RUBY’S VISITOR. 97

in the swamp. Once she heard the growl of a distant bear
that had lost his way.

But she never thought of such a thing as being afraid.
Her father found and shot the bear the next day, and it was
the only one that had been seen on the mountain for years.
As for the icicles and the wind and the whippoorwill, she
had heard them ever since she could remember, and they did
not disturb her in the least. On the contrary, she thought
they were very pleasant company when her father was gone,
and she used to sit at the window for hours together, listen-
ing to them.

But she had her playmates in-doors as well as out. Of
these, her favorite was the fire. Now I do not believe there
are many people who can build such a fire as Ruby could.
She used to gather such piles of light, dry brushwood, and
such branches of dead oak-leaves, which made the prettiest
quivering shavings, and she had such fragrant pine-cones for
her kindling-wood!

When the hearth was all blazing and crackling with a fire
about as tall as she was, she used to sit down before it, and
stretch out her hands with the fingers close together, so that
she could see the beautiful, brilliant blood in them; or take
off her shoes and stockings, and put her pretty pink feet
almost into the ashes to warm them; or sit with her eyes very
wide open, and look and look into the pile of blazing fagots,
till she made herself think that it was some great city in

flames, towers falling, steeples tottering, churches crashing,
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