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Page 19
"The other danger is peculiar to cold climates, where the roof must
protect not only from driving rain but from snow and ice in all their
moods and tenses. When the higher peaks feel the warmth of the sun or
the internal heat of the building, the lower slopes and valleys being
without such influence, it sometimes happens that the rills will be set
to running by the warmth of the upper portions, while the colder
climate below will stop them in their course, building around the
slate, shingles or tiles an impervious ice dam, from which the
descending streams can find no outlet except by 'setting back' under
the slates and running down inside. Eave spouts and conductors are
especially liable to this climatic influence, for nothing is more
common than to find them freezing in the shade while the roofs above
are basking in the sun. As Jack observes, admitting water above an ice
dam is a different kind of sin in a roof from that which caused the
ruin of my plans last night, but it is no less unpardonable. The same
treatment that will make a roof non-conducting of fire will, to some
extent, overcome this danger, or a double boarding may be laid upon the
rafters, with an air space between. This or the mineral wool packing
will prevent the premature melting of snow from the internal heat. The
only sure salvation for gutters is to take them down and lay them away
in a cool, dry place. Thorough work, ample outlets and abundant room
for an overflow on the outward side will make them reasonably safe. In
general it is better to let the water fall to the ground, as directly
as possible, and let the snow slide where it will, provided there is
nothing below to be injured by an avalanche. A hundred-weight of warm
snow or a five-pound icicle falling ten feet upon a slated roof or a
conservatory skylight is sure to make a lasting impression."
"Isn't this discourse a little out of season?" said Jack. "We don't buy
furs in July nor refrigerators in January. If you expect advice to be
followed, you mustn't offer it too long beforehand. Now, as your plans
haven't yet recovered from their bath, let us see if Jill's air-castles
can be brought down to the region of human possibilities."
"I am not quite ready for that," said Jill. "First, let me show you the
plans my old friend has sent me, and read you her description of them.
Here are the plans and here is the letter:
"'Of all the plans Will has ever made'--her 'Will' is an architect, you
know--'these seem to me most likely to suit you and Jack, although they
are by no means, adapted to conventional, commonplace housekeepers. In
the centre of the first floor the large hall, opening freely to the
outside world, is a sort of common ground, hospitable and cheerful,
where the stranger guest and the old friend meet; where the children
play, where the entire household are free to come and go without
formality. The furniture it contains is for use and comfort. It is
never out of order, because it is subject to no formal rules. At the
left of the hall is the real family home, more secluded and more
significant of your own taste and feeling. Instead of many separate
apartments for general family use, here are drawing-room, sitting-room,
library and parlor, all in one. This is the domestic sanctuary, the
essential family home into which outsiders come only by special
invitation. From the central hall runs the staircase that leads to the
still more personal and private apartments above, one of which belongs
to each member of the family. At the right of the hall is the
dining-room, near enough to make its contribution to physical comfort
and enjoyment at the proper time, but easily excluded when its inferior
service is not required.'
"I don't understand that," said Jill.
"I do," said Jack. "It means that the meat that perisheth ought not to
be set above the feast of reason and flow of soul; that the dining-room
ought to be convenient but subordinate, not the most conspicuously
elegant part of the establishment, unless we keep a boarding-house and
reckon eating the chief end of man. Where do you say the library is?"
"Included in the drawing-room. Probably the corner marked 'Boudoir'
contains a writing desk with more or less books and other literary
appliances. It has a fireplace of its own and porti�res would give it
complete seclusion."
[Illustration: FIRST FLOOR OF WILL'S MASTERPIECE.]
"Where is the smoking-room?"
"I don't know. She didn't send the plans for the stable."
"How savage! Please go on with the letter."
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