A Possibility of the Radio in Fire-Fighting


Countless thousands, Old and young,

Have heard this piercing cry;

Across the years, thru smiles and tears

We’ve heard, both you and I.

Fire; Fire; Fire;

Call the fighters of the flame,

Save my home. My life’s desire

Will not then have been in vain.

This S.O.S.—a scream distress

Alarmed a neighbor near,

In haste he sped in mortal dread

Forgetting his career.

Across the way he spied at last,

The evidence of fire,

Arrived at a conclusion fast

No time now to retire.

A box upon the corner near

Must serve its purpose now,

Uncared for there from year to year

It keens a secret vow.

A flash of light; A ringing bell,

Men scrambling for the pole,

A moment’s breathless wait will tell,

Here’s where we get to roll.

“It may be mine,” A buddy cries

Above the sirens shriek.

“Step on it son” A bud replies,

Each moment seems a week.

But get there right side up, It pays,

So rules the dauntless chief.

Step on it; hurry; no delays,

Take shortest cuts, be brief.

Thus starts the day from midnight on,

From morning until noon

A flash of light, a bell, They’re gone

No; never there too soon.

Concealed within the silent night,

A countless throng appears

From no where, guided by the light

That turns smiles into tears.

Here whispers fall. There others call.

“Move back,” a copper yells.

At last a sound brings joy to all

They hear those clanging bells.

“Move in two lines.” “A ladder there,”

“Break in the skylight pane,”

“One line above, one up the stairs.”

No occupants remain.

A mighty task, tho it may last

A moment or an hour.

A drama with an all star cast

Endowed with fighting power.

How few the songs of victory,

To shame the conquered foe;

From whom brave men in terror flee,

Ten floors or more below.

The little home so dearly won

Thru years of honest gain.

Is closed now to the morning sun

That shines there all in vain.

“Destroyed by fire” the headlines read

Complete, beyond repair,

Yet where there’s life, there’s hops, ’tis said;

Warning others to beware.

A word of praise, a tribute paid

To fighters of the flame.

Defends an emblem God has made America’s dearest name, “HOME SWEET HOME.”


Hoseman, Eng. 1,

Long, Beach, Cal.


Bill was brought before the fire chief on the charge of being under the influence of liquor. The chief told him that two men were reported to have carried him home the night before.

“It is a lie, Chief,” interrupted Bill somewhat excitedly, “there were four of them and they dropped me seven times on the way home.”


“How is it,” asked the examiner of the suspected fireman, “that 1 find that your description of how to fight a second-story fire is exactly the same as the description by Roberts in his paper.”

“That’s nothing,” replied the fireman not a bit flustered, “I suppose that we were describing the same fire.”


A fireman was detailed to theatre duty, and as he stood in some obscure corner watching what was going on back-stage, he detected an Irishman smoking his corn cob pipe.

“What’s the matter with you,” roared the fireman to the stage hand, “can’t you see that sign says ‘No Smoking’?” “Faith, an’ I’m not smoking.”

“Well, what then are you doing? You have a pipe in your mouth.”

“Begorra,” replied the Irishman, “an’ I have my two fects in me boots but I’m not walkin’.”


The captain had the firemen lined up in the dormitory for the daily inspection, and he observed that Fireman Collins did not have a toothbrush—an appliance which all the other members of the company boasted as having.

“Where’s your toothbrush,” he demanded.

“Here sir,” said the fireman as he produced a large scrubbing brush from its hiding place.

“You don’t mean to tell me that you can get that large thing into your mouth,” roared the captain angrily.

“No sir,” explained Collins. “I don’t get in into my mouth—I take my teeth out.”


The civil service doctor was making his annual inspection of the fire department to determine the physical condition of the men.

At one of the houses, one of the men approached the doctor timidly and asked, “What’s good for my wife’s fallen arches, doctor?”

“Rubber heels,” was the laconic reply.

“What shall I rub them with, doctor?”

Hello, manager! I want another room! This one is on fire and I can’t get to sleep!—Judge.

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