@ Cure for Winter 
problem of making in the cityahome. A habitation 
where you can have no garden, no barn, no attic, no 
cellar, no chickens, no bees, no boys (we were al- 
lowed one boy by the janitor of our city flat), no 
fields, no sunset skies, no snow-bound days, can 
hardly bea home. To live in the fifth flat, at No. 6 
West Seventh Street, is not to have a home. Pic- 
tures on the walls, a fire in the grate, and a prayer 
in blending zephyrs over the door for God to bless 
the place can scarcely make of No. 6 more than a 
sum in arithmetic. There is no home environment 
about this fifth flat at No. 6, just as there is none 
about cell No. 6, in the fifth tier of the west corridor 
of the Tombs. 
The idea, the concept, home, is a house set back 
from the road behind a hedge of trees, a house with a 
yard, with flowers, chickens, and a garden, —a country 
home. The songs of home are all of country homes :— 
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood 
When fond recollection presents them to view: 
The gutter, the lamp-post, the curb that ran by it, 
And e’en the brass spigot that did for a well. — 
Impossible! You cannot sing of No. 6, West Seventh, 
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