ilt with a
large opening at the top, and widened downward to the fireplace, which
was eight or ten feet square, and nearly as high as the low ceiling of
the room. The purpose of these generous dimensions was to prevent the
wooden chimney from burning. The fire, while the chimney was new, was
built in the centre of the enormous hearth that the flames might not
touch the walls, but after a time the heat burnt the clay to the
hardness of brick, and the fire was then built against the back wall. By
pointing up the cracks, and adding a coat of clay now and then, the
walls soon became entirely fireproof, and a fire might safely be kindled
that would defy Boreas in his bitterest zero mood. An open wood fire is
always cheering; so our humble folk of the wilderness, having little
else to cheer them during the long winter evenings, were mindful to be
prodigal in the matter of fuel, and often burned a cord of wood between
candle-light and bedtime on one of their enormous hearths. A cord of
wood is better than a play for cheerfulness, and a six-foot back-log
will make more mirth than Dan Rice himself ever created. Economy did not
enter into the question, for wood was nature's chief weapon against her
enemies, the settlers; and the question was not how to save, but how to
burn it.

To this place Rita first opened the eyes of her mind. The girl's
earliest memories were of the cozy log-cabin upon the banks of the
limpid, gurgling creek. Green in her memory, in each sense of the word,
was the soft blue-grass lawn, that sloped gently a hundred yards from
the cabin, built upon a little rise in the bottom land, down to the
water's edge. Often when she was a child, and I a man well toward middle
life, did I play with the enchanting little elf upon the blue-grass
lawn, and drink the waters of perennial youth at the fountain of her
sweet babyhood. Vividly I remember the white-skinned sycamores, the
gracefully drooping elms, and the sweet-scented honey-locust that grew
about the cabin and embowered it in leafy glory. Even at this long
distance of time, when June is abroad, if I catch the odor of locust
blossoms, my mind and heart travel back on the wings of a moment, and I
hear the buzzing of the wild bees, the song of the meadow-lark, the
whistle of bob-white, and the gurgling of the creek--all blended into
one sweet refrain like the mingling tones of a perfect orchestra by the
soft-voiced babble of my wee girl-baby friend. I close my eyes,