CONSERVATION CHARLEY by Harry Corry 



The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse - Famine, 

 Pestilence, Death and Destruction - are a bunch 

 of ornery hombres. Singly and collectively 

 they gallop over the face of the earth. Their 

 contribution to tlie welfare of the world is 

 misery and grief. 



There's also another mean and mangy varmint 

 slinking around, however. He didn't make the 

 first team but he's a bad one, nevertheless. 

 When it comes to dishing out desolation. Fire 

 can be every bit as bad as the other four. 

 He's a substitute for Eath and Destruction. 

 He leaves both in his wake. 



We, here in the United State, probably 

 suffer less from the Four Horsemen than any 

 other country on earth. Fire, however, is not 

 so considerate. He delights in pillaging our 

 land. And, right now, we're in the middle 

 of one of his busiest seasons. 



Spring has become a middle-aged woman. 

 That fresh, green blush of May and June is 

 gone. Time and the wear and tear of sun 

 and wind have taken their toll. The crops 

 in the fields and the grasses on pastures 

 and rangelands have matured - or will in the 

 near future. They're turning yellow — dry- 

 ing out. The trees of the forests are still 

 green but they too, are dry. 



Fire has a malicious sneer on his face as 

 he thunders hither and yon. He rides a big 

 red stallion. His breath is hot. His nos- 

 trils belch smoke. He roars as he scours 

 the countryside for assistants. 



Fire is impotent if he doesn't have help. 

 He can't start a racing prairie fire nor a 

 crackling forest conflagration. He needs 

 people to keep him in business. Smokers and 

 campers are high on his list of desirable 

 employees. But he can use any heedless human 

 — man or woman, boy or girl. 



He's looking for you and I - and our cigar- 

 ettes, cigars, camp fires, matches and care- 

 less burning habits. 



From now until the rains come or the snow 

 flies we live dangerously. Any vagrant spark 

 can start the flames jumping or the smoke 

 rolling. 



"So what?" Walter asks. We have to expect 

 fires in summer. It's part of life. Besides, 

 the grass and trees will grow back again. So 

 we don't actually lose much, anyway." 

 Charley snorts. 



"We lose a year's crop of grain and grass 

 or a hundred year's crop of lumber to begin 

 with," Chuck says. "And that's only the 

 beginning." 



"Yeah?" replies Walt, "\^mat's the ending?" 



"When grass and trees burn we lost the pro- 

 tection that they give the soil," Charley re- 

 torts. "\^e also lose the mulch of dead material 

 lying on tlie top of the ground. Raindrops can 

 then beat the earth into a lather. They seal 

 the surface. Rain and snow water can't get lij. 

 It runs off 'and we have erosion." 



Walt interrupts. "You always manage to gee 

 back to soil and erosion in any conversation, 

 don't you?" he asks. 



"Yeah," agrees Charley, "but only because 

 there's so many man-made opportunities." 



He squirts snooze juice off to his right and 

 continues. 



"The loss of crops and soil is the price we 

 pay for Fire's activities. But he also deals in 

 death." 



"Well, I might as well get the full treatment," 

 Walt replies. "I'/hat's the story on that? 



Charley obliges. 



"A good, hot fire," he explains is a ticket to 

 ovlivion for untold thousands of birds, fish, 

 deer, rabbits, squirrels and the rest of the folk 

 who live in fields and forests. Occasionally, 

 even some of us human critters are the victims. 



"And there's gobs and gobs of worms, bugs, bac- 

 teria and the like who live in the soil. A lot 

 of them end up dead from heat and smoke. They're 

 necessary for a healthy soil. Their deaths must 

 also be included in the cost of fires." 



"Can you sum this all up in a sentence or two?" 

 Walt asks. "I gotta date to play pool in a 

 couple of minutes." 



"Yep," Charley says. "Be careful with fire- 

 making tools. The soil and crops and forests 

 you save may be your own." 



"Well, it's been interesting, Charley," says 

 Walt. "You and that talking bear they call 

 Smokey ought to get along real good together." 



As Walt walks off he takes a drag off of his 

 filter tip and thoughtlessly flips it into the 

 grass. 



Charley sighs and disconsolately puts it out. 

 There's one potential fire that won't go any- 

 where. 



But there's billions of others that might. 

 ************ 



