Part 7

It was a cold day. Fred was tired of reading, tired of looking out of the window, and so he poked the fire for a change.

“I suppose there are a good many different sorts of fires,” he said to his mamma, as he laid down the poker.

“Yes, indeed,” she answered. “It is very interesting to know how people keep warm in all parts of the world, especially where fuel is scarce and dear. In Iceland, for example, fires are often made of fish-bones! Think of that. In Holland and other countries a kind of turf called peat is dug up in great quantities and used for fuel. And in France a coarse yellow and brown sea-weed, which is found in Finistere, is carefully dried and piled up for winter use. A false log, resembling wood, but made of some composition which does not consume, is often used in that country. It absorbs and throws out the heat, and adds to the looks of the hearth and to the comfort of the room.

“The French have also a movable stove, which can be wheeled from room to room, or even carried up or down stairs while full of burning coke. In Russia the poorer people use a large porcelain stove, flat on top like a great table, with a small fire inside which gives out a gentle, summer-like warmth. It often serves as a bed for the whole family, who sleep on top of it.

“There are, besides gas-stoves, oil-stoves, various methods of obtaining warmth by heated air and steam, and, doubtless, other devices that I never heard of.

“In some countries, however, no fires are needed. In looking at pictures of tropical towns you will at once notice the absence of chimneys.”

Fred looked admiringly at his mamma as she paused.

“There never was such a little mother,” he said; “you can think of something to say about everything.”

His mamma was pleased at this pleasant compliment.

“Oh!” she replied, laughing, “I could go on and tell you more about bonfires, beacon-fires, signals, drift-wood fires, and gypsy-tea fires; but I have told you enough for to-day.”

THE ICE-KING’S REIGN.

The sun had gone down with promises sweet, When, keen from the north, the wind Came blustering along on its coursers fleet, And left frozen tracks behind.

Maude stood at the window; the moon shimmered down On whirling leaves, stiff and dead, All piteously driven; she turned with a frown, And soft to herself she said:--

“The old tyrant Winter leaves nothing to prize, Leaves nothing that’s bright or fair; He has stolen the blue from the bending skies, The warmth from the earth and air.

“The summer’s dear blossoms are withered and dead; My garden is brown and bare; The chipper of birds in the nest overhead Is hushed, for no birdlings are here.

“The woodlands no longer are shady and sweet, Dry leafage encumbers the ground; The pathways, once verdant and soft to my feet, In fetters of ice are bound.

“The pride of the barn-yard sits humped with the cold, One frozen foot under his wing; And the sheep huddle closely, for warmth, in their fold; The ice tyrant reigns as king.”

She turns from this picture of ruin and death, And seeks the broad casement again; And, lo! from the dews of her wasted breath Great forests have grown on the pane.

Such beautiful trees! such ferns! and such flowers! Such rivers and mountains bold! Such charming cascades! she gazes for hours, And worships the ice king cold.

MALMO, THE WOUNDED RAT.

A poor man saw, by the roadside, a large white rat. It seemed to be dead. Moving it gently he found it was alive, but had a broken leg. He took it up and carried it to his lonely home. He bound up the bruised leg, fed the poor creature, and soon it was quite well.

Sam Tills trained the rat to gentle ways, and taught it many little tricks. Malmo was the only company Sam had. He worked in a cotton mill, and took Malmo with him. He rode in his master’s coat-pocket. It looked droll to see his white head peeping out.

Sundays both went to dine with Sam’s sister. Malmo’s funny ways made everybody laugh. When Sam said, “Malmo, go sit in my hat,” he went at once. He curled himself up in it, and nodded off to sleep.

When his master said, “Malmo, we’re going now; slip in,” the droll pet jumped from the hat, ran up to his pocket-nest, said good-by in his own fashion, and was ready to start. Evenings, when Sam was reading or singing from his mother’s hymn-book, Malmo had a nap on his master’s head. When it was time to go to bed Sam stroked Malmo’s soft fur. The rat rubbed himself against his master’s hand. It was their good-night to each other. Then Malmo crept into his basket, and the candle was blown out. Soon both were fast asleep.

MAMA’S HAPPY CHRISTMAS.

It had seemed to the little Wendell children that they would have a very sad Christmas. Mama had been very ill, and papa had been so anxious about mama that he could not think of anything else.

When Christmas Day came, however, mama was so much better that she could lie on the lounge. The children all brought their stockings into her room to open them.

“You children all seem as happy as if you had had your usual Christmas tree,” said mama, as they sat around her.