THE COUNTRY IN WINTER 



is this glowing picture! Here is the beauty of unceas 

 ing transmutation. What is this flame that dazzles us 

 with its nameless colors, its fantastic forms, its quiver 

 ing variations? We watch it hovering above the wood 

 and lo! it is not. Where has it gone, this gaseous bit 

 of vapor, this part of the sun which cheers us when 

 that mighty orb is hidden? Have you not noticed how 

 feebly a fire burns if the sun's rays strike the flame? 



Now the backlog has assumed a mottled, soft gray 

 surface edged with a darker hue, against which lean 

 crackling, red-streaked fragments. The fore log is a 

 jagged bar of black against the bed of coals; and grow 

 ing thinner as the fire progresses, at last it splits and falls 

 apart. Leaping across the breach thus made, the play 

 ful flames rise in a burst of joy as if released from long 

 imprisonment. But the minutes pass, and the back log 

 begins to glow in shimmering waves of light, tipped by 

 ghostly violet fingers. Now the helpful friend who has 

 been shelling nuts for the chickadees rises and shakes 

 her apron into the warm gray mass. Instantly a merry 

 flame lights up the farthest corner of the room, and 



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