It has its pictures too.

You don't know how many strange faces and different scenes I trace in the red-hot coals.

It's my memory, that fire, and shows me all my life.' The child, bending down to listen to his words, could not help remarking with what brightened eyes he continued to speak and muse.
'Yes,' he said, with a faint smile, 'it was the same when I was quite a baby, and crawled about it, till I fell asleep.

My father watched it then.' 'Had you no mother ?' asked the child.
'No, she was dead.

Women work hard in these parts.