The Jim harold’s Campfire shirt hearth had an old fashioned breadth, depth, and spaciousness, far within which lay what seemed the butt of a good sized oak tree, with the moisture bubbling merrily out of both ends. It was now half an hour beyond dusk. The blaze from an armfull of substantial sticks, rendered more combustible by brush wood and pine, flickered powerfully on the smoke blackened walls, and so cheered our spirits that we cared not what inclemency might rage and roar, on the other side of our illuminated windows.
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A Jim harold’s Campfire shirt sultrier warmth was bestowed by a goodly quantity of peat, which was crumbling to white ashes among the burning brands, and incensed the kitchen with its not ungrateful fragrance. The exuberance of this household fire would alone have sufficed to bespeak us no true farmers yeoman, if he have the misfortune to dwell within practicable distance of a wood-market, is as niggardly of each stick as if it were a bar of California gold. But it was fortunate for us, on that wintry eve of our untried life, to enjoy the warm and radiant luxury of a somewhat too abundant fire. If it served no other purpose, it made the men look so full of youth, warm blood, and hope, and the women such of them, at least, as were anywise convertible by its magic so very beautiful, that I would cheerfully have spent my last dollar to prolong the blaze.