‘ The year doth hind her garland up with thee, 
Hough product of a hale and healthy tree I 
Through Winter’s sleet she bids thee shine out free 
Under a sacred name.’—M. A. Bacon. 
HE grate had been removed from the wide overwhelming 
fireplace to make way for a fire of wood, in the midst 
of which was an enormous log, glowing and blazing, and 
sending forth a vast volume of heat and light. This, I 
understood, was the Yule-log, which the squire was par¬ 
ticular in having brought in and illumined on a Christmas- 
eve, according to ancient custom. 
It was really delightful to see the old squire seated in his hereditary 
elbow-chair, by the hospitable fireplace of his ancestors, and looking 
around him like the sun of a system, beaming warmth and gladness to 
every heart. Even the very dog that lay stretched at his feet, as he 
lazily shifted his position and yawned, would look fondly up in his 
master’s face, wag his tail against the floor, and stretch himself to sleep 
again, confident of kindness and protection. There is an emanation 
from the heart in genuine hospitality which cannot be described, but 
is immediately felt, and puts the stranger at once at his ease. I had 
not been seated many minutes by the comfortable hearth of the worthy 
old cavalier before I found myself as much at home as if I had been 
one of the family. 
The party broke up for the night with the kind-hearted old custom 
of shaking hands. As I passed through the hall on my way to my 
chamber the dying embers of the Yule-log still sent forth a dusky 
glow; and had it not been the season when no spirit dares stir abroad, 
I should have been half tempted to steal from my room at midnight 
and peep whether the fairies might not be at their revels about the 
hearth. 
Washington Irving. 
