FIRE HORSES. 236 
gines, let us now visit a new recruit in his quarters. 
The weather being warm, the doors of the house are 
open, a rope being stretched across the entrance. Di- 
rectly in front of us stands the engine, a polished 
mass of copper and nickel, with scarlet wheels. The 
driver’s seat is a small box, just big enough to hold 
him, and behind it, rolled up separately, are strapped 
the blankets. The harness is suspended from the 
ceiling in such a manner that it can be let down when 
the horses stand under it. Back of the engine, and 
some yards distant as a rule, a partition, composed 
chiefly of doors, runs across the house. Behind this 
partition are the stalls; the horses facing the engine, 
and the front of each stall being a door, with a win- 
dow init. Bridles are worn night and day, the bits 
being slipped out when the animals eat their oats, but 
kept in while they chew their hay. Some horses, 
whose mouths are tender, are bridled, in the stable, 
with the bit hanging loose. 
Now, then, we will suppose that an alarm of fire 
strikes, the hour being midnight. The horses are 
lying down, out of sight aud fast asleep; the men 
are upstairs in bed,—all save one, who dozes in a 
chair beside those mysterious telegraphic instruments 
grouped in a corner near the front door. The gas 
burns brightly, but there is not a sign of animation 
about the place. It is all so miraculously clean, so 
neat, well ordered, burnished, and polished, so nearly 
deserted, so absolutely quiescent, and yet so bril- 
liantly lighted, that it appears rather like an illusion 
than a reality. The engine might be the huge and 
magnificent toy of a giant. It looks much too fine 
for real use. 
