COMMUTER'S THANKSGIVING 237 



of apples coming up from the cellar, and the 

 fragrance of herbs and broom-corn haunting store- 

 room and attic. 



The day is past when every man's home can 

 be his farm, dream as every man may of some- 

 time having such a home; but the day has just 

 arrived when every man's home can be his gar- 

 den and chicken-pen and dooryard, with room 

 and quiet and a tree. 



The day has come, for the means are at hand, 

 when life, despite its present centralization, can 

 be more as it used to be — spread out, roomier, 

 simpler, healthier, more nearly normal, because 

 again lived near to the soil. It is time that every 

 American home was built in the open country, 

 for there is plenty of land — land in my imme- 

 diate neighborhood for a hundred homes where 

 children can romp, and your neighbor's hens, too, 

 and the inter-neighborhood peace brood undis- 

 turbed. And such a neighborhood need not be 

 either the howling wilderness, where the fox still 

 yaps, or the semi-submerged suburban village, 

 where every house has its Window-in-Thrunis. 

 The Commuter cannot live in the wild country, 

 else he must cease to commute; and as for small- 



