I and My Chimney | Page 5

and dropping down a mustard seed, would be
thought a penurious, narrow-minded husbandman. The dandelions in the river-meadows,

and the forget-me-nots along the mountain roads, you see at once they are put to no
economy in space. Some seasons, too, our rye comes up here and there a spear, sole and
single like a church-spire. It doesn't care to crowd itself where it knows there is such a
deal of room. The world is wide, the world is all before us, says the rye. Weeds, too, it is
amazing how they spread. No such thing as arresting them--some of our pastures being a
sort of Alsatia for the weeds. As for the grass, every spring it is like Kossuth's rising of
what he calls the peoples. Mountains, too, a regular camp-meeting of them. For the same
reason, the same all-sufficiency of room, our shadows march and countermarch, going
through their various drills and masterly evolutions, like the old imperial guard on the
Champs de Mars. As for the hills, especially where the roads cross them the supervisors
of our various towns have given notice to all concerned, that they can come and dig them
down and cart them off, and never a cent to pay, no more than for the privilege of picking
blackberries. The stranger who is buried here, what liberal-hearted landed proprietor
among us grudges him six feet of rocky pasture?
Nevertheless, cheap, after all, as our land is, and much as it is trodden under foot, I, for
one, am proud of it for what it bears; and chiefly for its three great lions--the Great Oak,
Ogg Mountain, and my chimney. Most houses, here, are but one and a half stories high;
few exceed two. That in which I and my chimney dwell, is in width nearly twice its
height, from sill to eaves--which accounts for the magnitude of its main content--besides
showing that in this house, as in this country at large, there is abundance of space, and to
spare, for both of us.
The frame of the old house is of wood--which but the more sets forth the solidity of the
chimney, which is of brick. And as the great wrought nails, binding the clapboards, are
unknown in these degenerate days, so are the huge bricks in the chimney walls. The
architect of the chimney must have had the pyramid of Cheops before him; for, after that
famous structure, it seems modeled, only its rate of decrease towards the summit is
considerably less, and it is truncated. From the exact middle of the mansion it soars from
the cellar, right up through each successive floor, till, four feet square, it breaks water
from the ridge-pole of the roof, like an anvil-headed whale, through the crest of a billow.
Most people, though, liken it, in that part, to a razed observatory, masoned up.
The reason for its peculiar appearance above the roof touches upon rather delicate ground.
How shall I reveal that, forasmuch as many years ago the original gable roof of the old
house had become very leaky, a temporary proprietor hired a band of woodmen, with
their huge, cross-cut saws, and went to sawing the old gable roof clean off. Off it went,
with all its birds' nests, and dormer windows. It was replaced with a modern roof, more
fit for a railway wood-house than an old country gentleman's abode. This
operation--razeeing the structure some fifteen feet--was, in effect upon the chimney,
something like the falling of the great spring tides. It left uncommon low water all about
the chimney--to abate which appearance, the same person now proceeds to slice fifteen
feet off the chimney itself, actually beheading my royal old chinmey--a regicidal act,
which, were it not for the palliating fact that he was a poulterer by trade, and, therefore,
hardened to such neck-wringings, should send that former proprietor down to posterity in
the same cart with Cromwell.
Owing to its pyramidal shape, the reduction of the chimney inordinately widened its
razeed summit. Inordinately, I say, but only in the estimation of such as have no eye to
the picturesque. What care I, if, unaware that my chimney, as a free citizen of this free

land, stands upon an independent basis of its own, people passing it, wonder how such a
brick-kiln, as they call it, is supported upon mere joists and rafters? What care I? I will
give a traveler a cup of switchel, if he want it; but am I bound to supply him with a sweet
taste? Men of cultivated minds see, in my old house and chimney, a goodly old
elephant-and-castle.
All feeling hearts will sympathize with me in what I am now about to add. The surgical
operation, above referred to, necessarily brought into the open air a part of