THE COUNTRY HOME [CHAPTER 
brooks that run where the plow cannot run, and 
teach us to understand thickets that only need 
brains to transform them into nooks and corners. 
One of my friends has built a storm arbor of 
fossiliferous rock. It stands in a corner of his or- 
chard, overlooking a magnificent bit of scenery, 
while it constitutes a cosy retreat from house work 
and field work. Not far away is a sun-dial, carved 
on around boulder. And so you will find that his 
whole orchard is a quaint and nooky place where 
one may not only pick apples, but may saunter and 
rest. “Why not?” he says. “Money is not the 
only thing a man wants. It’s about the meanest 
stuff we get. It smells of old pockets; I don’t like 
to handle it, and it sort of makes me feel cheap to 
measure myself by a roll of bills. But, you see, 
here you can feel that you are as large as nature.” 
Then he has done another thing which people 
ought to do more often; he has collected all the 
water of his meadows and pastures, and run the 
pipes and drains to a hollow, where they make him 
a pond full of white and yellow lilies; and farther 
down the swale the water again throws a fountain 
jet, a spray that flies away with the wind and 
waters a lot of wild asters, cypripediums, and golden 
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