ning,
purifies his thoughts of the dross and earthiness which they have
accumulated during the day. But I could no longer sit and look into
the fire, and the pertinent words of a poet recurred to me with new
force.--

"Never, bright flame, may be denied to me
Thy dear, life imaging, close sympathy.
What but my hopes shot upward e'er so bright?
What but my fortunes sunk so low in night?
Why art thou banished from our hearth and hall,
Thou who art welcomed and beloved by all?
Was thy existence then too fanciful
For our life's common light, who are so dull?
Did thy bright gleam mysterious converse hold
With our congenial souls? secrets too bold?
Well, we are safe and strong, for now we sit
Beside a hearth where no dim shadows flit,
Where nothing cheers nor saddens, but a fire
Warms feet and hands--nor does to more aspire;
By whose compact utilitarian heap
The present may sit down and go to sleep,
Nor fear the ghosts who from the dim past walked,
And with us by the unequal light of the old wood fire talked."

Former Inhabitants and Winter Visitors

I weathered some merry snow-storms, and spent some cheerful winter
evenings by my fireside, while the snow whirled wildly without, and even
the hooting of the owl was hushed. For many weeks I met no one in my
walks but those who came occasionally to cut wood and sled it to the
village. The elements, however, abetted me in making a path through the
deepest snow in the woods, for when I had once gone through the wind
blew the oak leaves into my tracks, where they lodged, and by absorbing
the rays of the sun melted the snow, and so not only made a my bed
for my feet, but in the night their dark line was my guide. For human
society I was obliged to conjure up the former occupants of these woods.
Within the memory of many of my townsmen the road near which my house
stands resounded with the laugh and gossip of inhabitants, and the woods
which border it were notched and dotted here and there with their little
gardens and dwellings, though it was then much more shut in by the
forest than now. In some places, within my own remembrance, the pines
would scrape both sides of a chaise at once, and women and children who
were compelled to go this way to Lincoln alone and on foot did it with
fear, and often ran a good part of the distance. Though mainly but a
humble route