“Uncle Isaac,” said he, “mother hasn’t got any crane; all the way she hangs her pot over the fire is by a birch withe, with a chain at the end; and sometimes it burns off above the chain: the other day it broke, and liked to have scalded the baby to death. I want to get her a crane,--hooks and trammels all complete,--and put it in the fireplace before she knows anything of it.”