Dec. 28, igoi.] 
fOitEST AND STREAM. 
B07 
to warn me. He's waitin' at tlie river fer us. I struck a 
patch of fire 'bout a mile back. 'Tain't much yet, but she's 
soreadin'. an' we'll have to dig out o' this in a hurry. 
Whar's Little Tom ?" 
In answer to Selina's repeated calls her brother finally 
appeared, coming from the barnyard. He was a well- 
grown boy for his age — ^a second edition of his father. 
"What you want?" he demanded. "Hello'Jim. Gosh! 
but you look's ef you'd been havin' a hot time." 
Squatty Jim explained the situation in a few words. 
"We'll have to make fer the river," he concluded. "They 
ain't no time to lose, neither. Git a couple o' blankets, 
Tom." 
"I ain't goin'," Selina emphatically asserted. "The fire 
won't reach us here." 
"Tom, git the blankets," Squatty Jirn quietly com- 
manded. "See here. S'lina," he continued, "this ain't no 
fool business. I tell you we'll burn up ef we stay here. 
You got to go." 
"I ain't takin' no orders from you," Selina retorted. 
"You're 'fraid, that's what's the matter." . 
"T ain't givin' no orders, S'lina," Squatty Jim replied, 
"but you got to go 'long with me an' Tom ef I have to 
carry you." 
"Don't be a fool," Little Tom urged with brotherly 
frankness, as he appeared at the door with the blankets 
over his arm. "Ef Jim sez go, we're goin', that's all there 
is 'bout it." 
Selina only tossed her head contemptuously and turned 
her back upon both of them. Squatty Jim was ever a man 
of action. Without another word he took one of the 
blankets, wrapped it around her and stooping quickly lifted 
her in his strong arms. 
"Sorry, but 1 11 have to carry you," he said in quiet 
tones. "Come on, Tom." 
Selina struggled and screamed, but all in vain. Squatty 
Jim held her fast and pressed forward with long, swift 
strides. As they reached the edge of the clearing a 
strange, ominous sound — a deep, muffled roaring — w^as 
borne to their ears. Squatty Jim quickened his pace to a 
run. Selina ceased struggling. 
"What is it?" she asked, involuntarily clutching Squatty 
Jim's arm. 
"The fire," he panted. "Mebbe we'll be too late. Run 
fer it, Tom, an' save yerself ef you can." 
"What do you take me fer?" was all that Little Tom 
deigned to reply. 
"Let me down," Selina entreated. "I can run, an' we 
can make better time." 
Squatty Jim released her, half-reluctantly, and the three 
started on a run for the river half a mile away, with 
Squatty Jim bringing up the rear. They had covered 
about half the distance when a sudden cloud of smoke and 
flying cinders seemed to descend on their heads from the 
sky overhead. Selina staggered back and would have 
fallen had not Squatty Jim caught her. He threw the 
blanket over her head and lifted her a second time in 
his arms, and bending low, with the lower part of his 
face buried in the folds of the blanket, dashed forward 
down the narrow trail. Little Tom bravely held his own, 
occasionally glancing back over his shoulder to see that 
all was well with his companions. 
The smoke grew thicker, and the heat became more in- 
tense every moment, and the sound of the on-rushing 
flames grew ever louder and louder. They had but a short 
distance to go now, but Squatty Jim was half-blinded, and 
the terrible strain was beginning to tell on him. His 
tongue was parched, and with every breath it seemed 
to him that he was inhaling flame. Suddenly Little Tom 
stumbled and fell forward to the ground. 
"Go on," he gasped as Squatty Jim half-paused beside 
him, "I'm done fer. Save S'lina ef you can." 
Squatty Jim tightened his hold on the silent form in his 
arms and staggered on. At that instant a tall figure 
dashed by him. 
"Quinguish take boy," a voice shouted in his ear. 
And then Squatty felt himself slipping down a steep 
embankment, the smoke cleared away and he found him- 
self standing up to his knees in the water of the river. 
He waded out until the water reached to his waist. The 
iblanket that enveloped Selina was scorched and smoking 
with the heat, and Squatty Jim carefully lowered his bur- 
den until Selina's head remained above the surface. Sup- 
porting her with one arm he dashed water in her face 
with his free hand. Selina gasped and opened her eyes. 
"It's all right, little girl," Squatty Jim murmured over 
and over again. "Jest keep cool an' we'll save you yet. 
He was brought to himself by the voice of Quinguish. 
"The canoe, quick," the Indian commanded in his deep 
guttural. "Quinguish take squaw." . , 
Squatty Jim yielded his charge itilo the arms of his 
friend, plunged his head in the cool water and drank a 
hastv draught and then followed the Indian ashore where 
the canoe was waiting for them. Little Tom sat huddled 
up in the canoe wrapped in his blanket. Qumguish 
placed Selina near her brother and tucked the other 
blanket about her. Squatty Jim was himself again and 
ready to renew the struggle. He took his place in the 
stern with paddle in hand and steadied the frail bark while 
Quinguish shoved off and stepiped lightly in the bow. 
"^Steady, now, children." Squatty Jim called out._ "Don't 
j^oa-ve or we'll upset. Tom, keep an eye on yer sister." 
And then the race for Hfe began. It was a nightmare 
•'journey. Squatty Jim could never remember all that 
ihappened. To him it seemed that they were sailing 
■.through a sea of flame. He bent low, plying his paddle 
^with desperate energy, unmindful of the shower of flying 
• embers that fell all around them in the water with a sharp, 
hissing sound unceasingly. The heat blistered his body, 
and occasionally a glowing cinder set fire to his clothing; 
but he smothered the fire with his hand, unmindful of the 
pain. His thoughts were centered on that silent form 
lying before him in the bottom of the canoe. 
Little Tom became a hero. Strange to relate, his hat— 
an ©Id felt one that had belonged to his father— had not 
been lost in the wild race through the forest, and several 
times when he saw that the canoe was in danger of 
catching fire, with a cry to the men to "steady the boat," 
he dipped the hat full of water and with codl delibera- 
tion extinguished the blazing fire brands. Quinguish re- 
warded him with a grim smile of approval, arid Squatty 
Jim tried to shout words of praise, but only succeeded in 
producing a hoarse cry from his parched throat. 
Fortunately they were not in the direct path of the 
fearful cyclone of fire that swept through the forest on 
that day, devouring everything in its course. They were 
on the extreme outskirts of the fiery scourge and gradu- 
ally left the overpowering heat behind them. Just before 
nightfall they had won a place of safety, and not until 
then would Quinguish consent to head the canoe for 
shore and turn his attention to their physical needs. 
They were saved by a miracle, but not many miles away 
the vast sea of fire swept through the wilderness, leaving 
a black trail of smoking stumps and burning trunks of 
trees, and finally leaped forth from the forest, a solid 
wall of flame towering high in the air, upon a thriving 
town, and there was nothing left to mark the path of 
the destroyer at that point save a few smouldering ruins 
or a heap of charred bones in .some spot where a few 
of ttie unfortunate victims had gathered for safety. There 
were not many survivors left to tell the tale of that great 
and woeful disaster. It went down to history as the 
"Peshtigo fire," but the awfulness of the visitation was 
overshadowed by a still more appalling calamity a few 
hundred miles away, where, on that very day, a whole 
city was laid in ruins by the same destructive agencv. 
Squatty Jim's first care was for Selina. The wet blanket 
had protected her from the worst of the heat, but she was 
well nigh overcome with exhaustion after her terrible 
experience. Little Tom suffered uncomplainingly. When 
they had refreshed themselves with a drink of water and 
had bathed their smarting faces, Quinguish stood on the 
bank of the river and sent a long-drawn, plaintive cry 
echoeing through the forest. His second call was an- 
swered by a similar cry, coming from the distance, and 
before long two canoes appeared in sight around a bend in 
the river. There were four persons in the canoes, and as 
they drew near Squatty Jim recognized the faces of Kosh- 
kish and Sottee, old Indian friends. Two squaws were 
with them. 
They beached their canoes alongside the other and 
stepped quickly ashore. A few words from Quinguish ex- 
plained the situation and told the story of their escape 
from the fire. One of the squaws immediately took Selina 
in charge, and the other fetched some kind of an oil from 
the canoe, with which she dressed the burning wounds of 
the men. When their welcome ministrations were com- 
pleted, they set about preparing the evening . meal as 
though running a gauntlet of flames were an every-day 
occurrence. 
The second day after the fire the long-wished-for rain 
came, bringing salvation to the northern wilderness. It 
extinguished the smouldering stumps and^ logs and 
quenched the fires in the marshes; where in places the 
ground itself burned to a depth of three or four feet. . 
When the rain came. Squatty Jim and'Quinguish m one 
canoe, and Koshkish and Sottee in another, set out on a 
tour of investigation to ascertain what havoc the fire had 
wrought at their own homes. When they reached the 
trail that led to Long Tom's cabin the canoes separated. 
Quinguish remaining behind with Squatty Jim, while 
the other two Indians continued on up the river. 
The fire had transformed the forest into a blackened 
waste of cinders and ashes. As Squatty Jim and his friend 
approached what had once been Long Tom's clearing, they 
involuntarily paused. There was nothing to distinguish 
the place from the surrounding desolation save a pile 
of ashes, where once had stood the cabiii and other build- 
-ings. Suddenly Quinguish gave a sharp exclamation 
arid- pointed toward the ruins of the cabin. Squatty Jim 
looked, and the next instant ran forward with a loud 
shout, for a man appeared in the midst of the ruins, seem- 
ing to rise from the ground. The man was Long Tom 
Bartlett. ^ . ^ ^ , , ^ 
At the sound of Squatty Jim's voice Long Tom wheeled 
about and came running to meet his friend. 
"The kids, Jim? The kids?" he cried, as he grasped 
Squatty Jim's hands and eagerly scanned his features. 
"Safe and sound six or eight miles down the river. 
Where's the wife? Safe, too?" 
Long Tom shook his head. 
"Gone whar the rest of 'em went," he said in dull, heavy 
tones. "The hull world seems to have burnt up. Peshtigo 
is jest like this here. Jim, it's simply awful." 
"Gosh almighty! You don't say so. How in thunder 
did you git away an' git back here, then?" 
"Don't know. It's jest like a horrible nightmare to 
me. I don't remember nothin' but a lot o' mixed up 
things too awful to think 'bout. People burnt to death 
— tw-enty or thirty in a place no bigger'n we're standin' 
on, much — ^burnt to a crisp, an' not ten feet away the 
dead body of a little baby, mebbe, without as much as a 
eyelash singed. I lost Sal afore the fire struck us, an' 
couldn't find her again. It come so sudden they wa'nt 
no chance to hunt fer a place to hide in. It come out o^ 
the woods with an awful roar. The air seemed a-blazin' 
as high up as you could see, an' a great big curlin' stream 
of fire would come down all of a sudden with a swish an' 
lick up a hull buildin' an' everybody in reach, jest like 
some big fiery monster lickin' up his dinner. Ten minutes 
after it struck us they wa'nt no Peshtigo. The dead was 
everywhere, an' the livin', what they was left of 'em, 
was all out of their heads — gone plum crazy. I was as bad 
as the rest. They jest walked 'round an' 'round with 
wide, starin' eyes askin' each other, 'Have you seed Bill 
or Sam, or Mary, or — or Sal?' or else tryin' to find out 
whar their houses was afore the fire struck 'em. We all 
thought the end of the world had come. You remember 
the Simpkins family? They was six of 'em. They all 
got down into a well. The well was twenty foot deep, an' 
'long come one o' them long tongues of flame an' bored 
down in the well an' licked up the hull family an' every- 
thin', water an' all, clean as a rifle barrel. They was 
thirty people burnt to death not four rods from 'me. A 
man'an' his wife tried to git away with their two little 
kids. They went crazy an' dropped the kids on a bit o' 
green grass near a spring 'long side a fence. The woman 
only run a little ways an' then she turned back alone fer 
the' kids, but she couldn't find 'em. She wandered 'round 
all night long, an' in the momin' she heerd some cryin', 
an' she followered the sound an' thar was her two kids 
right whar she'd left 'em without a hair singed, an' the 
grass was jest as green an' the spring a-bubbhn' jest like 
nothin' had happened- I drunk out the spring myself that 
day, an' thar sat the woman sorter lafiin* an" cryin', plum 
crazy. She asked me what my kids was, an' then I 
remembered S'lina an' Little Tom, an] started fer hum. 
I could tell you a thousand sech stories. Some of *em 
you wouldn't believe." 
"It's worse than the Day of Judgment," Squatty Jim 
exclaimed, in horror-stricken tones. "We had a close 
call ourselves," and then he related in a few words his 
own experience with the fire. "We might's well go over 
an' see what's left of my place," he suggested when he bad 
completed his narrative. "We'll go by way of the river. 
It'll be easier." 
They made their way back to the canoe in silence. 
Squatty Jim longed to comfort his friend, but was at 
a loss for words in which to properly express his feel- 
ings, so he contented himself with an occasional "Brace 
up, old man. You've still got the kids." He was greatly 
relieved when they were once more afloat, and his atten- 
tion occupied with his paddle. They sent the canoe 
through the water at a great speed, and were soon near- 
ing Squatty Jim's home. As they approached the land- 
ing place they were astonished to see a few trees here 
and there that still showed unmistakable signs of life -in 
the green of their foHage. And soon it became obvious 
that the fire had spent itself before extending far in the 
direction they were going, and for some reason had 
turned out of its own accord. 
Hope rose high in Squatty Jim's breast as they left the 
canoe and started for liis clearing. Standing singly or in 
small groups in this graveyard of the forest a few hem- 
locks or scattered pines still waved their seared branches 
aloft in triumph over their foe. Here the fire had turned 
aside, and beyond the forest gradually lost all traces of 
the visitation. The rain still fell unceasingly, as though 
the heavens wept at the havoc that was wrought, and the 
earth, refreshed by the bounteous showers, gave back 
many fragrant odors. 
Squatty. Jim's cabin stood just as its owner had left it, 
untouched and unharmed by the great scourge. The 
circle of forest trees surrounding the clearing showed 
green, and no trace, of the fire was visible. 
"It's one o' them what-do-you-call-'em things the par- 
sons talk 'bout," Squatty Jim solemnly affirmed. "A 
parable, or somethin' like that. I'll go back arter the 
kids. Tom, you wait here. We'll be back afore dark. 
They won't be room fgr all of us in the canoe." 
"I'll wait," Long Tom replied, mechanically. "I'm 
some tired, an' so I'll wait." 
"Better lay down an' git some sleep," said Squatty 
Jim. 
"I ain't sleepy." 
"Cheer up, "Tom. Cheer up. Remember you still have 
the kids." 
"Yes, I got the kids;" Long Tom repeated the words 
slowly. "I got the kids, an' the kids ain't got no ipother. 
Bring me my two kids. They're all I got left." 
Squatty Jim nodded to Quinguish, and the two knights 
of the woods hurried away on their journey, and Squatty 
Jim thanked God in his heart that he still had a haven of 
refuge for the girl he loved. 
_ ^ 1 
Long Tom was waiting for them when they returned. 
So far he had borne his misfortunes with scarcely a mur- 
mttr, suffering with that dumb sort of agony peculiar to 
strong men; but when Selina flew to his arms, and he 
heard her cry of: "Da'ddy! Daddy! Here I am. You've 
still got me," the big fellow burst into tears, and great 
sobs shook his frame. And then Selina became the little 
mother and comforted' him, and finally persuaded him to 
partake of some food— the first he had eaten for two 
days — and later on, when his head began to nod, she sent 
him to bed, where his heavy breathing soon announced 
that he had forgotten his sorrows for the time being. 
Squatty Jim had curtained off half the room for Selina's 
special use. Before she went to rest she stepped to the 
door of the cabin where Squatty Jim stood gazing out 
into the night. The rain had ceased and a cool breeze had 
sprung up, making mournful music among the pines. 
Squatty Jim awoke from his reverie with a start as 
Selina took her place beside him. Neither spoke for 
some moments. 
"How the wind moans," she at last said, half to herself. 
"It seems to be singing a fun'ral hymn fer all the people 
that the fire burnt up." And then the thought of her 
mother who had perished in the flames came to her, and 
she leaned her head against thei door post and let the 
tears come unrestrained. 
"Don't cry, little girl." Squatty Jim was suffering tor- 
tures at sight of her tears. "Mebbe yer ma ain't dead. 
Anyway, you still got yer dad, an' you can live here as 
long as you want to, an' I'll only be too glad ef you never 
move away. It might be worse, you know." 
Selina looked up and smiled through her tears. 
"You're the bravest man in the world," said she, tak- 
ing one of his big hands in both of hers; "an' next to 
daddy the best. If it hadn't been for you we wouldn't 
be here now. I can't talk to-night, I'm so tired. Good 
night, dear old Jim." 
"Don't talk like that, S'lina," Squatty Jim stammered. 
"You know they ain't nuthin' on earth I wouldn't do fer 
you. an' be happy a-doin' it. I ain't did nuthin' much 
so far." 
"Yes you have," she answered. "I never stopped, to 
think how good you've always been to me before. 
P'raps some day I can pay you back a little of what we 
all owe you." 
"Some day, S'lina, when we git all over this awful time 
— I mean the fire an' yer ma's death — some day I might 
git nerve 'nuff to ask you to pay it all back in one big 
lump. What would you say to that?" His hand tight- 
ened on both of hers, and his painful embarrassment made 
his meaning quite clear to Selina, and she turned away 
her head to hide her blushes. 
"Guess I couldn't refuse," she murmured, with a little 
sigh. 
"Not even ef I was — ^to ask you — to be my — to live 
here with me forever, an" — be my wife?" 
"Not even if you was to ask me that," she whispered. 
"Good night." She snatched away her hand from his 
clasp, and, before he had recovered from his surprise, 
fled from him, leaving him alone with his new found 
happinessr Faybtte Dokun, 
