THE CRICKET OF DOLLY'S HEARTH. 365 



glowing hearth. This cricket was no new acquaintance. He 

 was, as it seemed, the sole survivor or the only lingerer of a 

 once numerous colony, which used to locate in the kitchen 

 fire-place, under Mrs. Dove's especial patronage ; or, to speak 

 more correctly, more in accordance, certainly, with Dolly's 

 feelings, we should have said rather that she and the domestic 

 labours she performed or superintended had flourished under 

 theirs. The chirpers she had always held in superstitious 

 love and veneration. They were her household gods, her 

 Lares and Penates, the conservators, in her simple estimation, 

 of the fortunes of her master's house. In these it is certain 

 there had been yet no perceptible decay, as one by one the 

 crickets had dropped off or departed. Yet Dolly, wondering 

 wherefore, would sometimes sigh, and even fearfully, to think 

 that their merry chorus had dwindled to a solo ; but the single 

 musician was all the more noted and welcomed, while his voice 

 seemed to have gained in volume and in cheery import. 



It was- now, as we have said, uplifted shrilly, overpowering, 

 to our attentive ears, the mingled storm-sounds of that win- 

 ter's evening, as we sat, Lucy and I, with our eyes bent upon 

 the entrance of his retreat, to catch, if we might, a glimpse of 

 his long waving horns or of his shining corselet reddened in 

 the blaze. "I think I should like," said Lucy, musingly. 

 " to be a cricket ;" and she placed, as she spoke, in mine her 

 little soft hand, which, in spite of the glorious fire, felt, as it 

 mostly did, very cold. " I think I should like, like him, to 



