WHY I LIKE THE FIREMEN.
By Mat. O'Brien, Wilmington, Del.
Why am I fond of the firemen; those fellows that run to a fire?
Yes, sir, I'll tell ye in half a minute-that is, if you so desire:
Well, when I was a bit of a youngster, pop was a great gun on style,
And anything short of a nabob used to kind a'raise his bile.
He used to think that firemen were very good men in their way,
But they wasn't "aristocratic" that was the old man's lay.
One night, away in the winter, we'd a party in honor of Grace;
She was sweet sixteen And my sister; oh, she'd the loveliest kind of face.
'Twas late all the "good nights" were given, and pop had long gone to retire,
When all of a sudden I started; some one was yelling out "Fire."
Our house was afire all over, it had started under the stairs,
And I had given myself up for lost, When crash went the windows in pairs.
'Twas the firemen with ladders and axes; they'd cut their way thro' with a bound,
And catching each one of us children, landed us safe on the ground.
When father was saved, but the cheers were stopped by a sweet pale face
That looked out of an upper window, and cried out, "Oh, save me;" 'twas Grace.
'Ere the echo was lost there were men between her and the fire's red glare,
And the voice of the crowd was hushed as if each were whispering a prayer.
Grace was saved, sir, but a moment later came a cry too late for the braves;
The wall fell, and, well the old man, sir, put a monument over their graves.
That's why I like the firemen, those fellows that run to the fire,
And I think you'll find worse men, sir, under Borne of your big church spires.