Fire

From Farmer Harrington's Calendar.

MARCH 15, 18--.

Fire!--fire!--fire!--fire!--it sets me in a craze
To see a first-class building all ablaze;
A burning house resembles, when I'm nigh,
Some old acquaintance just about to die;
For structures that a person often sees
Look some like human beings--same as trees.
(There used to be some trees on my old place
That I'd know anywhere--just by their face.)
And when, last night, some bells began to cry,
And big fire-engines rushed and rattled by,
In just three minutes down the stairs I strode,
And hurried--somewhat dressed--into the road
(Partly to help a bit, if so might be,
And partly, I suppose, to hear and see).
It was a dark and thunder-stormy night;
There wasn't one inch of honest sky in sight;
Great black-finned clouds were swimming through the air,
And now and then their lightning-eyes would glare,
And, like a lot of cannon far away,
Some peals of thunder came from o'er the bay.
'Twas one of those strange nights I can't explain,
That make you think they're just a-going to rain,
But never do--save now and then a trace
Of a small drop comes dashing on your face;
One of those nights that try to keep you vexed
And wondering as to what will happen next.
I like such times: they kind of draw me nearer
To things unseen, and make all mystery clearer.

I ran like sin, and reached the fire at last:
A good-sized church was going, pretty fast.
(I'd noticed it a hundred times or more,
And several times had stepped inside the door.)
The burglar flames within had prowled around
A long time previous to their being found,
Till they had gained such foothold and such might
They'd turned to robbers--stealing plain in sight.
The dome and spires had on them flags of red;
They soon came thundering down from overhead.
It looked as if infernal spirits came,
To take this church away, in smoke and flame!

I wondered, in that wild, expensive glare,
How many of the home-robbed flock were there
To see the shelter where their souls had fed
Swept from existence by that broom of red.
Here was the family pew, so long time prized;
There was the font where they had been baptized;
Here was the altar, where one day they stood,
Started for Heaven, and promised to be good;
Or where they'd wept around some cherished love
Who'd "taken a letter" to The Church above.
And still I thought, as my eyes soulward turned,
How many things there are that can't be burned;
But still we cling, and cling, and hate to part
With the place where we found them on the start.

A sneerish sort of fellow stood by me,
And said, "To such extent as I can see,
When churches get afire, by night or day,
The Lord stands still and lets 'em burn away.
If this is His abode beyond a doubt,
Why doesn't He raise his hand and put it out?"
Said I, "Young man, please do not try to aid
With your advice the mighty Power that made
What little there is of you. There are still
Schemes you don't comprehend, and never will.
You're talented, I think; but no one cares
To have you help the Lord in His affairs.
Why, probably, right where that church has stood,
There'll soon be built another, twice as good;
And some mean, tight insurance company will
Perhaps be made to pay more'n half the bill.
The Lord knows, in these fool-confounding scenes,
When to rebuild, and where to get the means."

He turned away his head exceeding far,
And lit a little bit of white cigar;
But gave, "to such extent as I could see,"
No more of his theology to me.
I'm none too good; but when men jeer and flout,
I like to have them know what they're about.

From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.

From Farmer Harrington's Calendar.

MARCH 20, 18--.

Somehow, the fire I saw not long ago
Has subsequently chased me, high and low;
Runs back and forth betwixt my head and heart,
And shows no disposition to depart.

And so I've wandered 'round (too much, perhaps),
And got acquainted with the fireman chaps,
And planted good cigars where they would seem
Inclined to grow up helpful to my scheme.
(I never smoke; but, travelling near and far,
There's few things help one like a good cigar;
When safe between a neighbor's teeth 'tis hung,
It oils his ways and loosens up his tongue.
I get more from cigars, before it's through,
Than all the fellows that I give them to.
Perhaps they should not smoke; but, if they will,
My method helps their families foot the bill.)

Not long ago a sturdy fireman lad,
Who smoked up every last cigar I had,
Unrolled the following story to my view,
Which I believe (conditionally) true:

MARCH 20, 18--.

Speaking of fires, my powers of language fail;
They run them here upon so large a scale.
My son, Charles Sumner (who is, by-the-way,
In Europe--terms ten dollars by the day,
Paid strictly in advance), can rhyme somewhat,
And often seems to me to touch the spot,
And light the truth up with a healthier glare,
And make it truthfuller for his being there.
(But in such furrows human nature runs,
That old men aren't good critics for their sons.)
He used to rush (as youngsters often will)
To every fire we had at Tompkins Hill,
And seemed to plan less how to put them out
Than to get something new to write about.
He struck a rhyme I think isn't over bad,
About a "fire" our little village had
(Or city; for that town took city airs
Before its village short-clothes reached repairs).
I found a copy of it t'other day
Where he had laid it carefully away,
To keep me from not finding it (he meant
To get it back in the next check I sent).
'Twill cost me several dollars yet, I fear;--
I'll paste the fellow's nonsense right in here:

From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.

Let me a moment indite
Scenes that I witnessed one night: