But I delay too long the telling of his name.  A strange hesitancy seizes me.  I shall never be believed by any one who has not sat as I have by his side.  But, if I can only give to one soul the good-cheer and strength of such a presence, I shall be rewarded.

His name is Maple Wood-fire, and his terms are from eight to twelve dollars a month, according to the amount of time he gives.  This price is ridiculously low, but it is all that any member of the family asks; in fact, in some parts of the country, they can be hired for much less.  They have connections by the name of Hickory, whose terms are higher; but I cannot find out that they are any more satisfactory.  There are also some distant relations, named Chestnut and Pine, who can be employed in the same way, at a much lower rate; but they are all snappish and uncertain in temper.

To the whole world I commend the good brotherhood of Maple, and pass on the emphatic indorsement of a blessed old black woman who came to my room the other day, and, standing before the rollicking blaze on my hearth, said, “Bless yer, honey, yer’s got a wood-fire.  I’se allers said that, if yer’s got a wood-fire, yer’s got meat, an’ drink, an’ clo’es.”

Choice of Colors.

The other day, as I was walking on one of the oldest and most picturesque streets of the old and picturesque town of Newport, R.I., I saw a little girl standing before the window of a milliner’s shop.

It was a very rainy day.  The pavement of the side-walks on this street is so sunken and irregular that in wet weather, unless one walks with very great care, he steps continually into small wells of water.  Up to her ankles in one of these wells stood the little girl, apparently as unconscious as if she were high and dry before a fire.  It was a very cold day too.  I was hurrying along, wrapped in furs, and not quite warm enough even so.  The child was but thinly clothed.  She wore an old plaid shawl and a ragged knit hood of scarlet worsted.  One little red ear stood out unprotected by the hood, and drops of water trickled down over it from her hair.  She seemed to be pointing with her finger at articles in the window, and talking to some one inside.  I watched her for several moments, and then crossed the street to see what it all meant.  I stole noiselessly up behind her, and she did not hear me.  The window was full of artificial flowers, of the cheapest sort, but of very gay colors.  Here and there a knot of ribbon or a bit of lace had been tastefully added, and the whole effect was really remarkably gay and pretty.  Tap, tap, tap, went the small hand against the window-pane; and with every tap the unconscious little creature murmured, in a half-whispering, half-singing voice, “I choose that color.”  “I choose that color.”  “I choose that color.”