' Now what shall be said on this subject?

His opinion appears to be that if we do not need to save the water for

use, and if it will do no harm upon the ground around the house, it

will be best to omit them except where protection is needed for

something below. He sends some sketches and says 'they represent a few

of the methods by which the water may be caught and carried to the

ground. Number two and number three will prevent the sliding of the

snow from the roof, which is sometimes desirable, but not always.

Gutters made in this form should be so near the eaves that in case of

accidental injury the water could not find its way inside the main

walls. Number five has the advantage of leaving the house uninjured

whatever happens to the gutter itself. It may leak through its entire

length or run over on both sides without doing other harm than wasting

the water.' I don't see," said Jill, laying down the letter, "how we

can give instructions without dictating in matters of 'construction and

design,' concerning which the architect distinctly objects to advice."

[Illustration: A CHOICE OF GUTTERS.]

"Tell him we don't care what becomes of the water and the lawn will

take care of itself. Then 'instruct' him to exercise his own

discretion. That's what he is for. What next?"

"He would like to know our wishes in regard to fireplaces."

"I thought the heating question had been decided once according to

Uncle Harry's doctrines."

"Not fully. We shall have both steam and open fires; the architect

understands that, but he doesn't know how many fireplaces nor what

kind. We can tell him how many easily enough: one in each room of the

first story except the kitchen, but including the hall, and one in each

of the bed-rooms."

[Illustration: "A SIMPLE RECESS."]

"Including the guest chambers?"

"By all means. There is nothing that makes one feel so thoroughly

welcome, so delightfully at home as a room with an open fire. Mahogany

four-posters, velvet carpets and sumptuous fare are trivial compliments

in comparison. Concerning the style and cost he says: 'Of designs there

is an endless variety, and there is a wide range in cost, from the

simple recess in the side of a plain brick chimney'--"

"One of the kind that Aunt Melville builds for a dollar and a quarter."

"'--to the elaborate affairs that cost as much as a comfortable

cottage. It would be idle for me to attempt to give you a full

description of them all--my letter would appear like a manufacturer's

catalogue. Indeed, you can find whole books on the subject, large books

too, which it will be interesting and profitable for you to study; but

first it is necessary to lay out the chimneys to accommodate the sizes

and styles to be chosen. You will easily understand that a grate for

burning coal alone, especially hard coal, may be much smaller than a

fireplace to hold hickory logs that it takes two men to carry; but the

heat of anthracite coal would soon destroy the lining of a fireplace

adapted to an ordinary fire of wood. It cannot be necessary to remind

you that the best open fireplaces, whether for wood or coal, are those

which, instead of sending three-fourths of the heat up the chimney

flue, give it out from all sides, to be saved either directly or by

being conveyed to an adjoining or upper room. It is also possible to

make a fireplace that will accommodate either wood or coal, but like

all compromises this is attended with certain disadvantages. If large

enough for wood it is too large for hard coal. The smoke flue for a

coal fire may also be smaller, the hotter fire causing the stronger

draught. Coal ashes, too, ought to be dropped through the hearth into

ash pits below, even from the fires of the upper rooms. To "take up the

ashes" of a wood fire is not so troublesome. These are some of the

reasons why it is necessary to determine the kind and number of your

fireplaces before the plans of the chimneys are drawn.'"

[Illustration: IN THE MIDDLE RANK.]

"Why not make an appropriation of fifty dollars apiece for each grate,

mantel and hearth, and have him do the best he can with it?"

"We can fix that as an average price, but shall want some better than

others, and must mark in each room whether we wish to provide for wood,

for coal, or for both. That is, whether we want 'set' grates or open

fireplaces with andirons or something of that kind."

"Oh, do have andirons. _Please_ have andirons," said Bessie. "You know

you can go out into the country and buy them for old brass of the

farmers who haven't the remotest idea of their value. They keep them up

in those dear old musty garrets covered with dust and spider webs."

"Certainly, we will have a few andirons and several spinning-wheels and

moony clocks and solid old carved oak chests that for generations have

been full of moths and food for worms. I never happened to come across

one of those old bonanza garrets, but I suppose there are plenty of

them lying around and just running over with these antique treasures.

Jim, can't I hire you to go out among the unesthetic heathens and buy

up a few loads of heirlooms and other relics of former greatness? We

shall want some old associations in the new house, and if we haven't

any of our own we must buy some."

"I don't think I know much about such things. Why don't you go to a

furniture store and get what you want first-hand? Second-hand furniture

always looks shabby and out of date. However, if Miss Bessie could go

with me to pick out things, I wouldn't mind taking a drive into the

country to see what we could find."

[Illustration: THE WORTH OF A COSY COTTAGE.]

"Now, really, wouldn't you mind it? How enchanting! It will be

delightful to be associated with the new house. I know we shall find

some _lovely_ things."

"All right. You shall have Bob and the express wagon to-morrow. What

next, Jill?"

"'I should be glad to know your feeling in regard to height of rooms,

but shall not promise fully to agree with you. My purpose is to make

the principal rooms of the first story ten and a-half or eleven feet

high.'"

"Oh, how dreadful! I don't know how high eleven feet is, but I'm sure

they ought not to be more than seven feet."

"I thought you were going to say not less than fourteen," said Jim.

"Oh, no, indeed! Low rooms are so deliciously quaint and cosy."

"But I should be all the time expecting to hit my head."

"You wouldn't think of that for a moment if you could only feel the

influence of Kitty Kane's library. It is a copy of an old English

bar-room, or something of that sort, I don't exactly remember what, but

it is in the Queen Anne style, and it's too lovely for anything. Please

have low rooms, Jill."

Jill continued reading: "For rooms of ordinary sizes and devoted to

ordinary domestic purposes, that is high enough for use, for comfort

and for any reasonable amount of decoration, either upon the walls

themselves or in the shape of pictures or other ornaments. You will

certainly think it enough when you are climbing the stairs to the rooms

of the second story. It may be practicable to reduce the height of some

of the smaller apartments, but it is usually much more convenient to

keep the ceilings of the main rooms of uniform height, even if this

does upset the 'correct proportion' which critics attempt in vain to

establish. To make ceilings very low seems an affectation of humility

or of antiquity not justified by common sense. In the polar regions,

where the sun never reaches an altitude above twenty-three degrees, low

rooms and short windows would be entirely satisfactory. In the torrid

zone, where it is not safe to build more than one story for fear of

earthquakes and tornadoes, where chambers would be useless, and where

the grand question is not how to keep warm but how to keep cool, the

higher the better. For houses in the temperate zones the medium height

is the safest, the best--and the most _artistic_. If any one dares to

say it is not, ask him to tell you the reason why."

"How perfectly _exasperating_," said Bessie in a tragic aside to Jim.

"No one ought to try to give reasons in art, in religion or in

politics. Intuitions are so much more satisfactory. Don't you _always_

rely on your intuitions, Mr. James?"

"Perhaps I should if I had them, but somehow I--I never seem to have

any."

"The meeting appears to be divided," said Jack. "Bessie says seven, Jim

says fourteen. Suppose we split the difference and call it ten and a

half."

"That is, we advise the architect to do as he pleases, then he will be

sure to follow our advice."

CHAPTER XI.

WHAT SHALL WE STAND UPON?

"Splitting the difference" is a convenient compromise, but it is not

always creditable to both parties, and Jill thought it would not be

safe with such advisers to assume that Wisdom's house is always built

between two extremes. She felt, too, that the architect's discussion of

details must be tiresome to her guests, and therefore resolved to take

up but one more of his queries, spending the remainder of the evening

in looking over plans and letters, of which she had an ample store

still unexplored, or in listening to Bessie's ardent description of the

treasures she hoped to find in the lofty recesses of the old garrets.

"I fear the next topic will not be deeply interesting, but it is the

last one to-night, and Jack _must_ give me his undivided attention if

he wishes to know what we are to stand upon in the new house."

"Is it about floors?" Bessie asked. "Do please have waxed floors. I

dote on waxed floors, don't you, Mr. James?"

"Not especially; but I'm pretty apt to slip on them. _Is_ it about

floors, Jill?"

"Yes, but chiefly about the best way to build them--their

construction."

[Illustration: A PROMISE OF SOCIAL SUCCESS.]

"I thought the architect was to settle questions of construction to

suit himself."

"He is, and this topic he writes 'concerns construction, cost, use and

design, and is, therefore, one on which we may properly take counsel

together.'"

"How condescending!"

[Illustration: A REASONABLE HOPE.]

"I suppose you would object to iron girders with brick arches between

them on account of their cost, but I hope to see rolled iron beams for

brick dwelling-houses so cheaply made that they will be commonly used

instead of wood. Such iron ribs, with the brick arches or other masonry

between them, might well form the finish of the ceilings, and if we

were accustomed to see them, our frail lath and plaster would seem

stale, flat and combustible in comparison. The usual mode of making

floors of thin joists set edgewise, from one to two feet apart, with

one or two thicknesses of inch boards on the top to walk upon, and

lathing underneath to hold the plastering, is perhaps the most

economical use of materials. A more satisfactory construction would be

to use larger beams two or three times as far apart, laying thicker

planks upon them and dispensing with plastering altogether, or perhaps

applying it between the timbers directly to the under-side of the

planks, leaving the beams themselves in sight. If the floor is double

the planks or boards lying directly upon the joists may be of common,

coarse stock, hemlock or spruce, upon which must be laid another

thickness of finished boards. It is for you to say whether the finished

upper floor shall be of common, cheap stock, to be always covered by

carpets, or of some harder wood carefully polished and not concealed at

all, except by occasional rugs.'"

"Oh, I do _hope_ she will have rugs!" Bessie's remarks were semi-asides

addressed chiefly to Jim. "There's nothing so lovely as these oriental

rugs. Kitty Kane had an _exquisite_ one among her wedding presents, and

when her house was built the parlor was made to fit the rug. It makes

it rather long and narrow, but the rug is _too_ lovely."

"'It is also for you to say whether the finished floor, if you have no

carpets, shall consist simply of plain narrow boards or be more

expensively laid in parquetry designs. In the latter case I shall claim

the privilege of choosing the pattern.'"

"Why should he trouble himself about the pattern of the wood floors any

more than he would about the style of the carpets?"

"He would probably say, because the floors are a part of the house for

which he is making the plans and will last as long as the house itself,

while the carpets are subject to changing fashions and will soon return

to their original dust. But he may attempt to dictate in regard to

carpets if we give him a chance."

[Illustration: FLOORS AS THEY ARE.]

[Illustration: FLOORS AS THEY MIGHT BE.]

"Undoubtedly--to the extent of pitching them out of the window."

"In laying double floors one simple matter must not be neglected. The

under, or lining boards, which are usually wide and imperfectly

seasoned, should be laid _diagonally_ upon the joists; otherwise in

their shrinking and swelling they will move the narrow finished boards

resting upon them and cause ugly cracks to appear, even though the

upper floor is most carefully laid and thoroughly seasoned. The liberal

use of nails is another obvious but often neglected duty of

floor-makers, who seem, at times to act upon the supposition that as a

floor has nothing to do but lie still and be trodden upon, it only

needs to be laid in place and let alone. This may be true of stone

flagging; it is far from being true of inch boards, that have an

incurable tendency to warp, twist, spring and shake. Lining floors,

especially, whatever their thickness, should be nailed--spiked is a

more forcible term--to every possible bearing and with generous

frequency; to be specific, say every three inches. The finished hoards

must also be secured by nails driven squarely through them. If you

object to the appearance of nail heads the boards may be secured by

nails driven through the edges in such way that they will be out of

sight when the floor is finished; but this should never be done except

by skillful and conscientious workmen. There is no excuse for this

"blind" nailing in floors that are to be covered by carpets, and it is

seldom desirable under any circumstances. All thorough nailing adds

greatly to the strength, and will alone prevent the creaking of the

boards, so annoying in a sick room and so discouraging to burglars.'"

"Whatever else we do we must make it all right for the burglars. Tell

him we will have floors that can be used either way, with rugs or

without, with matting, with carpets, or with nothing at all but their

own unadorned loveliness. Those in the chambers, where there is not

much wear and tear, may be of common clear pine, and we can paint or

stain a border around the edges. The others ought to be of harder wood,

and, as they will last as long as we shall need floors, we can afford

to have them cost rather more than a good carpet, perhaps thirty or

forty cents a square foot."

"I don't see the necessity for that," said Jill, who had a frugal

mind--at times. "I know they will outlast a great many carpets, but it

is considerable work to keep a bare floor in order--or rather to put it

in order--which must be taken into account; and, as for saving the

expense of carpets, we shall be likely to spend twice as much for rugs

as the carpets would cost. However, extravagance in rugs is not the

fault of the hard-wood floors and ought not to be charged against them.

We might have a few parquetry floors, but for most of the rooms plain

narrow strips, with a pretty border, will be good enough. What do you

think about it, Jim?"

While Jim was preparing to say that he didn't think he knew much about

such things, there came a crash on the floor above, followed by loud

and incoherent observations by the chambermaid. The chandelier began to

shake, as that substantial domestic fairy flew through the passage that

led to the back stairs, at the head of which she was distinctly heard

to exhort the cook in good set terms to "hurry up with the mop, for the

water-jug was upset and the mistress would be raving if the water came

through the ceiling."

The quartette below listened with conflicting emotions. Jill was

indignant, Bessie horrified--apparently, Jim greatly amused, and Jack

sublimely indifferent. "If there's anything I _despise_," said Jill,

"it is a house that makes a human being seem like an elephant, and

where I can't say my prayers or move a chair in my own room without

rousing the entire household."

"There's one good thing about it," said Jim pleasantly. "You can't help

knowing what is going on in your own house."

"Spoken like a man and a brother, James. You always go to the root of a

matter. I like to keep posted. No skeletons and gunpowder plots for me.

I had this house made so on purpose." Whereat they all laughed and

again took up the floor question, while the sound of hurrying feet and

the rattling of domestic implements went on overhead, and the

chandelier trembled with the jarring floors.

"I suppose forty dollars' worth of timber originally added to these

floors would have made them so firm that we might drive a caravan

across them without shaking the building. We will, at least, have solid

floors in the new house; but the architect informs us that 'effectual

deafening of the floors and partitions necessarily adds considerably to

their cost, since the walls and ceilings must be virtually double or

filled with some light porous material. The construction I have

described for making the house fireproof, or nearly so, would also make

it comparatively sound-proof. It would prevent the passage of any

reasonable in-door noises, though it might not withstand the stamping

of heavy steel-shod feet. Indeed, the question of bare, hard-wood

floors is, in one of its aspects, rather a question of boots. It is

most unreasonable to say the floors are noisy and slippery when the

fault lies rather in the hard, stiff, awkward receptacles in which our

feet are imprisoned. If we are ever clad from head to foot in the robes

of a perfect civilization, we shall doubtless find smooth bare floors

for general use more satisfactory than any kind of rugs, mats or

carpets.'

"And now," said Jill, "we will leave the rest of this interminable

letter for a more convenient season and see what our indefatigable aunt

has sent as the latest and best thing in domestic architecture. If you

will take the plans and follow the description, I will read the letter

straight through, though it will doubtless contain more or less advice

not strictly pertinent to house-building. Here it is:

"MY DEAR JILL: On further reflection I have concluded that the

little cottage plans which I sent last will not answer. I doubt

whether you and Jack have sufficient independence and

originality to make a success of living; even temporarily, in a

small, unpretending cottage. It requires unusual strength of

character'--

"Listen, Jack.

--to establish and maintain a high social standing with no

adventitious aids. You cannot at present afford a large

establishment, but you must have one that is striking and

elegant. I was first attracted to this house by its external

appearance--not especially the form, but the material, as we

often see a lady of inferior _physique_ whose rich and tasteful

attire makes her the observed of all observers."

[Illustration: BRICKS AND BOULDERS ON GRANITE UNDERPINNING.]

"Aunt Melville is inclined to be dumpy, and is immensely proud of her

taste in dress.

"'The walls near the ground--the underpinning, I suppose--is of

solid granite blocks, irregular in size, rough and rugged in

appearance. Indeed, the impression is of exceeding solidity and

strength, perhaps because the walls slope backward as they

rise. The first story is also of stones, but such peculiar

stones as I never expected to see in a dwelling house,

precisely like those used in the country for fences.'"

"How exquisite!" exclaimed Bessie, clapping her hands in ecstacy.

"'Some of them seemed to be covered with the gray lichens that

are found growing on rocks,--'

"How delicious!"

"'--but I very much fear these will be destroyed by the action

of the lime in the mortar. The stones vary in color, and at a

little distance the effect is like a rich mosaic. The corners

of the house and the sides of the windows are made of

peculiarly dark, rough-looking bricks that harmonize well with

the general tone of the stone walls. The second story is of

wood, covered with shingles that have not been painted, but

simply oiled, and they have turned a dark reddish-brown. I

found on inquiry that they are California red wood. The roof is

of red tiles, and the chromatic effect of the entire building

is very charming and aristocratic.'"

"That would suit _us_ perfectly," said Jack, "but I think our

aristocratic aunt is more tiresome than the architect. Jim is asleep

and Bessie is on the verge of slumber." But just at that moment Bessie

gave a piercing scream and bounded from the sofa in uncontrollable

affright, while an army of reckless June bugs came dashing in through

the open, unscreened windows.

CHAPTER XII.

FROM MATHEMATICS TO ANCIENT BRIC-A-BRAC.

Taking advantage of the incursion of the June bugs, Jim withdrew in

good order, and Bessie shortly after retired with her tin candlestick.

"Do you seriously intend to allow that pair of incompatibles to go off

to-morrow looking for old furniture and antiquated household

implements?" asked Jill.

"Most certainly I do. It will he the greatest fun in the world. I only

wish we could go as invisible spectators; but, on the whole, we shall

best enjoy imagining what they will say or do if left to their own

devices, knowing, as we should, that our presence would prevent some of

their wildest absurdities. I'm awfully sorry they are not going to

build and furnish a house somewhere in this vicinity, according to

their combined notions."

"And I am extremely sorry you cannot take your thoughts from Bessie

long enough at least to hear the conclusion of Aunt Melville's letter."

"My dear, like John Gilpin, 'of womankind I do admire but one.' I shall

listen with undivided attention to whatever you lay before my ears.

Pray go on."

"'I was fortunate enough to get a drawing of the interior of

the reception hall, which, while it is simple and inexpensive,

is also dignified and impressive. Houses often resemble

people, and you will easily recall among your friends certain

ones who, without being either wealthy or brilliant, are still

very impressive. The other rooms which we visited are ample for

your needs, as you will find it far more advantageous to

entertain but few people at a time, and those of the best

society, than to have larger and more indiscriminate

gatherings. The amount of room in the house is surprising; but

that, of course, is because it is so nearly square.'"

"That is feminine logic. A man would have said that the size of a house

determines the amount of room it contains."

"Undoubtedly he would; but it does not," said Jill, decidedly. "I can

show you houses that look large and _are_ large, that make great

pretensions in point of style, that cost a great deal of money, and yet

have no room in them. They have no place for the beds to stand, no room

for the doors to swing, no room for a piano, no room for a generous

sofa, no room for the book-cases, no room for easy stairs, no room for

fireplaces, no room for convenient attendance at the dining-table, no

room for wholesome cooking, no room for sick people, no room for fresh

air, no room for sunlight, no room for an unexpected guest. They have

plenty of rooms, apartments, cells--but no real, generous, comfortable

house room."

"I suppose Aunt Melville refers to the mathematical fact that a house

forty feet square contains more cubic feet than the same length of

walls would hold in a more elongated or irregular shape."

"By the same rule an octagon or circle would be better still, which is

absurd. No; her feminine logic is no worse than yours, and no better.

The amount of room a house contains depends neither upon its size

nor its shape. Her analogy, too, is at fault when she implies that the

outside of a house bears the same relation to the interior that

clothing bears to the person who wears it. The art of the tailor and

dressmaker has at present no other test of merit than fashion and

costliness, elements to which real art, architectural or otherwise, is

always and absolutely indifferent. The external aspect of the house

should be the natural spontaneous outgrowth of its legitimate use and

proper construction, as face, form and carriage express the character

of each individual."

[Illustration: NOT BRILLIANT BUT IMPRESSIVE.]

[Illustration: WOODEN RICHNESS.]

Jill spoke with unwonted seriousness and a wisdom beyond her years.

Even Jack was impressed for the moment, and expressed a wish to tear

down some of the ornamental appendages from his own house. "The

piazzas are well enough--that is, they would be if they were twice as

wide--but the observatory is good for nothing, because nobody can get

into it to observe, unless he crawls along the ridge-pole, and I never

did know what all that mess of wooden stuff under the eaves and about

the windows was for. I suppose it was intended to give the house a

richer look."

[Illustration: NO WASTE OF WOOD.]

"Yes, it enriches it just as countless rows of puffs, ruffles and

flounces, made of coarse cotton cloth with a sewing machine and piled

on without regard to grace or comfort, would 'enrich' a lady's dress."

"I thought you objected to the dress anology?"

"I do, positively, but it appears to have been the theory accepted by

modern architects almost universally. I don't see. Jack, that your

house is any worse than others in this respect, and I have no doubt it

will 'sell' all the better for the superfluous lumber attached to the

outside walls."

"Thank you, my dear! That is the first good word you have spoken for

it. Well, there is one comfort; I am convinced that you didn't commit

the reprehensible folly of marrying me for my house."

"No, indeed, Jack. It was pure devotion; a desperate case of elective

affinity."

"And yet we are happily married! _We_ shall never do for the hero and

heroine of a modern romance. There isn't a magazine editor or a book

publisher that would look at us for a moment."

"Let us be thankful--and finish our letter.

"'I am anxious, as you know, my dear niece, that you should,

begin life in a manner creditable to the family, and I trust

you will allow no romantic or utilitarian notions to prevent

your conforming to the requirements of good society. This

house, in all such respects, will be perfectly satisfactory. I

have bought the plans for you from the owner, and I hope you

will accept them with my best wishes.'

"And that is all, this time. Aunt Melville's notion of a house seems to

be a place for entertaining the 'best society.' Her zeal is certainly

getting the better of her conscience and judgment. She cannot honestly

buy the plans from the owner of the house, because he never owned them;

they belong to the architect, and she ought to know better than to

advise the use of material that would have to be brought at great

expense from a long distance. If cobble-stones and boulders were

indigenous in this region, and old stone fences could be had for the

asking, I should like to use them, but they are not. It is also evident

that she did not penetrate far into the interior of the house or she

would have discovered an unpardonable defect--the absence of 'back'

stairs. I do not think it very serious in such a plan, where the one

flight is near the centre of the house and is not very conspicuous,

but Aunt Melville would lie awake nights if she knew there were no back

stairs for the servants."

[Illustration: FIRST FLOOR OF THE PROMISE.]

The next morning Jim appeared with the express wagon, and Bessie

climbed upon the high seat beside him under the big brown umbrella, her

Gainsborough hat encircled with a garland of white daisies, huge

bunches of the same blossoms being attached somewhat indiscriminately

to her dress by way of imparting a rural air, and together they drove

off in search of old and forgotten household gods. Jill had suggested

sending them out to investigate, reporting what they found, and

purchasing afterward if thought best, but Jack urged that it would be

wiser to secure their treasures at once, lest the thrifty farmers,

finding their old heir-looms in demand, should mark up the prices while

they were deliberating--a view with which Bessie fully concurred.

[Illustration: SECOND FLOOR OF THE PROMISE.]

Beguiling the way with the duet that is always so delightful to the

performers, whatever the audience may think of it, they followed the

pleasant country roads for many miles without finding a castle that

seemed to promise desirable plunder. A worn-out horseshoe lying in the

road was their first prize. It presaged good luck, and was to be gilded

and hung above the library door. At length they came to a typical old

farm-house, gray and weather-beaten, but still dignified and well cared

for. The big barns stood modestly back from the highway, and the yard

about the front door, enclosed by a once white picket fence, was filled

with the fragrance of cinnamon roses and syringas. As they drove up at

the side of the house across the open lawn, the close cropping of which

showed that the cows were wont to take their final bite upon it as they

came to the yard at night, they encountered an elderly man carrying a

large jug in one hand and apparently just starting for the fields with

some refreshing drink for the workmen.

"Good morning, sir," said Jim, touching his hat. Bessie smiled and

asked, "Are you the farmer?"

"Wal, yes ma'am; I suppose I am. Leastways I own the farm and get my

living off from it as well as I can--same as my fathers did afore me."

"How lovely! Have you got any old--I mean, can you give us a drink of

water? We--we happen to be passing and we're very thirsty."

"Just as well as not. The well is right behind the house. You can jump

down and help yourselves."

"You don't mean jump down the well," said Jim, laughing.

"Not exactly. Will your horse stand?"

"Oh, yes."

When Bessie saw the old well-sweep, which for some unaccountable reason

had not been swept away by a modern pump, she exclaimed in a stage

whisper: "Wouldn't it be glorious if we could carry it home?"

Jim found the cool water most refreshing and thought he would rather

carry home the well.

"What an enormous wood pile," Bessie continued aloud, in a desperate

endeavor to lead up to andirons by an unsuspicious route. "Do you burn

wood?"

"Not so much as we used to. The women folks think they must have it to

cook with, but we use coal a good deal in the winter."

"Don't you have fireplaces?" was the next innocent question.

"Plenty of 'em in the house, but they're mostly bricked up. It takes

too big a wood pile to keep 'em going."

"So you use stoves instead; I suppose it is less trouble. Oh, and that

reminds me, have you any old andirons, anywhere around?"

"Shouldn't be surprised if there was. Yes, there's one now, hangin' on

the gate right behind you."

Bessie, as she afterwards declared, was almost ready to faint at this

announcement, but on turning to look she saw indeed, hanging by a chain

to keep the gate closed, a dumpy, rusty, cast-iron andiron.

"Should you be willing to sell it for old brass? Isn't there a mate to

it somewhere? They generally go in pairs, don't they?"

"No, I shouldn't want to sell it for old brass, because you see it's

iron. Most likely there was a pair of 'em once, but there's no tellin'

where t'other one is now. Maybe in the suller and maybe in the garret."

"Please could we go up in the garret and look for it? We will be very

careful."

The worthy man, considerably puzzled to know what sort of angels he was

entertaining unawares, obtained permission from the "women folks," sent

a boy off with the jug of drink and showed his callers to the topmost

floor of the house.

"Oh, oh! If there isn't a real spinning-wheel. This passes my wildest

anticipations," murmured Bessie to Jim; then, restraining her

enthusiasm for fear of spoiling a bargain, she inquired aloud: "Do any

of your family spin?"

"No, no; not now-a-days. My old mother vised to get the wheel out now

and then, when I was a youngster, but it's broke now and part of it is

lost."

"Would you sell it?"

"If it isn't all here--" Jim began, but Bessie checked him and eagerly

accepted the old wheel, which had lost its head and two or three

spokes, for the moderate sum of one dollar.

Rummaging among old barrels, Jim found the missing half of the pair of

andirons. One broken leg seemed to add to its value in Bessie's eyes

and she quickly closed a bargain for them at fifteen cents, which their

owner, after "hefting" them, "guessed" would be about their value for

old iron. One old chair, minus a back and extremely shaky as to its

legs, and another that had lost a rocker and never had any arms, were

secured for a nominal price, and Bessie's attention was then attracted

to a tall wooden vessel hooped like a barrel, but more slender, "big at

the bottom and small at the top," which proved to be an old churn. Jim

objected to this until his companion explained how it could be

transformed by a judicious application of old gold and crimson into a

most artistic umbrella stand, while the "dasher" would make a striking

ornament for the hall chimney-piece. As they were about to depart with

their treasures, the honest farmer invited them to look at a ponderous

machine five or six feet high and nearly as broad--a horrid monster,

misshapen and huge, that stood in the back chamber over the wood-shed.

It was a cheese-press. "How magnificent!" whispered Bessie, and then,

turning to their host, inquired--"Do you use it every day?"

"Oh, law, no! Hain't used it this twenty years. Make all the cheese at

the factory. It's kind of a queer old thing and I thought maybe you

would like to see it. 'Tain't likely you will ever see another just

like it."

"_Would_ you be willing to sell it?"

"Of course, I'd be willing enough, only it don't seem just right to

sell a thing that ain't good for anything but firewood. However, if you

really want it you may have it for a dollar and a-half, and I'll have

the hired men load it up for you."

"Now, really, Miss Bessie," said Jim, when the farmer had gone to call

the men, "don't you think it's rather a clumsy affair? We can hardly

get it into the express wagon, and I don't see where they can put it if

we carry it home."

"Clumsy! no, indeed, it's _massive_, it's _grand_! There will be plenty

of room in the new house. They will have one entire room for

bric-a-brac."

"But what can they _do_ with it? They won't make cheese."

"Can't you see what a _delicious_ cabinet it will make? These posts and

things can all be carved and decorated, and it will be perfectly

_unique_. There isn't such a cabinet in the whole city of New York. Oh,

I think our trip has been an _immense_ success already. I shall always

believe in horseshoes after this; but _isn't_ it a pity we can't carry

home the well-sweep?"

The huge machine had to be taken from the shed chamber in sections, but

was properly put together again in the wagon by the hired men, and made

the turnout look like a small traveling juggernaut. Just before

starting: Bessie espied, leaning against the fence, a hen-coop from

which the feathered family had departed, and explaining to Jim that if

the sides were painted red and the bars gilded it would be a charming

ornament for the front porch, persuaded him to add that to their

already imposing load. Then they departed, leaving the farmer and his

men in doubt whether to advertise a pair of escaped lunatics or accept

their visitors as "highly cultured" members of modern society.

When they reached home Jack had just come in from the office. He looked

out of the window as they drove up, felt his strength suddenly give

way, and rolled on the floor in convulsions.

"Less than five dollars for the whole lot, did you say, Jim? I wouldn't

have missed _seeing_ that load for fifty."

The next day was Sunday. Monday afternoon Bessie went home.

CHAPTER XIII.

ECONOMY, CLEANLINESS AND HEALTH.

"Dirt is matter out of place," quoted Uncle Harry, in one of his

erratic epistles which Jack and Jill always read with interest if not

profit. "When you find anything that seems unclean or offensive in any

part of your house, remember this: the fault is not in the thing

itself, but in your ignorant or thoughtless management. There isn't a

material thing in the universe, whatever its name or characteristic

qualities maybe; not a flaunting weed nor an unseen miasmatic vapor,

which is not created for some good and wise purpose. It is for us to

learn those purposes. The grand secret of safe and comfortable living

lies in keeping yourself and everything about you in the right place. I

hear much of the dangers and annoyances that arise from modern

plumbing. I am not surprised by them; on the contrary, I wonder they

are not more numerous and fatal, since nothing is more inconsistent

with the first principles of comfort and health than our relations to

these 'modern conveniences.' Instead of disposing of what are

incorrectly called waste materials according to nature's modes, we

persist in defying her examples and her laws, even after we fully

understand them, and, in the vain hope of adding to our own case,

bring upon ourselves untold calamities. 'Earth to earth' is a mandate

that cannot be disregarded with impunity. The infinite laboratories of

nature welcome to their crucibles all the strange and awful elements

which we fail to comprehend and against which we wage a futile warfare.

If all these miscalled 'wastes' that we find so hurtful and offensive

when out of place in and around our homes could be consigned to the

bosom of mother earth the moment they seem to us worthless, they would

be at once changed to life-giving forces, out of which forms of

freshness and beauty would arise to fill us with delight. They are

willing to serve us whenever we give them an opportunity. The one

direct and infallible mode of doing that is to put them in the ground

before they have a chance to work us injury. If we bury them, or,

rather, plant them, they will bring forth, some thirty, some sixty,

some an hundredfold.

[Illustration: NO PLACE FOR SECRET FOES.]

"It is my impression that sewers were originally invented by the Evil

one. He couldn't drag men down to his dominions fast enough, so he

moved a portion of his estate to this planet, and lest its true

character should be discovered, buried it under paved streets and

flowery parks. We might easily and quietly put these crude materials

into convenient receptacles, to be carried where they will bless the

world by making two ears of corn grow where one grew before. This we

could do, each one for ourselves, or more advantageously by cooperating

with one another. We are too wasteful, too indolent, too ignorant.

Tempted by the invisible sewers we imprison these misplaced and

inharmonious elements for a time in lead or iron pipes, while they grow

more hostile, occasionally escaping by violence or stealth into our

chambers, and then with many nice contrivances and much perishable

machinery we try to wash them away with a bucket of water. Not to carry

them where they will do any good, not to put them out of existence, but

simply to hide them: to send them out of our immediate sight, and very

likely into some greater mischief. The system is radically wrong, and

while many of its existing evils may be averted, they cannot all be

removed till we make our attacks from a different base. Improving

sewers, like strengthening prison walls, is a good thing if the

institutions remain; to prevent the need of maintaining them would be

better still. Three-fourths of the solid wastes that proceed from

human dwellings--scraps of food, waste paper, worthless vegetables,

worn-out utensils, bones, weeds, old boots and shoes, whatever

unmanageable and unnamable rubbish appears--ought to be at once

consumed by fire, for which purpose a small cremating furnace should be

found in every house. A similar trial by fire would reduce a large part

of the liquids and semi-liquids to solid form to be also consumed, and

the rest, absorbed by dry earth or ashes, could easily be transported

to the barren fields that await the intelligence and power of man to

transform them into blooming gardens.

"Of the usual modes of bringing water to our houses to wash away these

things I know but little, because there is but little to be known.

Complications and mysteries are not to my taste. I find no satisfaction

in overthrowing a man of straw, and am comparatively indifferent to the

rival claims of patentees and manufacturers, except as they promise

good material, faithful workmanship and moderate prices.

"The one thing needful, if we adopt the hydraulic method of carrying

away these waste substances, is a smooth cast-iron pipe running from

the ground outside the house in through the lower part and up and out

through the roof. It should be open at both ends, and so free from

obstruction that a cat, a chimney-swallow or a summer breeze could pass

through it without difficulty. I would, however, put screens over the

open ends to keep out the cats and the swallows. The purifying breezes

should blow through in summer and winter without let or hindrance, and

to promote their circulation I would, if possible, place the pipe

beside a warm chimney. Yet if the air it contains should sometimes move

downward it will do no special harm; anything is better than

stagnation. Into this open pipe, which should be not only water-tight

but air-tight through its entire length, all waste-pipes from the house

should empty as turbid mountain torrents pour into the larger stream

that flows through the valley. (Fig. 1.) Now, unless the upward draught

through this large pipe is constant and strong, you will see at once

that the air contained in it (which we must treat as though it were

always poisonous) would be liable to come up through these branches

into the rooms, where they stand with open mouths ready to swallow

whatever is poured into them. It is necessary, therefore, to build

dams across them that will allow water to go down but prevent air from

going up. These dams are called 'traps.' They are intended to catch

only hurtful elements that might seek to intrude. It often happens that

those who set them get caught, for they are not infallible. Whatever

the form or patent assumed by these water-dams, they amount to a bend

in the pipe rilled with water. (Fig. 2.) Sometimes a ball or other form

of valve is used, but the water is the mainstay.

[Illustration: Fig. 1.]

[Illustration: Fig. 2.]

"Theoretically, this is the whole machinery of safe, 'sanitary'

plumbing: A large open pipe kept as clean and free as possible, into

which the smaller drains empty, these smaller drains or waste-pipes

having their mouths always full, and being able, so to speak, to

swallow in but one direction. Everything can go down; nothing can come

up. That all these pipes shall be of sound material, not liable to

corrosion; that the different pieces of which they are composed shall

be tightly joined; that they shall be so firmly supported that they

will not bend or break by their own weight, or through the changes of

temperature to which they are subject, and that they shall be, if not

always in plain sight, at most only hidden by some covering easily

removed, are points which the commonest kind of common sense would not

fail to observe.

"Practically, there are weak spots in the system, even if plumbers were

always as honest as George Washington---before he became a man, and as

wise as Solomon--before he became discouraged. A water barricade,

unless it is as wide as the English Channel, is not a safeguard against

dangerous invasion. A slight pressure of air, as every boy blowing soap

bubbles can show you, will force a way through a basin full, and the

same thing would happen if there should chance to be a backward current

of air through these pipes, with this difference, that while the soap

bubbles are harmless beauties, these may be filled with the germs of

direful diseases. Still another danger to which this light water-seal

is exposed is that a downward rush of water may cause a vacuum in the

small pipes, somewhat as the exhaust steam operates the air-brakes, and

empty the trap, leaving merely an open crooked pipe. Both these weak

points may be strengthened by a breathing hole in the highest part of

the small pipe below the trap. This must, of course, have a ventilating

pipe of its own, which, to be always effectual, should be as large as

the waste-pipe itself. (Fig. 3.)

[Illustration: Fig 3.]

[Illustration: Fig 4]

"Now, if the water that fills these traps and stops the open mouths of

the drains were always clean, there would be no further trouble from

this source. Unfortunately it is not; and although constant

watchfulness might keep it so, the safety that only comes from eternal

vigilance is an uncomfortable sort of safety--if we have too much of

it life becomes a burden. This particular ill might be remedied by some

contrivance whereby the upper ends of the waste-pipes should be

effectually corked--not simply covered, but _corked_ as tightly as a

bottle of beer--at all times except when in actual use. This would

doubtless be more troublesome, but indolence is at the bottom of most

of our woes: our labor-saving contrivances bring upon us our worst

calamities. Even this thorough closing of the outlet of washbasins and

bath-tubs, as they are usually made, would be of little avail, for they

are furnished with an 'overflow' (Fig. 4), through which exhalations

from the trap would rise, however tightly the outlet might be sealed.

It is also customary and doubtless wise, considering our habit of doing

things so imperfectly the first time that we have no confidence in

their stability, to place large basins of sheet-lead under all plumbing

articles, lest from some cause they should 'spring a leak' and damage

the floors or ceilings below them. One strong safeguard being better

than two weak ones, I would dispense with the 'overflow' and arrange so

that when anything ran over accidentally the lead basin or 'safe'

should catch the water and carry it through an ample waste-pipe of its

own to some inoffensive outlet. This would perhaps involve setting the

plumbing articles in the most simple and open fashion--which ought

always to be done. 'Cabinets,' cupboards, casings and wood finish, no

matter how full of conveniences, or how elegantly made, are worse than

useless in connection with plumbing fixtures, which, for all reasons,

should stand forth in absolute nakedness. They must be so strongly and

simply made that no concealment will be necessary.

"One more danger closes the list, so far as the system is concerned.

Even if the water in the traps is clean and inoffensive it will

evaporate quickly in warm weather, and then the prison door is open

again. This adds another vigil which we can never lay aside if we must

have plumbing and water traps. The burden may be somewhat

lightened--since we are prone to forgetfulness as stones to fall

downward--by using traps made of glass and leaving them in plain sight.

[Illustration: Fig. 5.]

"I conclusion, I wish to remind you that the lower end of the main

drain must be protected from the iniquity of the sewer or cesspool to

which it runs by another trap, or dam, just below the open pipe that

admits fresh air from outside the house (Fig. 5), and also, as I have

before remarked, that the system is wrong. The rising tide of

civilization will some time wash it all away."

"Uncle Harry's notion of reform," said Jack, after the long letter had

been read, "seems to be to blow the universe to pieces and then put it

together again on a new and improved plan. It strikes me we had better

fight it out on this line and try to straighten the evils we know

something about rather than invent new ones. If we had begun on that

track and tried to utilize the waste materials on strictly economical

principles, perhaps by this time our methods and machinery would have

been so far perfected that the real or imaginary evils of modern

plumbing would not have existed. It seems a pity to throw away all we

have accomplished and begin again."

"That is a part of the price paid for progress," said Jill. "Stage

coaches are useless when steam appears, and locomotives must go to the

junk shop when electricity is ready to be harnessed. But I'm afraid we

cannot afford to be pioneers, and I'm sure the neighbors are not ready

to co-operate. We must still 'go by water,' and the important question

is where to send the lower end of the main drain. There is no sewer in

the street, and a cesspool is an atrocity worthy of the darkest ages.

The only safe thing appears to be the sub-surface irrigation plan, for

which, fortunately, there is plenty of room on our lot. This comes very

near to Uncle Harry's notion of 'earth to earth' in the quickest time

possible. If we do it and accept the architect's suggestion in the plan

of the house we shall be reasonably safe from that most mysterious of

all modern foes--sewer-gas."

"I've forgotten the architect's suggestions; in fact, I don't believe

my head is quite equal to housebuilding with all the latest notions.

When _my_ house was built I just told the carpenter to get up something

stylish and good, about like Judge Gainsboro's. He showed me the plans,

I signed the contract, and that was the whole of it. I supposed a house

was a house. Now, before the new house is begun, I'm like Dick

Whittington in the days of his poverty--I've no peace by day or night."

"Poor fellow!"

"I shudder to think what it will he when the house is fairly under way.

I can see five hundred different things at once, but when each one has

five hundred sides and we get up into the hundred thousands, I begin to

feel dizzy. Uncle Harry has settled the plumbing question to his own

satisfaction, so far as first principles are concerned; but who will

tell us what kind of pipes and trimmings and bowls and basins and traps

and plugs and stops and pedals and pulls and cranks and pistons and

plungers and hooks and staples and couplings and brakes and chains and

pans and basins and tanks and floats and buoys and strainers and safes

and bibbs and tuckers we are to adopt? If I should consume midnight oil

during a full four years' course at a college for plumbers I should

still find myself just upon the threshold of the temple of knowledge."

CHAPTER XIV.

SAFE FLUES AND MORE LIGHT.