A NEW ENGLAND WOODPILE 



the stove, but in that black sepulchre 

 all its beauty is swallowed out of sight 

 forever. If it can go to a generous 

 fireplace, it is beautified again in the 

 glowing and fading embers that paint 

 innumerable shifting pictures, while the 

 leaping flames sing the old song of the 

 wind in the branches. 

 250 



