tremendous pace, "that this bell--there it is again, confound it;
yet no, not confound it--can resemble that other bell I used to know.
No, quite impossible. Is it likely that anything here," and the
thinker spreads both long arms out to take in the entire landscape,
"can resemble or remotely suggest the Old Country, or, as people
call it, home? Home? Why this is home. That four-roomed and
convenient, if not commodious, mansion I have just quitted is my home.
Talking of commodiousness, it's quite large enough, too. I have no
wife, no children, no partner, not even a sleeping one, no one ever
comes to see me. So I do not need a drawing-room, a nursery, a guest
chamber, or a smoking-room. I have no books, therefore I need no
library; I indulge in no chemical pursuits, therefore I need no
laboratory; my music-room is the forest in summer and the chimney in
winter, while my studio, according to the latest aesthetic fad--I
think that is the word--opens off the music-room.

"Now, if you take away art, science, literature, and society from
the daily life of a man, what do you leave? Simply the three radical
necessities of sleeping, eating, working. My work I do mostly in the
open air, so that, practically, I need but two rooms, one to cook in
and the other to sleep in. I have always felt convinced that to be
happy I only require two rooms, except on extra cold nights, when I
find that one suffices. That is when Tim and I lie near the kitchen
fire to keep warm. Home! Why of course it is home. Didn't I build
the house myself? What association is dearer than that? To come into
a pile of half-ruined towers, all gables and gargoyles, built
somewhere about the fourteenth century, and added to by every fool
who liked, without the slightest pretence to knowledge of
architecture and civilization may be very gratifying, but, strange
as it may seem, I prefer the work of my own hands. I am quite a