They are no more beautiful than the hectic flush of fever,
or the silvery skin of leprosy. Besides, carpets enslave. A thing
that enslaves is a monster, and monsters are not beautiful.
The fireplaces in my house will be many and large. Small fires and
cold weather mean hermetically-sealed rooms and a jealous cherishing
of heated and filth-laden air. With large fire-places and generous
heat, some windows may be open all the time, and without hardship all
the windows can be opened every little while and the rooms flushed
with clean pure air. I have nearly died in the stagnant, rotten air
of other people's houses--especially in the Eastern states. In Maine
I have slept in a room with storm-windows immovable, and with one
small pane five inches by six, that could be opened. Did I say
slept? I panted with my mouth in the opening and blasphemed till I
ruined all my chances of heaven.
For countless thousands of years my ancestors have lived and died and
drawn all their breaths in the open air.
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