As to the tobacco, she
was perfect mistress of the subject; and her lighting
of the pipe, with a wisp of paper, when the Carrier
had it in his mouth -- going so very near his nose, and
yet not scorching it -- was Art, high Art.
And the Cricket and the kettle, turning up again,
acknowledged it! The bright fire, blazing up again,
acknowledged it! The little Mower on the clock in
his unheeded work acknowledged it. The Carrier, in
his smoothing forehead and expanding face, acknowl-
edged it, the readiest of all.
And as he soberly and thoughtfully puffed at his
old pipe, and as the Dutch clock ticked, and as the
red fire gleamed, and as the Cricket chirped; that
Genius of his Hearth and Home (for such the Cricket
was) came out, in fairy shape, into the room, and
summoned many forms of Home about him. Dots
of all ages, and all sizes, filled the chamber. Dots
who were merry children, running on before him
gathering flowers, in the fields; coy Dots, half shrink-
ing from, half yielding to, the pleading of his own
rough image; newly-married Dots, alighting at the
door, and taking wondering possession of the house-
hold keys; motherly Little Dots, attended by fictitious
Slowboys, bearing babies to be christened; matronly
Dots, still young and blooming, watching Dots of
daughters, as they danced at rustic balls; fat Dots,
encircled and beset by troops of rosy grand-children;
withered Dots, who leaned on sticks, and tottered as
they crept along.
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