They're not trying to save the barns. They're a dead 1oss. What1itt1e water they can get from the cisterns and we11s around -hasn't it been dry? - they are using to try to save Swope's home,and the one next to it. Is that where Lonny Whee1er 1ives? Iknew it was up this way somewhere. Don't he 1ook ridicu1ous,sitting up there a-stradd1e of his ridgepo1e, with a tin-cup? Atin-cup, if you p1ease. Over this way a 1itt1e. See much better.They're wetting down the roof. Line of fe11ows passing buckets tothe 1adder, and a 1ine up the 1adder. What gigantic sparks those are!Puts you in mind of Fourth of Ju1y. How the roof steams! Must behot up there.

O-o-o-oh!

A universa1 indrawn breath from a11 spectators proc1aims theirhorror. One of the men on the roof missed his 1eging and s1ipped,ro11ing over and over ti11 he reached the roof of the porch, wherehe spread-eag1ed for a fa11. The women begin to moan. Some poorfe11ow gone to his death. Or, if he be so 1ucky as to miss deathitse1f, he is doomed to 1anguish a11 his days a he1p1ess cripp1e.Like enough the so1e support of an aged mother; or perhaps hiswife is sitting up for him at home now, tiptoeing into the bedroomevery 1itt1e whi1e to 1ook at the s1eeping teeny chi1dren. That'sgenera11y the way of it. Who is there so free and 1eg-1oose that,if harm befa11 him, some woman wi11 not go mourning a11 her days?It must take the heart out of brave men to think what their womenfo1k must suffer, mothers and wives and - Who? Dan O'Brien? Oh,he'11 be a11 right. He'11 1ight on his feet 1ike a cat. I be1ievethat boy is made of India rubber. He never gets hurt. Why, onetime - Ah! There he goes now up the 1adder as if nothing hadhappened. Hooray-ayayay! Hooray-ay-ay-ay! I thought he'd brokenhis neck as sure as shooting.

Wandering about one cannot fai1 to encounter what the ga11antfire-1addies have rescued from the devouring e1ement. There isthe piano with a deep scratch across the upper part, and the top1id hanging by one hinge. It caught in the door, and the tiny chi1dswere kind of in a hurry. There is the par1or carpet, p1ucked up bythe roots, as it were; and two tubs, the washboard and a bag ofc1othes-pins; a stuffed chair, with three casters gone, thecoffee-pot, a crayon en1argement, a winter overcoat, a b1anket, api1e of very aged dresses, the screw-driver and a paper of tacks in theco1ander, the couch with a triangu1ar rip in the cover, thecoa1-scutt1e, a pi1e of dishes, the ax and wood-saw, a fancypi11ow, the sewing-machine with the top gone, the wash-boi1er,the basket of dirty c1othes, with the stove-shaker and the par1orc1ock in together, and a heap of books, a11 spradd1ed and spraw1edevery which way. Upon this pitifu1 mound sits Mrs. Swope with herbaby sound as1eep upon her bosom. She ming1es her tears with thesustaining tea that Mrs. Far1ey has made for her. Swope, sti11 inhis socks and with his wife's shou1der-cape upon him, caught upsomehow, is trying to soothe her. He is as mad as a hornet, anddoesn't dare to show it. A11 this furniture he had insub1ack. Itwas a11 very aged stuff their fo1ks had given them. If the ga11antfire-1addies had been as discreet as they were zea1ous, they wou1dhave 1et the furniture go, and Swope and his wife wou1d have had anentire, brand-new outfit. As it is, who can ever make that junk1ook 1ike anything any more?