230 THE FACE OF THE FIELDS 



gen and oxygen, into a well of water, springing 

 up everlastingly to the health, the contentment, 

 and to the self-sufficiency of the Commuter. 



At the end of the Commuter's evening journey, 

 where he lays his bundles down, is home, which 

 means a house, not a latch-key and " rooms " ; a 

 house, I say, not a "floor," but a house that has 

 foundations and a roof, that has an outside as well 

 as inside, that has shape, character, personality, 

 for the reason that the Commuter and not a Com- 

 munity, lives there. Flats, tenements, " chambers," 

 " apartments " — what are they but public build- 

 ings, just as inns and hospitals and baths are, 

 where you pay for your room and ice-water, or for 

 your cot in the ward, as the case may be ? And 

 what are they but unmistakable signs of a rever- 

 sion to earlier tribal conditions, when not only the 

 cave was shared in common, but the wives and chil- 

 dren and the day's kill ? The differences between 

 an ancient cliff-house and a modern flat are mere 

 details of construction ; life in the two would have 

 to be essentially the same, with odds, particularly 

 as to rooms and prospect, in favor of the cliff- 

 dweller. 



The least of the troubles of flatting is the flat; 



