Every child begins the world again, to some extent, and loves to
stay outdoors, even in wet and cold. It plays house, as well as
horse, having an instinct for it. Who does not remember the
interest with which, when young, he looked at shelving rocks, or any
approach to a cave? It was the natural yearning of that portion,
any portion of our most primitive ancestor which still survived in
us. From the cave we have advanced to roofs of palm leaves, of bark
and boughs, of linen woven and stretched, of grass and straw, of
boards and shingles, of stones and tiles. At last, we know not what
it is to live in the open air, and our lives are domestic in more
senses than we think. From the hearth the field is a great
distance. It would be well, perhaps, if we were to spend more of
our days and nights without any obstruction between us and the
celestial bodies, if the poet did not speak so much from under a
roof, or the saint dwell there so long. Birds do not sing in caves,
nor do doves cherish their innocence in dovecots.
However, if one designs to construct a dwelling-house, it
behooves him to exercise a little Yankee shrewdness, lest after all
he find himself in a workhouse, a labyrinth without a clue, a
museum, an almshouse, a prison, or a splendid mausoleum instead.
Consider first how slight a shelter is absolutely necessary. I have
seen Penobscot Indians, in this town, living in tents of thin cotton
cloth, while the snow was nearly a foot deep around them, and I
thought that they would be glad to have it deeper to keep out the
wind. Formerly, when how to get my living honestly, with freedom
left for my proper pursuits, was a question which vexed me even more
than it does now, for unfortunately I am become somewhat callous, I
used to see a large box by the railroad, six feet long by three
wide, in which the laborers locked up their tools at night; and it
suggested to me that every man who was hard pushed might get such a