THE RUSH OF AN ENGINE TO A FIRE.

THE RUSH OF AN ENGINE TO A FIRE.

You are sitting at tea when the alarm rings. You don’t know the Box, but yon rush out on the street and stare around you. In a moment the ominous rush comes on the ear. The horses canter out ot their stables; the Firemen, nimble as cats, leap to their stations, the wide doers are thrown open, three policemen dash out of No. 1 to see the start and bang! ding! whish! rush! Glang! crack! ding! away they go like a tornado. Crash! a baby may be burning. Bang! sleeping children maybe smotheiing. Ding, dong, ding! An old man, feeble and rheumatic, may be staggering in smoke. Look out! the strongman, blistered with flames, is yelling for his babies 1 Look out, then 1 look out 1 stand aside and let them pass. Here they come, like a storm. The Driver stooping down with slackened rein, speaking to the intent steeds that, big-eyed, wide-nostrilled and strained, go thundering on. The Foreman sitting by his side, erect and defiant, with arms folded, looks lion-faced at the sky, searching for the ominous glare. The Firemen behind him clinging like cats to a ladder, dressing themselves as the machine thunders on. The ubiquitous reporter taking notes on the bocmplate of the lofty ladder. Bang, boom, bang ! lookout! They pass a crossing like an earthquake on wheels. The horses, alive and stung with the same enthusiasm which fills the Firemen, spurn the rough street and dash along as if a prairie on fire was chasing them. They need no whip, they need no lash; their big arteries are churning with hot blood; their big muscles are strung to the task they love. The wild horse, followed fast by red fire, never sped like they. W th ears laid back, with eyes standing out from the bony face, with nostrils red as if with blood, they gallop on untiring.

The branchman gets out his key, the Foreman is all ready. Ding, ding, ding ! another crossing. Ding, dong, swush ! The Firemen gather themselves for the final jump. Bang! ” We’re near the fire, lads “—look out. Crash! All right. Bang! Here’s the box. Jump for your lives! Bang ! bang ! bang ! They jump. The horses’ sides heave like big bellows. Their noble heads fall between trembling knees; the sunk tails quiver ; the pointed ears droop hke limp leather, and the Firemen, eloquent with enthusiasm, dash into the street, and an old woman, wiping her hands in her apron, comes out on the steps and says—” the Lord bless you, gentlemen, but it was only our chimney ; and the Lord bless you, I—” and the gang go home and play dominoes. The horses stand waiting for the next, and just as willing to jump’as the man who has been waiting an hour for a shave. — Toronto World.

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