The Normal Record. June 1905

              20 *"" THE NORMAL RECORD
even though it is July.    Your house may be burning, or tramps,—"
A distant whistle screams. It grows harsher, it lengthens, it is swelled
by the tones of a thousand bellowing metal throats. The clock strikes. Its
notes are lost in the beating of a hundred bells. It is a clamor that cleaves
the sky.
"Fire!  fire!  fire!  fire!"
A tremor shakes me from head to foot. I untwist my numb foot from the
rounds  of the  stool  and  rush  to the  door.
"Fire!   fire!   fire!   fire!"
Every body is shouting. The streets are a mass of stirring, inquiring
humanity. All are running in the same direction, and questioning lips frame one
query,—
"Where is the fire?"
No one knows. No smoke is seen. The wind roars, the dust whirls;
wagons rattle past me drawn by panting horses lashed to a run.
"Get out of the way there!  clear the street, the engines are coming!"
The surging throng part down the center and seek the side walks. A
rush, a cloud of smoke, a sprinkling of sparks, the emphatic, warning tinkle
of bells and the fire companies are out of sight.
A shout from the crowds, one universal waving of arms and a burst of
black smoke shot here and there with forked flames send my feet speeding in
the direction of the bridge. That is the point I must reach before I am too late.
I can see the flame leaping ferociously in that direction. Phyllis' eyes, I know,
are tearless now, but her heart is bruised. I pray for strength to run. My home,
all that is most dear to me are in the path of this terrible "fire.
The roar of the flames can be heard. They rise a hundred feet in air and
the wind fans them into fiercer blaze. They curl and lick like hungry dragons,
the edges of roof and wall. Black smoke heavy with the odor of pitch rolls
over the city. I am nearing the block where the fire started. It is spreading.
The flames reach across the street and homes melt before them. Men and
women look on helplessly wring their hands.
People rush out of houses carying goods, and return to find ashes only.
I pass a hotel. A piano tumbled from an upper window while a man clambers
from the front entrance and triumpantly deposits a feather bed on the ground.
I meet a woman aimlessly dragging the sideboard of a bedstead, am hit on the
head by a china teapot tossed from a window.
"Fire," has become the common topic of conversation. Men and women
talk to anybody and everybody. People will address a crowd, at a fire, who
wouldn't open their mouths at a prayer meeting.
"There must be a fire some place," said one to me when I started.
"Yes,"  I  snarled,  heavens  help  you  idiot,  if you  can't' see for yourself."
I run and run. My breath is fast giving out. Perspiration pours down my
face. I am hatless. Dust has filled my eyes. My nerves are strained to the
point of breaking. I am running mechanically. If I should try to stop, it would
be impossible to halt. My feet have become automatic. They are machines
propelled by the fury of terror.
Only one more street only one more block. I turn the corner past a
group of trees. I reach the bridge. Is the house standing? A feeling like a
blessing from Heaven descends on my over-strained nerves. The cottage is
there. Sunlight falls on garden and house-top. The roses ;are fair and sweet
where Phyllis stands beckoning with the baby laughing beside her. I gasp, I
stumble, I fall.
That terrible race is over.    Now, the day that followed it is closed.    The