"Outside fall the snowflakes lightly;
Through the night loud raves the storm;
In my room the fire glows brightly,
And 'tis cosy, silent, warm.

"Musing sit I on the settle
By the firelight's cheerful blaze,
Listening to the busy kettle
Humming long forgotten lays." [10]

For after all the true pleasures of home are not without, but within; and
"the domestic man who loves no music so well as his own kitchen clock and
the airs which the logs sing to him as they burn on the hearth, has
solaces which others never dream of." [11]

We love the ticking of the clock, and the flicker of the fire, like the
sound of the cawing of rooks, not so much for any beauty of their own as
for their associations.

It is a great truth that when we retire into ourselves we can call up what
memories we please.

"How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection recalls them to view.--
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood
And every lov'd spot which my infancy knew." [12]

It is not so much the

"Fireside enjoyments,