Meigs County telegraph. [volume] (Pomeroy [Ohio]) 1848-1859, 1858-02-16
..s PoMERoYs TUEsDA FEBRUARY l6, 1858

| the temples unto fire. n coal or two be
How, brand or twp above, but yet al
dark and gloomy as erypt; the black ant
beetling wall behind the broken heartl
before; cheerless chill within; a shiver
ing wind without. Now comes the magic
pair of lips, a puckei, breath from th'
asthmatic bellows; one wave OF two of ;
bunch Of broom corn; and, creeping
among the creyicess abd looking over th'
logs, and curling around the wands anc
climbing up the bonghs, and licking VI
the leaves comes Che name; white and red
and edged with blue hnd pink, rising anc
falling, uncertain Yet till, by gathering
4 strength ana voice, up 1t springs, and 10
a ph0enir nest! What yellow minarets
what tapping tongues, what glowing
breadths Of fire! Rattling. roaring, how
it curves over the chimney's verge, &
wide sheet, and pours like cataract along
its dark gorge; how the shadows arr
folded behind the doors; how the circle o
chairs grows broader; how the old clock
face brightens up; how the windows are
FURNISHED, and the pewter plat:ers along
the wall gleam like the shield of Achilles
how glitter young eyes and bound glad
! dened hearts. " Hcb
We wish there were somebody to paint
! it as it once was--the old-time fire place.
He might show us if he would, the fire
in the wilderness by night; the canvas
covered vain; the watchful sentinel be-
meath; the shifting pictures of the green
wood FIRE, the red wood sparkling into
view; the light flung upward on the roo
of leaves; Indian shadows gliding from
tee to tree; ruddy girlhood smiling in the
glow; children grouped upon the darl
green earth; the starry heavens over all
lie might give US, if he would, the strug'
gle of the red fire, with the silver of the
rising moon; the York and Lancaster oi
the pathless wood. 900 'N.
He might paint, for us, the log cabin
with its birds nest chimney of sticks and
mud; the huge cavern, as if washed out
by the red and roaring surf Hams ol
bacon hanging high; a rifle hammocked
on its wooden hooks; hound upon the
hearth, and hunting in his dreams; fes-
toons of yellow corn and tassels of red
onions depending from the wall; a basket
maker at his work; his wife with ready
hand, unearthing from their glowing bed,
the Murphy family, and busting their dark
brown jackets with an Eagles wing that
swept the air but yesterday. .. ..
lie might paint for us, the glorious fire.
place of eastern homes aforetime, as warm
and roomy as patriarch's heart. Then,
we should have the spidery ardirons with
immemorial rings; the crane with hooks
a-swing; the teakettle singing from the
topmost hook, its evening song, as one
might know, who marked the flmy cloud
of steam, relieved against the sooty wall
beyond; the great stone janab, worn
smooth with many knives; the hearth
made Leautiful with the wear of many
feet; the veteran tongs and its long com
rade vis-a-vis, whose magnetic charm has
lent its charm to many an urchin's knife
and pilfered needle; the cat asleep beside
the old arm chair-thank God! not va
cant yet.
But our painter must not forget "the
little Wheel" whose sweet, humming mu-
sic, played many winters night away
there let it stand, the thread yet running
smoothly through the fingers long since
grown radiant and skillful or a harp Of
gold, Sci the hour glass upon the smoke
stained mantle and its sands sft slowly, as
they were wont, of DID, lay, once again,
upon the spider-footed stand, the Bible,
od and worn, its written record of our
lives therein; of birth, and oath Of love,
and then a little sleep.
But paint he ever so cunningly, he can
not restore the sweet simplicity, the homely
truth, the dear and childlike faith
of that departed time; he cannot
paint that health again, with the wan
dering feet that have grown beautiful;
he cannot light the eyes looking Glove to
eyes that spake again" around it. He
may rebuild the old chimney on the spot
where it crum5led; he may replenish the
fire on the hearth where it smouldered,
but the Spring that brings back the swal-
low to its shelter, only brightens the green
sward on the breast of the dead. We
have seen the most solemn of pageants and
the most touching of epitaphs; but never,
anywhere, have we beheld anything so ell
oquent, and so sad, as a heap of earth
where homestead had been; a. little path
from gate that was, to athreshold that
is not; fragments of stone where hearth
was once glowing. and nobody to tell us
who they were that once dwelt there, OF
whittier they have gone. ...r