Dooley.

OVER A WOOD FIRE

DONALD G. MITCHELL

I have got a quiet farmhouse in the country, a very humble place, to be
sure, tenanted by a worthy enough man of the old New England stamp,
where I sometimes go for a day or two in the winter, to look over the
farm accounts and to see how the stock is thriving on the winter's keep.

One side the door, as you enter from the porch, is a little parlor,
scarce twelve feet by ten, with a cozy-looking fireplace, a heavy oak
floor, a couple of armchairs, and a brown table with carved lions'
feet. Out of this room opens a little cabinet, only big enough for a
broad bachelor bedstead, where I sleep upon feathers, and wake in the
morning with my eye upon a saucy colored lithographic print of some
fancy "Bessy."

It happens to be the only house in the world of which I am _bona fide_
owner, and I take a vast deal of comfort in treating it just as I
choose. I manage to break some article of furniture almost every time
I pay it a visit; and if I cannot open the window readily of a morning,
to breathe the fresh air, I knock out a pane or two of glass with my
boot. I lean against the walls in a very old armchair there is on the
premises, and scarce ever fail to worry such a hole in the plastering
as would set me down for a round charge for damages in town, or make a
prim housewife fret herself into a raging fever. I laugh out loud with
myself, in my big armchair, when I think that I am neither afraid of
one nor the other.

As for the fire, I keep the little hearth so hot as to warm half the
cellar below, and the whole space between the jams roars for two hours
together with white flame. To be sure, the windows are not very tight,
between broken panes and bad joints, so that the fire, large as it is,
is by no means an extravagant comfort.

As night approaches, I have a huge pile of oak and hickory placed
beside the hearth; I put out the tallow candle on the mantel (using the
family snuffers, with one leg broken), then, drawing my chair directly
in front of the blazing wood, and setting one foot on each of the old
iron fire-dogs (until they grow too warm), I dispose myself for an
evening of such sober and thoughtful quietude as I believe, on my soul,
that very few of my fellow men have the good fortune to enjoy.

My tenant, meantime, in the other room, I can hear now and then--though
there is a thick stone chimney, and broad entry between--multiplying
contrivances wit