THE OPEN WOOD FIRE. 55 



How many fancies circle about the wood fire — 

 thoughts of the squirrel twitch-ups and the quail traps, 

 and of the halcyon days of long ago when as many as 

 a dozen quail could be caught in a figure four, and of 

 the many squirrel and quail and rabbit hunts ; aye, and 

 dreams, too, dreams of what might have been, and of 

 what still may be, in the opportunities of life. But let 

 Keats tell us of the mood in his "Fancy:" 



" O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 

 Summer's joys are spoilt by use, 

 And the enjoying of the Spring 

 Fades as does its blossoming ; 

 Autumn's red-lipped fruitage too, 

 Blushing through the mist and dew, 

 Cloys with tasting. What do then ? 

 Sit thee by the ingle, when 

 The sear faggot blazes bright, 

 Spirit of a winter's night ; 

 When the soundless earth is muffled, 

 And the caked snow is shuffled 

 From the plowboy's heavy shoon ; 

 When the Night doth meet the Noon 

 In a dark conspiracy 

 To banish Even from her sky. 

 Sit thee there, and send abroad 

 With a mind self-overaw'd, 

 Fancy high-commission'd : — send her! 

 She has vassals to attend her : 

 She will bring, in spit of frost, 

 Beauties that the earth hath lost ; 

 She will bring thee, all together, 

 All delights of summer weather ; 

 All the buds and bells of May, 

 From dewy sward or thorny spray ; 

 All the heaped Autumn's wealth. 

 With a still, mysterious stealth : 

 She will mix these pleasures up 

 Like three fit wines in a cup. 



