Adams place, and is going to move off the old gambrel-roofed house (has a dozen or two men at work already) and build a brick one in place of it.  I’ve given him the benefit of your advice in my behalf, and now he invites me, in Western fashion, to stand aside and give him a chance,—­which I’m very willing to do, for he’s a tiptop fellow and so is Mrs. Fred. Eastern people Westernized,—­if you can find a better sort of neighbors I’d like an introduction!

Yours,

John.

LETTER XXI.

From the Architect.

Hospitality and sunlight.

Dear John:  Our old friend shall not be neglected.  He has only to present his case and make known his wishes.  Meantime, in arranging your own plans, be generous if you can; not lavish or extravagant in expenditure, but generous in feeling and expression.  Let your doors and windows be wide, and your roof be high.  A wide door is far more convenient than a narrow one, usually much better in appearance; and for the windows,—­when shall we learn the unspeakable worth of the bountiful light of heaven?  Does Mrs. John complain that the sunlight will fade her carpets?  Let them fade, and know of a truth that all the colors of all the carpets of all the looms that ever throbbed are not worth to the civilized mortals who tread the dust-containing fabrics one single hour of unobstructed sunshine.  Is it that our deeds are evil, that we seem to love darkness rather than light; or is it through our ignorant exclusion of this glorious gift, “offspring of heaven first born,” that we are left to wander in so many darksome ways?  Be generous, did I say? rather try to be just to yourself.  Practically, the larger opening is scarcely more expensive than the small one.  The work of construction is no greater, and the material for the door or window costs but little more than the thicker wall of wood, brick, or stone.

[Illustration:  “The old house at home.”]

I remember an old farm-house on the side of one of our rocky New England hills, a type of a fashion almost extinct, broad and brooding, low in the walls, small windows and far between, high roof, wide gables, pierced by windows of various sizes, and queerly located, as if the huge garret were inhabited by a mixed company of dwarfs and giants, each with his own particular window suited to his height; in the centre a massive chimney like the base of a tower, out of which the smoke rolled in lazy curves.  At the east side of the house, under the narrow eaves, and opening, I think, into the long kitchen, was one huge window, as high as the others, and as wide as it was high.  How it found a place there I never knew, but nothing could be more benign in effect than its generous breadth.  The panes were small and green and warped, after the manner of glass known to former times; but through