re was a trace of the apologetic in his
tone as he said, "That'll do, won't it?"

"Why, yes," I replied cautiously, "it's a fire."

"Well, what's the matter with it?" he asked tolerantly.

"Since you press me, I should say that it lacks--style."

Jonathan leaned back, puffing comfortably--"Now, what in thunder do you
mean by style?"

But I was not to be enticed into an empty discussion of terms. "Well,
then, say frowsy. Call it a frowsy fire. You know what frowsy means, I
suppose. Of course, though, I don't mean to criticize, only you asked
me." And I added, with perhaps unnecessary blandness, "I'm _warm_
enough."

Jonathan smoked a few moments more, possibly by way of establishing his
independence, then slowly rose, remarking, "Oh, well, if you _want_ a
stylish fire--"

"I didn't say stylish, I said style--"

But he was gone. He must have journeyed out to the woodshed,--however,
there was a moon,--for he returned bearing a huge backlog. He had been
magnanimous, indeed, for it was the sort that above all others delights
my heart--a forked apple log with a big hollow heart. In a moment, I was
on my knees clearing a place for it, and he swung it into position on
the bed of embers, tucked in some white birch in front, and soon the
flames were licking about the flaking gray apple bark and shooting up
through the hollow fork in a fashion to charm the most fastidious.

People whose open fires are machine-fed--who arrange for their wood as
they do for their groceries, by telephone--know little of the real joys
of a fire. It is laid by a servant,--unintelligently laid,--and upon
such masses of newspaper and split kindling that it has no choice but to
burn. The match is struck, the newspapers flare up, and soon there is a
big, meaningless blaze. Handfuls of wood--just wood, any kind of
wood--are thrown on from time to time, and perhaps a log or two--any
log, taken at random from the wood-box. Truly, this is merest savagery,
untrained, undiscriminating; it is the Bushman's meal compared to the
Frenchman's dinner. Not thus are real hearth fires laid. Not thus are
they enjoyed. You should plan a fire as you do a dinner party, and your
wood, like your people, should be selected and arranged with due regard
to age, temperament, and individual eccentricity. A fire thus skillfully
planned, with some good talkers among the logs, may be as well worth
listening to as the conversation about your table--perhaps better.

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