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Next door, perhaps, stands a log house, flush with the sidewalk, its moss calking plainly visible between the huge ribs, its steeply sloping roof rising, almost within reach, above a single story; and its serpent-mouthed eave-spouts ingeniously arranged to pour a stream of water over the vulgar pedestrian.
I wish we had something like the tile roofs I've seen in foreign pictures. They'd go first-rate with my stone walls. The eave-spouts bother me. I don't need to save the water from the roof, and have concluded to let it pour where it pleases.
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