A mile or so farther on there stood another group of farm
buildings--this one close to the road. An unpainted barn,
a long and low, rather ramshackle structure with sagging
slidedoors that could no longer be closed, stood in the
rear of the farm yard. The dwelling in front of it was
a tall, boxlike two-story house, well painted in a rather
loud green with white door and window frames. The door
in front, one window beside it, two windows above,
geometrically correct, and stiff and cold. The house was
the only green thing around, however. Not a tree, not a
shrub, not even a kitchen garden that I could see. I
looked the place over critically, while I drove by.
Somehow I was convinced that a bachelor owned it--a man
who made this house--which was much too large for him
--his "bunk." There it stood, slick and cold, unhospitable
as ever a house was. A house has its physiognomy as well
as a man, for him who can read it; and this one,
notwithstanding its new and shining paint, was sullen,
morose, and nearly vicious and spiteful. I turned away.
I should not have cared to work for its owner.
Peter was trotting along.
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