AT WHITTIER'S BIRTHPLACE 17 



cheery hearthside stories of the English settlers, 

 sturdy tales and rough perhaps but with the glow 

 of the hearth log flickering gleefully through 

 them. The gusts drew whirling sparks upward, 

 and in its deep throat the chimney, no longer 

 aged but stout and strong with vigorous work to 

 do, guffawed in cheerful content. The dancing 

 firelight sent gleams of quiet laughter over the 

 face of Whittier himself, that before had looked 

 so grimly from the frame over his ancient desk, 

 and the room glowed with homey hospitality. If 

 there were shades there they were golden ones of 

 gentle maids and rollicking boys that we knew 

 and loved so well, and though without the window 

 opposite the fireplace and right through the shad- 

 ing lilac bushes a ghostly replica of the fireplace 

 with its flickering flames appeared and vanished 

 and reappeared, there was nothing sinister in its 

 uncanniness, for 



" under the tree 



When fire outside burns merrily, 

 There the witches are making tea." 



Stormbound if not snowbound I sat for an hour 

 by the hearth that was the heart of a home for 



