232 THE FACE OF THE FIELDS 



as inside the house, — needs a garden and some 

 domestic animal and the starry vault of the 

 sky. 



It is better to be cramped for room within the 

 house than without. Yet the yard need not be 

 large, certainly not a farm, nor a gentleman's es- 

 tate, nor fourteen acres of woodchucks, such as 

 my own. Neither can it be, for the Commuter, 

 something abandoned in the remote foothills, nor 

 something wanton, like a brazen piece of sea-sand 

 "at the beach." 



The yard may vary in size, but it must be of 

 soil, clothed upon with grass, with a bush or a 

 tree in it, a garden, and some animal, even if the 

 tree has to grow in the garden and the animal 

 has to be kept in the tree, as with one of my 

 neighbors, who is forced to keep his bees in his 

 single weeping willow, his yard not being large 

 enough for his house and his hive. A bee needs 

 considerable room. 



And the soul of the Commuter needs room, — 

 craves it, — but not mere acres, nor plentitude 

 of things. I have fourteen acres, and they are too 

 many. Eight of them are in woods and gypsy 

 moths. Besides, at this writing, I have one cow, 



