he larger opening is scarcely more expensive than the
small one. The work of construction is no greater, and the material
for the door or window costs but little more than the thicker wall of
wood, brick, or stone.

[Illustration: "THE OLD HOUSE AT HOME."]

I remember an old farm-house on the side of one of our rocky New
England hills, a type of a fashion almost extinct, broad and
brooding, low in the walls, small windows and far between, high roof,
wide gables, pierced by windows of various sizes, and queerly located,
as if the huge garret were inhabited by a mixed company of dwarfs and
giants, each with his own particular window suited to his height; in
the centre a massive chimney like the base of a tower, out of which
the smoke rolled in lazy curves. At the east side of the house, under
the narrow eaves, and opening, I think, into the long kitchen, was
one huge window, as high as the others, and as wide as it was high.
How it found a place there I never knew, but nothing could be more
benign in effect than its generous breadth. The panes were small and
green and warped, after the manner of glass known to former times; but
through it the sun poured a flood of warm light every morning, and on
winter evenings the glow of the firelight within made a grand
illumination far across the snowy hillsides; yet I don't think the old
window was ever truly appreciated. The others seemed to despise it,
and try to keep at a distance in their narrowness and regularity. The
little square loopholes in the gables lifted their diminutive eyebrows
in contempt; even the green door looked blank and scowling, as though
at a possible rival. I fancy the housekeeper fretted at the larger
curtain covering this wide, unwinking eye, and the extra labor
required on cleaning-days. But this one great square window was the
sole redeeming feature beneath the roof of the ancient farm-house.
Beneath the roof, I say. The roof itself was, and is, and ever shall
be the great charm of those antiquated houses,--not of the old alone,
but if any new house shall ever rise, if you succeed in building your
own so that it shall seem to be the abiding-place of the incarnate
genius of domestic happiness, the roof of your earthly paradise will
be bold and high. Pierced by windows it may be, and broken by gables,
but steep enough to shed rain and snow, and high enough to be plainly
visible to the coming guest, promising safety and welcome beneath its
tranquil shade.