OUR COUNTRY HOME 



cool green room, the happy faces about us, the sudden silence as the 

 Friendly Architect formally passed the lighted match to the Constant 

 Improver, who, after a glance at me, stooped and touched the bit 

 of paper. An instant's smoke, and the kindling caught ; the flame 

 spread in a broad sheet over the bricks, and in spite of the rain, 

 we knew that there was a perfect draught, which ever since has been 

 our comfort and our pride. 



What does that scent of the wood-pile bring to one's mind ? It 

 recalls to me a shady spot under the big willow in my grandfather's 

 backyard, where stood an old worn chopping-block and an axe. All 

 about were chips which we children used to bring in by the basket- 

 ful, I suppose to light the fire with, but to this day I am not sure, 

 as a child I never was interested to know; all I delighted in was 

 the rich pungent odor of the freshly cut wood and the rivalry over 

 who could fill her basket first. I can see my grandfather's kindly 

 face as he stopped on his way from the barn to inquire, " Who 's 

 ahead ? " We ceased our work instantly and looked up with hopeful 

 eyes to see if he was going to tell us a story : about the new calf's 

 doings, or the little pig's escape from the barnyard, or the horse who 

 stubbed his toe going down hill with a wagon-load of apples, or 

 some other equally interesting tale. Well we knew those thrilling 

 experiences and dearly did we love them. As an older person 

 delights to tell over and over again the same story, so the child loves 

 to hear it, and no matter how threadbare the narrative, his apprecia- 

 tive comment always is, " Tell it again. " In what does the charrq 



