THE AMERICAN COUNTRY HOUSE 
By E. P. Powell 
CpHE American country house is hardly 
yet to be found. Its first principle is 
that it shall fit the place where it stands. I 
have just driven by a new country house, 
that, although not large, represents a Greek 
temple; a mediaeval castle, with a tower; 
a Swiss chalet; and something more; and, 
of course, it has no possible adaptation to its 
surroundings. It is foreign and composite; 
a study in architecture, historical; and 
neither pretty nor convenient. Precisely why 
the owner built it is not easy to determine. 
He probably saw a picture something like 
this structure, and employed an architect to 
make it cheap enough for him to build. Un¬ 
fortunately I am not naming an exception. 
Not far away, indeed the very next new house 
that I saw was unpretentious enough, but 
was positively square, and sitting about three 
rods from the road, with flower beds around 
it, and three or four of what we call “orna¬ 
mental” trees—two of them were white cut¬ 
leaved weeping birches. You might have 
labeled this building “Warranted to catch 
the dust!” or “A good observatory for watch¬ 
ing the highway!” There was a bit of lawn 
in front, two rods square or more, on which 
lay a lawn-mower—evidently in daily use. 
In sight, to right and left, and behind the 
house, were brush heaps, weeds galore, and 
in the distance potato fields and a half- 
trimmed orchard. Bluntly, this is not living 
in the country. It is a destroyed country or 
desert life. The house itself, and the lawn, 
and the trees, and the flower beds, neither 
alone or combined, expressed an idea. Noth¬ 
ing said home, or joy, or peace. 
Not far away, and up a glen road, I came 
upon another new house; very simple in its 
surroundings and structure, with many native 
trees standing around it; and a grove of 
lindens to the right, under which I saw a 
dozen or more hives of bees. Broad, roomy 
verandas surrounded three sides of the house; 
a spirit of welcome and ease filled the whole 
place. The house itself sat easily among 
the trees, and on a knoll, with slopes to the 
south and east. On the side facing the sun¬ 
rise there was a big sun-bath window, and 
on the opposite side there was a balcony, 
from which the owner could look over the 
hill slopes, and, swinging in his hammock, 
could watch the sunset. I could not drive 
by this house without a conviction that here 
was something approaching the coming Amer¬ 
ican country house. It sat so far back from 
the street that a cloud of dust could not reach 
it. Its surroundings were evenly and equally 
beautiful, without any features of conven¬ 
tional art; and there were no little bits of 
lawns to be fussed over. The drainage was 
easy, down an even slope, into the orchard; 
where I judge it was used in a compost pile. 
I noted a windmill which seemed to be draw¬ 
ing water from a well, from which it was 
carried directly into the house. The drives 
were sufficiently broad and natural—turning 
around groups of trees and shrubs, and then 
from the house reaching the barn. To the 
west there was a superb natural windbreak 
of elms and maples. As near as I could 
determine the smaller trees were native wild 
cherries. Viewing the place as a whole, 
you felt the lack of conventionalism, the quiet 
simplicity, and the ease with which it could 
be worked. 
Half a mile farther, and in full sight of a 
big, square, union schoolhouse, built directly 
on the roadside and in the dust, was another 
new country house—in proximity to the 
village, and pretentious in proportion. This 
time I had found “Old Colonial”—in shape, 
in porches, and in color. There were some 
Doric pillars—too big for the house (a good 
fault); and the whole affair set out in the sun, 
as if to dry. The yellow was disagreeably 
conspicuous; while it would have been cool 
and refreshing if seen in a grove of maples— 
or partly concealed and partly revealed by 
orchard trees. The big square house in the 
country is suggestive of a large pocketbook, 
of huge crops in storage; and is not disagree¬ 
able if well surrounded by trees; and if not 
surmounted by an observatory, which is never 
used, and the accumulated cobwebs in which 
can be seen from the street. A miserable 
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