The Ghosts of the Fireplace
troop in: and a hale and husky lot of ghosts they are, with their coon-skin caps, buckskin clothes, and beaded moccasins. Each ghost wears a strap slung over his shoulder, from which hang a bullet-pouch and a curiously engraved cow-horn powder-flask; as they file by, with their long single-barrelled flint-lock rifles, we are not surprised to see among them the great Daniel Boone, his friend Simon Kenton, and the unique, dashing, Davy Crockett.
Home of Young Pioneers.
All in vain do the trucks thunder by our windows, and futile are the efforts of the clanging cable-car bells and the roar of the great city to recall us to the present humdrum times. We are under the spell of the king of magicians, and our minds are wandering free in the wild woods; we can even hear the distant wolves howl, and the blood curdling yell of the painted savage. Is it a wonder that we love the generous old-fashioned fireplace? Is it strange that the log-cabin is dear to the hearts of American boys?