City Ballads Part 9

'Twas a drowsy night on Tompkins Hill: The very leaves of the trees lay still; The world was slumbering, ocean deep; And even the stars seemed half asleep, And winked and blinked at the roofs below, As yearning for morn, that they might go.

The streets as stolid and still did lie As they would have done if streets could die; The sidewalks stretched as quietly p.r.o.ne As if a foot they had never known; And not a cottage within the town, But looked as if it would fain lie down.

Away in the west a stacken-cloud, With white arms drooping and bare head bowed, Was leaning against--with drowsy eye-- The dark blue velveting of the sky.

And that was the plight Things were in that night, Before we were roused the foe to fight-- The foe so greedy and grand and bright-- That plagued old Deacon Tompkins.

II.

The Deacon lay on his first wife's bed, His second wife's pillow beneath his head, His third wife's coverlet o'er him wide, His fourth wife slumbering by his side.

The parson visioned his Sunday's text, And what he should hurl at Satan next; The doctor a drowsy half-vigil kept, Still studying, as he partly slept, How men might glutton, and tope, and fly In the face of Death, and still not die; The lawyer dreamed that his clients meant To club together, and then present, As proof that their faith had not grown dim, A small bright silver hatchet to him; The laborer such sound slumber knew, He hadn't a dream the whole night through; The ladies dreamed--but I can't say well What 'tis they dream, for they never tell!

In short, such a general drowsy time Had ne'er been known in that sleepy clime, As on the night Of clamor and fright, We were roused the treacherous foe to fight-- The foe so greedy and grand and bright, And carrying such an appet.i.te-- That plagued old Deacon Tompkins.

III.

When all at once the old court-house bell (Which had a voice like a maniac's yell) Cried out, as if in its dim old sight The judgment-day had come in the night.

"Bang whang whang bang clang dang bang whang,"

The poor old parcel of metal sang; Whereat, from mansion, cottage, and shed, Rose men and women as from the dead, In different stages of attire, And shouted, "The town is all afire!"

(Which came as near to being true As some more leisurely stories do.) They saw on the Deacon's house a glare, And everybody hurried there; And such a lot of visitors he Had never before the luck to see.

The Deacon received these guests of night In a costume very simple and white; And after a drowsy, scared "Ahem!"

He asked them what he could do for them.

"Fire! fire!" they shouted; "your house's afire!"

And then, with energy sudden and dire, They rushed through the mansion's solitudes, And helped the Deacon to move his goods.

And that was the sight We had that night, When roused by the people who saw the light Atop of the cottage, cozy and white, Where lived old Deacon Tompkins.

[Ill.u.s.tration: HOW WE FOUGHT THE FIRE.]

IV.

Ah me! the way that they rummaged round!

Ah me! the startling things they found!

No one with a fair idea of s.p.a.ce Would ever have thought that in one place Were half the things that, with a shout, These neighborly burglars hustled out.

Came articles that the Deacon's wives Had all been gathering half their lives; Came furniture such as one might see Didn't grow in the trunk of every tree; A tall clock, centuries old, 'twas said, Leaped out of a window, heels o'er head; A veteran chair, in which, when new, George Was.h.i.+ngton sat for a minute or two; A bedstead strong, as if in its lap Old Time might take his terminal nap; Dishes, that in meals long agone The Deacon's fathers had eaten on; Clothes, made of every cut and hue, That couldn't remember when they were new; A mirror, scathless many a day ('Twas promptly smashed in the regular way); Old shoes enough, if properly thrown, To bring good luck to all creatures known; And children thirteen, more or less, In varying plenitude of dress.

And that was the sight We had that night, When roused, the terrible foe to fight, Which blazed aloft to a moderate height, And turned the cheeks of the timid white, Including Deacon Tompkins.

V.

Lo! where the engines, reeking hot, Dashed up to the interesting spot: Came Number Two, "The City's Hope,"

Propelled by a line of men and rope; And after them, on a spiteful run, "The Ocean Billows," or Number One.

And soon the two, induced to "play"

By a hundred hands, were working away, Until, to the Deacon's fl.u.s.tered sight, As he danced about in his robe of white, It seemed as if, by the hand of Fate, House-cleaning day were some two years late, And with complete though late success, Had just arrived by the night express.

The "Ocean Billows" were at high tide, And flung their spray upon every side; The "City's Hope" were in perfect trim, Preventing aught like an interim; And a "Hook-and-Ladder Company" came, With hooks and ropes and a long hard name, And with an iconoclastic frown Were about to pull the whole thing down, When some one raised the a.s.suring shout, "It's only the chimney a-burnin' out!"

Whereat, with a sense of injured trust, The crowd went home in complete disgust.

Scarce one of those who, with joyous shout, a.s.sisted the Deacon in moving out, Refrained from the homeward-flowing din, To help the Deacon at moving in.

And that was the plight In which, that night, They left the Deacon, clad in white, Who felt he was hardly treated right, And used some words, in the flickering light, Not orthodox in their purport quite-- Poor, put-out Deacon Tompkins!

[_From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book._]

Let me a moment indite Scenes that I witnessed one night:

["YOU WILL TELL ME WHERE IS CONRAD?"]

"You will tell me where is Conrad?" said an old man, bent and gray, While the flames were wildly dancing, and the walls were giving way.

"I haf heard some ones was buried--underneath the ruins fell; He was in de topmost story--ach, mein Gott! I luf him well!

"I will tell you how you knew him: he had full and laughing eye, And his face was smooth and smiling--and he was too young to die.

"Hair he had like clouds at sunset when anodher day is done, And I luf him--how I luf him! and he is mein only son.

"Say, Policeman, tell me truly that this young man you did see, And I all the money gif you, such as I could bring with me.

"Tell me that he anxious acted--that he hunted far and long, Like as children would be calling for their fadher in a throng;

"Or he wounded was, pray tell me--in the hospital to lie?-- I will just now hasten to him, and I not will let him die!

"Tell me--oh, you must not told me--dead you haf my Conrad see?

Yet if so is I can stand that--I did long a soldier be.

"Only--Death, we do not fear him when we hear the bullets sing, But to haf my boy killed this way is a rather different thing.

"Only--that his poor old mudher, she waits home all full of fear, And I cannot there be going, till I take good news from here!

"Young he was when we did bring him from the Rhine land o'er the sea; I did lif for her and Conrad--she did lif for him and me.

"Other ones we bring not with us: Gott he says, 'These more be mine;'

And we left them all a-sleeping 'mong the vineyards of the Rhine.

"He haf not a cross word gif us--he haf luf us every day, And if he to-night comes home not, 'tis the first that he's away.

"Let me to that fire, Policeman! I care what for walls or brand?

Maybe he in there be living--reaching for his fadher's hand!

"Let me past, I say, Policeman! I haf work there to be done!

Let go me or I will strike you!--is it that you haf no son?"

Still the flames were like a furnace, and the walls were cras.h.i.+ng loud, And the old man, held in safety, fainted 'mid the trembling crowd.

And the mother watched and wondered, with her great eyes scarcely wet; But, half dazed amid her sorrow, waits for Conrad even yet.

WATER.

[_From Farmer Harrington's Calendar._]