the forest fires, mamma," said Marguerite; "pray, what
were they? The woods were never literally on fire, I suppose."

"Oh yes," replied mamma, "and the fire often lasted a long time. One
means of clearing the ground to make a farm was to fell the trees,
while in full leafage, in what were called 'winrows.' They lay in
great piles for a year and sometimes longer; then when quite dry they
would be ignited, and a glorious bonfire on a gigantic scale would
ensue. The fire would burn up not only all the logs and dead leaves
upon the ground, but, spreading its way through the forest, would do
considerable damage to the living trees, burning as it often did for
weeks. It was, however, a grand sight to watch it through the darkness
of the night, and when the fire running up the hollow trunk of some
dead tree would burst out in a blaze at the top, we children were
filled with enthusiasm, and used to call them 'our beacon lights.'
Never did brother Horace seem happier than during that fiery season,
and often he and brother Barnes spent the greater portion of the night
among the burning log-piles, stirring up the fires when they
smouldered, and throwing on brush and fresh logs.

"During the year that he worked at his trade upon the shores of Lake
Erie, we saw him more frequently; but the visit that I remember with
the greatest pleasure was one that he made us just after establishing
his _New Yorker_. I was much impressed during this last visit with a
marked change in brother's taste and character--a change indicated as
much by his reading as by his external appearance. His trunk was now
filled with standard works and volumes of poems, instead of treatises
upon science, and he appeared in a perpetual rose-dream. He seemed to
me the embodiment of romance and poesy, and now as I think of him with
his pure, unselfish nature, so early devoted to what was noblest and
best, I can only compare him to the high-minded boy-saint, the chaste,
seraphic Aloysius.

"It was while at home this time that he wrote his poem 'The Faded
Stars,' that was published in the _New Yorker_, and copied into several
leading journals--"

"Oh, I am so fond of that poem," interrupted Ida, "that I have copied
it into my album of poetical selections. Papa wrote it, you say, while
visiting you?"

"Yes, he wrote it in the room where the family were all assembled. I
recollect sitting beside him and watching his face as line after line
flowed from his