236 THE FACE OF THE FIELDS 



The Commuter knows the dark gray city, 

 knows it darker and grayer than the scholar, for 

 the Commuter works there, shut up in a basement, 

 or in an elevator, maybe, six days a week ; he 

 feels and hears the throbbing heart of man all the 

 day long; and when evening comes he hurries 

 away to the open country, where he can hear the 

 heart of Nature beat, where he can listen a little to 

 the beating of his own. 



Where, then, should a man live *? I will make 

 answer only for myself, and say, Here in Hing- 

 ham, right where I am, for here on Mullein Hill 

 the sky is round and large, the evening and the 

 Sunday silences are deep, the dooryards are wide, 

 the houses are single, and the neighborhood am- 

 bitions are good kitchen-gardens, good gossip, 

 fancy chickens, and clean paint. 



There are other legitimate ambitions, and the 

 Commuter is not without them; but these few go 

 far toward making home home, toward giving 

 point and purpose to life, and a pinch of pride. 



The ideal home depends very much, of course, 

 on the home you had as a child. I can think of 

 nothing so ideally homelike as a farm, an ideal 

 farm, ample, bountiful, peaceful, with the smell 



