It was laid at the other side of the square, parallel to the first one. In a few minutes the two end logs were carried up and deposited in their places. These logs had all been cut, squared, mortised at their ends, and fitted together in the woods before being brought to the lawn.
“Now, the question is,” said Lumley, as he stood with coat off, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and pencil and plan in hand, “shall we turn the front of the house a little more to the south or a little more to the east? We must decide that now, before fixing the framework together.”
“We should get more of the rising sun,” said I, “if we turned it more towards the east. And you know we shall not have too much of its beams in winter to gladden our hearts and eyes.”
“Right, Max, but then we might have too much of the east winds to trouble our toes and noses.”
“Still the view eastward,” said I, “is so extensive and varied—so full of sublimity.”
“While that to the southward,” urged Lumley, “is so soft and beautiful—so full of poetry and romance.”
“Come, Jack, don’t laugh at me. You know that I am not jesting; I mean what I say.”
“I know it, Max, but though I may seem to be half jesting, is it not possible that I, too, may thoroughly mean what I say?”
He pointed as he spoke to the southward, where certain combinations of light and shade thrown on the numerous islets as well as on the clouds—all of which were reflected in the clear water—presented a scene which it is easier to imagine than describe.
I at once admitted the justice of his remark, and it was finally settled that the house should face due south.