all the world is looking on, we may be reasonably sure of having
beautiful houses. Tried by his own test, he has no reason to be
ashamed of his taste or his manners when Slabsides is critically
examined. Blending with its surroundings, it is coarse, strong,
and substantial without; within it is snug and comfortable; its
wide door bespeaks hospitality; its low, broad roof, protection
and shelter; its capacious hearth, cheer; all its appointments
for the bodily needs express simplicity and frugality; and its
books and magazines, and the conversation of the host--are they
not there for the needs that bread alone will not supply?

"Mr. Burroughs, why don't you PAINT things?" asked a little boy of
four, who had been spending a happy day at Slabsides, but who, at
nightfall, while nestling in the author's arms, seemed suddenly to
realize that this rustic house was very different from anything he
had seen before. "I don't like things painted, my little man; that
is just why I came up here--to get away from paint and polish--just
as you liked to wear your overalls to-day and play on the grass,
instead of keeping on that pretty dress your mother wanted you to
keep clean." "Oh!" said the child in such a knowing tone that one
felt he understood. But that is another story.

The time of which I am speaking--that gray September day--what a
memorable day it was! How cheery the large, low room looked when
the host replenished the smouldering fire! "I sometimes come up
here even in winter, build a fire, and stay for an hour or more,
with long, sad, sweet thoughts and musings," he said. He is justly
proud of the huge stone fireplace and chimney which he himself
helped to construct; he also helped to hew the trees and build the
house. "What joy went into the building of this retreat! I never