THE OPEN WOOD FIRE. 63 



The ragged brush; then, hovering near, 

 We watched the first red blaze appear, 

 Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam 

 On whitewashed wall and sagging beam, 

 Until the old, rude-furnished room 

 Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom ; 



Shut in from all the world without, 

 We sat the clean-winged hearth about, 

 Content to let the north-wind roar 

 In baffled rage at pane and door, 

 While the red logs before us beat 

 The frost-line back with tropic heat; 

 And ever, when a louder blast 

 Shook beam and rafter as it passed, 

 The merrier up its roaring draught 

 The great throat of the chimney laughed; 

 The house-dog on his paws outspread 

 Laid to the fire his drowsy head, 

 The cat's dark silhouette on the wall 

 A couchant tiger's seemed to fall; 

 And, for the winter fireside meet, 

 Between the andirons' straddling feet 

 The mug of cider simmered slow, 

 The apples sputtered in a row, 

 And, close at hand, the basket stood 

 With nuts from brown October's wood." 



Ah, Whittier knew that kind of a fire ! 



From one of our living American poets, too, Mr. 

 Lloyd Mifflin, I shall select the following very beautiful 

 and flowing sonnet, entitled "Upon the Hearth" (from 

 "At the Gates of Song"), as expressing better than 

 any of us can do the real poetic significance of the 

 blazing logs and the old-time open fireplace : 



"A tree will prove a blessing all life long; 

 From birth to death it brings us naught but good; 

 Its shade will make a pleasant solitude, 

 For one who lies and dreams the grass among; 

 c What golden globes upon its limbs are hung 



