124 TRANSACTIONS OF THE AMERICAN INSTITUTE. 



nowhere that it stands out in plainer view than among those who go out 

 from the city to make homes in the country. How many such, having built 

 houses too big to live in, have, as was observed to me the other day, placed 

 themselves in the position of the occupant of a very fine mansion that we 

 were passing. 



"That man has built himself out of house and home. He came here from 

 the city two years ago, bought that house half built, which one of his fel- 

 lows had spent all his money upon, and now this one has spent $10,000 

 more, and has not a foot of land to stand upon, nor a yard of roof to sit 

 under, and his family are houseless. He is the second fool. We shall see 

 if the wise man comes after." 



With such examples continually before them, is it any wonder that the 

 old residents look upon every new comer from the city, making his home 

 in the country, as "a fool and his money soon parted," and that he is fair 

 game for each one to pluck ? 



It is no easy matter for a city emigrant to the country to spend his 

 money judiciously in making a home. The most of them make their houses 

 too large to live in, and too frequently build themselves out of house and 

 home. Too many duplicate their city house in the country, where it is as 

 uncouth and as much out of place as a true country cottage would be in 

 the center of a Fifth avenue block of brown stone fronts. There is no 

 worse style for the country than a tall brick house with a basement, which, 

 owing to the lack of that perfect drainage we have in the city, is almost 

 always damp. 



There is no better style than the frame cottage, "white, with green shut- 

 ters," half hidden among the trees. If part is two story, it should have 

 spreading wings of but one story, with such breaks in the roof that it will 

 not appear flat, nor the whole square and uncouth. 



But I must illustrate my subject by a little personality, for that incited 

 me to write. I have lately visited the country, and write of what I have 

 seen. I write of a familiar name— that of Solon Robinson, long and well 

 known as agricultural editor of the Tribune. Three years ago last March, 

 I think, he said to me: " I am going to move into the country. I am tired 

 of this eternal dust and din, brick wall and stone, and am going where I 

 can look upon grass, and trees, and birds, and flowers, and eat unwilted 

 fruits and vegetables — come and see where I am going. It is only sixteen 

 miles from the city hall, yet as wild as though it were a hundred." 



So we went out one sunny spring day, up the Harlem railroad, which is 



lined with spoiled farms — spoiled by making them into skeleton villages 



and stopped at one called "West Mount Vernon ; " turned off across the 

 Bronx, up a crooked, hilly way, a mile along the road to Yonkers, and 

 three miles from the Hudson at that place. Here we found the spot that 

 he had selected for " a home in the country." Wild enough to be sure. 

 Woods here; woods there; woods everywhere. Two or three old farm 

 houses in sight, half hidden behind trees; old, neglected apple orchards, 

 and old fields enclosed in old stone walls, hedge lined, and the land wear- 

 ing the disconsolate look that speaks its dumb sign language, saying, "I 

 am worn out and tired of man's mismanagement, and am going back to 

 forest life to rest." 



