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When the open fire is lit,
In the evening after tea,
Then I like to come and sit
Where the fire can talk to me.
Fairy stories it can tell,
Tales of a forgotten race,—
Of the fairy ghosts that dwell
In the ancient chimney place.
They are quite the strangest folk
Anybody ever knew,
Shapes of shadow and of smoke
Living in the chimney flue.
"Once," the fire said, "long ago,
With the wind they used to rove,
Gypsy fairies, to and fro,
Camping in the field and grove.
"Hither with the trees they came
Hidden in the logs; and here,
Hovering above the flame,
Often some of them appear."
So I watch, and, sure enough,
I can see the fairies! Then,
Suddenly there comes a puff—
Whish!—and they are gone again!
—Frank Dempster Sherman.
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