ont doors, I found that the
brook had risen and was slipping across the grass of the lower yard. It
had a tempting look, and the rain held all but ceased. I picked my way
down to it, and, hanging my garments on a limb, enjoyed the richest
luxury in the world--that of bathing in the open air, sheltered only by
the sky and the greenery, in one's own brook and one's own door-yard.
Interlacing boughs, birds singing, the cool, slipping water--no
millionaire could have more. I was heir to the best the ages had to
give.

V

_Elizabeth's ideas were not poetic_

We were busy with our new plans. We decided to shingle the roof, which
showed an inclination to leak; also the sides, which in numerous places
besides the windows admitted samples of the outdoors. Such things did
not matter so much in summer-time, but New England in winter is
different. Then the roof and door-yard are piled with snow, the
northwest wind seeks out the tiniest crevice in one's armor. How did
those long-ago people manage? Their walls were not sheeted, and they
did not know the use of building-paper. Our old wide siding had been
laid directly on the bare timbers, the studding; every crevice under the
windows, every crack in the plaster, was a short circuit with zero. We
decided to take off the antique siding, cut out the bad places, and
relay it flat, as sheeting. Over it we would lay building-paper, and on
top of this, good substantial shingles, laid wide to the weather in the
old-fashioned way.

It hurt us to think of covering up that fine original siding--priceless
stuff, a foot wide and of the softest, straightest-grained white pine,
cut from large trees such as no longer grow--but we did not know what
else to do with it. It was a wonderful antique, but we could not afford
to keep a pile of lumber just for exhibition purposes. I said it ought
to be in a museum, and I had some thought of offering it to the
Metropolitan, at a modest valuation, next time I went to town. Elizabeth
discouraged this idea. She suggested that I have it made up into Brook
Ridge souvenirs--little trays and paper-cutters--a wagon-load or two,
then start out and peddle them. The scheme dazzled me for a moment, but
I resisted it. So in the end it became just sheeting. I did pick out one
fine example--a piece with some of the original red paint still on
it--and said I meant to have it framed, but in the course of the work,
at a moment when my back was turned, the carpenter got