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fifth flight up. And what of a home that cannot be 

 remembered as a song ! It is not a home, but only a 

 floor over your head, a floor under your feet, a hole 

 in the wall of the street, a burrow into which you 

 are dumped by a hoisting machine. It is warm in- 

 side ; Eve is with you, and the baby, and your books. 

 But you do not hear the patter of the rain upon the 

 roof, nor the murmur of the wind in the trees ; you 

 do not see the sun go down beyond the wooded hills, 

 nor ever feel the quiet of the stars. You have no 

 largeness round about you; you are the centre of 

 nothing ; you have no garden, no harvest, no chores, 

 — no home ! There is not room enough about a city 

 flat for a home, nor chores enough in city life for a 

 living. 



For a man's life consisteth not in an abundance of 

 things, but in the particular kind and number of his 

 chores. A chore is a fragment of real life that is 

 lived with the doing. All real living must be lived ; 

 it cannot be bought or hired. And herein is another 

 serious problem in city life, — it is the tragedy of city 

 life that it is so nearly all lived for us. We hire 

 Tom, Dick, and Harry to live it ; we buy it of the 

 butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker. It is not 



50 



