“No need of that. But in the fall and spring we can regulate that matter a little more by the thermometer, and a little less by the almanac. There is also the consideration of controlling heat. Now, Charley, what would you think of a man who, in June, say, with the mercury at seventy-five, wandered around in a heavy suit and his winter flannels.”
“I’d think he was sick,” said the nine-year-old promptly, “or else foolish. But what makes you ask me?”
“Just by way of calling your attention to the thermometer, which in this room stands at seventy-nine. And here we all sit, dressed twenty-five per cent warmer than if we were out doors in a June temperature several degrees colder. You’re the Committee on Air and Light, Charley. I think this matter of heat ought to come within your province.”
“And it makes you feel so cold when you go out,” said Julia.
“Of course. We Americans live in one of the most trying climates in the world, and we add to its rigors by heating our houses like incubators. No room over seventy, ought to be the rule.”
“It’s hard to work in a cold room,” said Mr. Clyde.
“Not when you’re used to it. The Chicago schools that have started winter roof classes for sickly children, find that the average of learning capacity goes up markedly in the cold, clean air.”
“But they can’t be as comfortable,” said Mrs. Clyde.
“Much more so. As soon as the children get used to it, they love it, and they object strenuously to going back into the close rooms. The body grasps and assimilates the truth; the mind responds.”
“Well, I like to be comfortable as well as anybody,” said Mrs. Sharpless, “but I don’t consider it the chief end of life.”