chimney.

For nearly a week there was scarcely a sign of life in the streets of
Oakland, but at the end of that time the storm abated, and the
December sun, emerging from its dark hiding-place, once more looked
smilingly down upon the white, untrodden snow, which covered the
earth for miles and miles around. Rapidly the roads were broken;
paths were made on the narrow sidewalk, and then the villagers
bethought themselves of their mountain neighbors, who might perchance
have suffered from the severity of the storm. Far up the mountain
side in an old yellow farmhouse, which had withstood the blasts of
many a winter, lived Grandfather and Grandmother Nichols, as they
were familiarly called, and ere the sun-setting, arrangements were
made for paying them a visit.

Oakland was a small rural village, nestled among rocky hills, where
the word fashion was seldom heard, and where many of the primitive
customs of our forefathers still prevailed. Consequently, neither
the buxom maidens, nor the hale old matrons, felt in the least
disgraced as they piled promiscuously upon the four-ox sled, which
erelong was moving slowly through the mammoth drifts which lay upon
the mountain road. As they drew near the farmhouse, they noticed
that the blue paper curtains which shaded the windows of Grandma
Nichols' "spare room," were rolled up, while the faint glimmer of a
tallow candle within, indicated that the room possessed an occupant.
Who could it be? Possibly it was _John_, the proud man, who lived in
Kentucky, and who, to please his wealthy bride exchanged the plebeian
name of Nichols, for that of _Livingstone_, which his high-born lady
fancied was more aristocratic in its sounding!