Now the crackling hickory burns;
And to cheer the stormy night,
Old cronies tell their tales by turns.
One cold winter evening, three boys happened to be together, named James, Ezra, and Stephen. They sat by the blazing hearth—for I am telling of what happened in the old-fashioned days, of broad flues and hickory fuel—without candles, for the light of the burning logs was sufficient to give the room a cheerful aspect. Out of doors the air was keen and bitter, and though the Moon shone brightly, the light snow wreaths were driving on the wind, and occasionally came in spouts against the windows, rattling like hail upon the panes.
The boys, naturally enough, talked of the weather for a time, and then of the news, and by-and-by of other topics. At last it was proposed that one of them should tell a story. The scene can be best described in the way of dialogue.
James. Come, Ezra, you tell us a story.
Ezra. Well, you tell one first.
J. O, I’m not good at telling a story.
E. Won’t you tell one, Stephen?
Stephen. I’ll tell one after you.