HOUSE AND GARDEN 
144 
September, 
1914 
proved a task to test the patience and the temper, for through 
the great walls they had to be cut, inch by inch. It was like 
chiseling through the stone walls of a fortress, for in the days 
when these bricks were laid, methods of thoroughness prevailed 
and mortar was mixed that held like virgin stone. But this was 
no deterrent. Fourteen windows, long and wide and airy, pierce 
the walls, and three big doors. 
A monstrous chimney to hold a cavernous fireplace was the 
third necessity, and this naturally was located squarely on the 
center of the lofty living-room, where its huge bulk should fol¬ 
low the uprising lines of the gable. It is none too large, with all 
its size, for the spaciousness of which it is the heart, although a 
man might readily lounge in an easy chair within its opening. 
After these first three essen¬ 
tials came the floor plan, devel¬ 
oped according to family needs. 
Half the building's total space 
was set apart for bedrooms and 
service, but the loft above this 
space will allow as much more 
to be finished at any time, ac¬ 
cording to fancy or necessity. 
The living room will always 
retain its height, reaching to 
the rafters’ picturesque warm 
shadows; so any future changes 
will not in the least alter the 
appearance within. 
The old hemlock planks and 
the 3 by 4 stringpiece timbers 
No place could have been more desolate than this be¬ 
fore improvements were made 
on the floor of the 
old ice cellar were 
in perfect condition, 
and provided mate¬ 
rial with which to 
make partitions. 
From a house¬ 
wrecking company 
in the metropolis 
came the doors, the 
windows and frames 
Just a shell, dark, cold and 
uninviting. Windows 
changed it 
all complete, to¬ 
gether with the bath¬ 
room fixtures and 
the ice-box. These 
were bought first; 
then window spaces 
to fit were cut, and 
an ice-box space of 
the right size pro- 
v i d e d and the 
plumbing arranged 
to suit. Shutters 
were omitted be¬ 
cause of a strong 
predilection for 
much sunlight and 
light. “If the sun 
shines too strongly,” 
says the doctor, 
whimsically, “it is 
Much grading was necessary —- 
ice-houses are well banked 
After the grading, vines were 
run up the walls. Voila! 
The heavy walls had to be pierced with long win¬ 
dows and doors 
easy to go to the other side of the 
room.” 
Much of the furniture is rare and 
beautiful old mahogany picked up here 
and there from the not far distant 
town’s natives, who know the doctor’s 
love of old “trash,” and consequently 
favor him with odds and ends. Usually 
its disguise of paint and dirt is so com¬ 
plete that even his connoisseur’s eye is 
not always able to detect the truth—but 
good-naturedly he buys, knowing that 
somehow he can use it, and that the values are at least not inflated, 
however lowly the materials. Willow and rush-bottom “Old 
Hickory” chairs fill out where old mahogany falls short. 
Out of doors the first work was grading. Clear to the eaves 
went the earth banks on every side save towards the pond. These 
had to come away before windows could be cut or anything else 
really was done. For air and sunlight must get to these long- 
buried walls to make the interior safely habitable. It was not a 
difficult task to dispose of the earth, however; the old building 
crowns a slight rise, and the fall at the rear was sufficient to re¬ 
ceive the superfluous earth and still leave a pleasing slope away 
from the little porch which was added to accommodate the ice¬ 
box and a wood storage space. 
Then came the pergola and its pavement, and all the treatment 
on that side of the dwelling which was to be its feature—its union 
with the pond and the development generally of its living and 
its picturesque possibilities. Truly Italian is the pergola, its con¬ 
struction of saplings from the woods being of the most naive 
character, and its pavement of buff tiles, spotted here and there 
with a bright bit of color in high glaze, completing the illusion 
of a glimpse from this warm land. A bench of terra cotta be¬ 
side the door adds simple hospitality to the atmosphere. 
Overhead a wistaria 
clambers—and grapes 
where this is not, and an 
akebia; and on the house 
wall, clinging close and 
thriving in the half shade, 
the ampelopsis, that we 
have grown to call never 
anything but “Boston 
ivy,” traces its dainty 
way. By the pavement’s 
edge grow iris and va- 
